Nigger Heaven/Book 1/Chapter 6
It was perhaps a striking coincidence that Mary should encounter Randolph Pettijohn the next day on her way to Craig's where she was accustomed to eat her lunch. Assuredly the incident caused her less embarrassment than she would have believed possible. Something had happened to give her a protective armour. What it was she did not attempt to discover. She only knew that she felt more secure, and when the King stopped to offer her his hand she grasped it almost sympathetically. She was sorry for Randolph Pettijohn and a little bit sorry for herself, too, because she was not ingenuous enough to accept what he only too evidently wanted to give her. It was plain to be seen that her rejection of his proposal had bewildered him; it had been a severe blow to his pride, had confused his previous estimate of mankind: she could sense that much. Not by what he said—as a matter of fact, he said nothing of any importance—but by his manner of saying it. It gave her a thrill of pleasure, made her self-consciously proud, to realize that this man respected her even more now that she had thwarted his desire. She passed on, feeling a trifle self-righteous, even vainglorious, until, analyzing her mood, her ultimate sense of humour got the better of her, advising her thuswise: Take no credit to yourself for your actions. You've only done what you couldn't help doing. You did not resist temptation when you refused Randolph Pettijohn. Quite the contrary.
As a consequence of these revealing reflections, Mary felt more humble as she entered Craig's, and, after nodding to one or two acquaintances, sat down at an unoccupied table. She determined 'not to wait for her father, whom she had invited to join her. He was constitutionally incapable of keeping an engagement on time. In fact, he had no sense of time at all, but, in self-defence, he often laughingly assured her that this trait was so typical of his race that he almost regarded it in the light of a sacred obligation to encourage it in himself.
As Mary lifted a spoonful of soup to her mouth, she was conscious of voices behind her.
Sylvia had no business to take her in.
Sylvia's only getting what she deserves. Look how she's been carrying on with Rumsey Meadows . . . Mary recognized Sergia Sawyer's voice.
Do you think she notices?
No, if she did, she'd have Lasca's life. She's very handy with a gun. Didya ever hear about . . . ?
Why, Mary wondered, as the conversation became too low for her to catch its drift, was she for ever hearing this woman's name? She began to cherish a certain curiosity in regard to this exotic figure. Why had she not met her? Would she like her when she did meet her?
Mary had finished her soup. Opening a book she had brought with her she began to read. Presently the waitress served her eggs. . . . She was almost through with her lunch when her father arrived.
I couldn't wait, dad, she apologized. Have to get back to the library.
I understand, he assured her. I didn't realize it was so late. I never know the time.
You carry a watch.
He smiled. Do you know, my dear, I never look at it. When I think of it at all it is as a piece of jewelry, a big diamond or something like that.
Dear old dad. She patted his hand. Then, What are you doing this afternoon?
I want to visit one or two of the schools, and I expect to see Professor Deakins of Howard. He's up here for the day.
What a time they're having at Howard! Mary sighed.
That's exactly what I want to discuss with him. I want to get his point of view about the muddle. It's hard enough, he continued, for us to get along among ourselves, but when white men are mixed up in our problems, it's well-nigh impossible. You're looking brighter, Mary. I thought you seemed a little tired last night.
Do you think so, dad? I'm feeling wonderful today. You know the old song:
Stopper's in my hand.
That's me!
I like to hear you talk like that.
I was a little worried last night, she admitted.
What was the trouble, Mary?
I don't know. A mood, I guess. I threw it off.
Don't worry, Mary. It doesn't do any good. Just knocks the machine out of gear.
I know it does, but some days I get the blues and they stick. She glanced at the watch on her wrist. . . . It's nearly two o'clock. I'll have to go back. . . . Drawing on her cloak, she kissed her father. . . . Remember I'm going to Newark with you tonight, Othello!
An hour later she felt she couldn't bear it if she had another inquiry for A. S. M. Hutchinson or Zane Grey. She made it a point of honour to try to encourage the young patrons of the library to improve their taste in reading, but her efforts in this direction on this particular day had all proved futile. Again and again, she had suggested a volume by Sherwood Anderson or Norman Douglas, but her suggestions had been received with indifference, if not with open hostility. Patiently, for the tenth time within the hour, she recommended Jean Toomer's Cane to a youth who listened to her with apparent sympathy, but who hardly waited for her to conclude before he said, Ah guess Ah wants Duh Mine Wid Duh Iron Do'.
It's out, she was delighted to be able to announce.
Well, ain't you got nothin' else by duh man dat wrote et?
She had. Stamping the boy's card, she passed him the well-worn volume.
As he turned away, she was aware, although she did not look up, that another figure had taken his place.
Hello! The tone was one of hearty diffidence, as if the speaker were pretending not to be quite sure of a welcome.
Oh, it's you! she exclaimed. I'm so glad to see you. I'm getting so tired of handing out trash that I'm in a frightfully bad temper. I need cheering up.
What do you want the public to read? Byron demanded.
Well, it would help my disposition some if I could send Jean Toomer's Cane out today.
I'll take it, Byron assured her. Ive always wanted to read it.
You haven't a card, Mary protested. It isn't my book. I can't lend it to you personally.
Well, I'll get a card. How often can I change books?
Every day, if you like.
Good! That'll give me a chance to see you every day.
Mary laughed. You don't have to come here to see me. Besides I don't always sit at the distributing desk. Why don't you call on me at home?
Nobody asked me, miss, he said. I was hankering for an invitation.
You don't strike me, Mary went on, as the kind of person who ever waits for anything.
Get me right, he urged. I'm really very shy, just a kid from the country up here in your great big Harlem.
It's the City of Refuge.
He grinned. The Mecca of the New Negro! You see, I know all the passwords. Do you think I'm a New Negro?
Newest one I've seen.
Hope so. But I don't want to appear fresh.
Stand aside, young man, and let me give this girl her Zane Grey.
I'll get my card, he announced.
In a little while he was back. I had to mention a couple of property owners, he informed her. It seems they've got to inquire into my integrity and financial responsibility.
What's your rating in Bradstreet? she inquired.
Two bits.
Are you kind to animals?
If you want to know, ask me around to meet yours.
Haven't got any.
Well, there are two children in the house where I'm staying, run by a regular old timer from the South. She calls 'em Locomotive Ataxia and Dementia Precox. They like me. They already call me Unc' Byron.
You're taking up a lot of my time. Good heavens, Mary added to herself, I'm becoming coy!
I want to take up a lot more. Mary, may I call you Miss Love?
Please do, Byron, she assured him, laughing.
When may I come to see you?
She considered her answer. Her father would not be leaving until the next day.
Tomorrow night, if you like.
He shook his head vigorously. I'll come around tonight and wait.
She was firm. Tomorrow night.
What time?
Oh, around nine.
I'll be there at six-thirty.
For the remainder of the afternoon Mary enjoyed an unaccustomed spirit of elation. Making no more uplifting suggestions to her clients, she passed out books automatically. About four-thirty Gareth Johns arrived with Campaspe Lorillard and it afforded her a special kind of pleasure to exhibit the collection of African wood-carvings to these appreciative people. Mrs. Lorillard, in departing, promised to return with Edith Dale.
The next evening found Mary in such a state of suppressed excitement that Olive spoke about it.
What in God's name is the matter with you, Mary? her friend demanded. It can't be possible that the new sheik that's coming tonight has upset you.
Mary denied the insinuation, but later, at dinner, with Howard present, Olive renewed the attack.
Mary's fallen at last, she announced. Her sheik is coming tonight. I think we'd better go out, she added significantly.
Who is he, Mary? Howard inquired.
Ollie's talking nonsense, Mary protested. It's a man I've known a long time. His name is Byron Kasson, she explained limpingly.
Never heard of him, Howard retorted. Where'd he come from?
Mary met him night before last at the Sumners', Olive explained. A long time, indeed!
Why, Ollie, how can you? I met him at Adora's last summer.
Well, this is really terrible! It must be serious. . . . Olive regarded her friend in amazement. . . . It's funny you never mentioned him to me.
I didn't know him very well then. Realizing that she was plunging deeper and deeper, Mary sought refuge in a change of subject. Have you seen Mamie Smith? she asked. She's at the Lincoln this week.
Whew! Howard tossed back his head and laughed heartily. That's a pretty broad hint. Mary wants us to go to the Lincoln tonight.
I didn't mean that at all and you know it, Mary protested.
I can't get it, Olive mused, Mary falling for a sheik! Well, you'll never drive us out of this house till we've given him the once over.
I don't want you to go at all.
We'll decide what you want, Olive said severely. Howard, help me with the dishes. Mary's got to fix herself up.
I'm all ready now, Mary objected. Let me put on an apron and help you.
No you don't. Olive definitely rejected this proffer. You go back to your room and comb your hair some more. She's done her hair four times tonight already, she explained to Howard, and I know she's not satisfied yet.
Olive and Howard retired to the kitchen. Although they had closed the door, Mary could hear them talking and laughing. She knew they were discussing her and her affairs and it made her both furious and happy, furious because they were teasing her, happy to realize that there was some foundation for the teasing. She thought it might be just as well to make one more attempt to get her hair right.
An hour later she consulted her watch. It was nine-thirty. Almost simultaneously the bell rang, and she heard Olive open the kitchen door and cross the room to answer it. She listened for the expected voice. She was disappointed. It was Dick Sill. He retired to the kitchen with Howard and Olive. Even from her own room she could hear them laughing. They were telling Dick now. She tried, unsuccessfully, to read. She lifted the shade, and peered out of the window. The street was deserted. She arranged her hair once more. Then, following an impulse, she went into Olive's room and borrowed a few drops of Narcisse Noir for her handkerchief and the little hollows behind her ears.
The bell did not ring again till ten-thirty. Mary ran to answer it, but Olive was beforehand.
So you're the new sheik, Olive greeted him.
Do I look like one? he laughed, and then cried, Hello, Mary.
How are you? Mary asked him. Rest your coat and hat and meet Mr. Allison and Mr. Sill.
The two young men stood grinning in the kitchen doorway.
Glad to know you both.
Are you any relation to Robert Kasson? Dick inquired.
He's my dad.
I've heard about him. I used to go down to Philadelphia a lot.
Sit down, Byron, Mary invited.
Yes, for heaven's sake, everybody sit down, Olive echoed.
Did you go to Howard? Dick queried.
No. Pennsylvania. I wanted to try a white college. I've got to get along in a white world, he went on, and I thought it might help.
Did it?
How should I know?
Byron's going to be a writer, Mary remarked.
I want to write, but I've got to earn my living while I'm learning.
What've you got on your mind? Howard asked.
Oh, nothing in particular. I just want to make a living until I get a start with my pen.
You'll have a fine time among the ofays, Dick asserted bitterly.
What do you mean? Byron demanded.
Sort o' kept you in your place at college, didn't they?
Byron was silent.
Did they ask you to their parties?
No, Byron responded, adding, It wasn't so bad.
Well, it won't be so bad here either, just so long as you're just another Nigger and know your place, Sill declared. They'll give you your choice too. You can run an elevator or lift pianos.
Dick! Mary implored him.
It's the truth, cried Olive. Let him talk.
Oh, I don't mind. I've heard it all before, Byron said. I guess I can find something better than that to do. If I can't I'll try Harlem. I only thought I could make more money downtown.
Try Harlem, will you? Dick's lip curled cynically. I guess you won't find that much easier. Howard here is a lawyer, but the race doesn't want coloured lawyers. If they're in trouble they go to white lawyers, and they go to white banks and white insurance companies. They shop on white One hundred and twenty-fifth Street. Most of 'em, he added fiercely, pray to a white God. You won't get much help from the race.
Don't believe him, Byron, Mary cried. You'll get along. I'm sure you will . . . Her tone trembled with indecision.
Olive's eyes flashed. Why, Mary, she protested. Do you get along? Don't you get less salary than white girls and aren't white girls without half your experience or ability promoted over you.
It's true, said Mary quietly, but don't discourage him, please.
They don't discourage me, Byron replied. I'm full of life and pep and I'll get something to do. You'll see. I don't care very much what it is. I'm not proud.
Well, old man, said Howard, I wish you luck. We'll do all we can, all of us, but the others . . .
Don't they want a member of the race to get on?
Say, Dick inquired, where have you been living? They do not. You'll have to fight your own race harder than you do the other . . . every step of the way. They're full of envy for every Negro that makes a success. They hate it. It makes 'em wild. Why, more of us get on through the ofays than through the shines.
Now, Dick, you're laying it on pretty hard, Howard suggested.
Not a bit of it. I'll say more. Who supports Roland Hayes? Who supports Florence Mills? Is it white or black audiences?
After all, Dick, be fair, Olive objected. They've got more money, these others.
That's it, cried Howard, they've got more money. That's what I've always said: we've got to have money to fight the system and earn the respect of the world.
Where are we going to get it? Dick asked fiercely.
Bottle it, Dick, said Olive. You'd think this was a Marcus Garvey meeting. Let's not spoil the evening for Byron and Mary. Come along with Howard and me. We're going to the Lincoln to see Mamie Smith.
The show's over now, said Mary.
Well, anyway, Olive insisted, I want to go for a walk.
What about a cabaret? Howard suggested.
Great! cried Dick. Now you're talking. I'm dying to do the Black Bottom again with Ollie! She's the best dancer in Harlem.
Bottle it, Dick, Olive repeated, laughing.
As the door slammed behind the three departing, Mary sighed and settled back into the couch.
This is hard on you, she said. I'm sorry. You didn't come here to listen to a lecture.
Oh, that's all right, Byron assured her. I'm used to talk like this, only I haven't heard much of it lately. Since I've been going to college I'm sort of out of step with it, that's all. The boys I know at home, most of them, get on all right, he added frowning. Who was that fellow who was doing all the talking?
You mean Dick Sill?
Yes. Disgruntled, isn't he? What does he do?
He is a secretary for somebody or other downtown. He is disgruntled. He says he's going white.
Byron stared ahead of him. I couldn't do that. Could you?
No, I couldn't.
I wonder why they didn't ask us to go along with them to the cabaret?
They're engaged, Mary replied coldly. I suppose they want to be alone.
Engaged! I see. I don't wonder. . . . But the other fellow went along.
Wouldn't you like a cup of coffee? Mary asked him.
I'd love it, and I'll help you make it.
Pressing the burning tip of his cigarette against the surface of an ash-tray, he followed her into the kitchen.
It's a great place you've got here.
Mary was measuring the coffee. It is nice, isn't it?
Great! Luxury for me. I'm living in a dump.
Mary filled the pot with water. What kind of things do you want to write about? she inquired.
Oh, I don't know. You've got awfully pretty arms.
Have I? Haven't you anything definite in mind?
What everybody writes about, I guess. Love, and all that. I thought of writing a story about a coloured girl in love with a white boy and how he ditched her.
Madam Butterfly, Mary murmured. As she lighted the fire under the coffee-pot, she looked at him hard. Why don't you write about us? she demanded.
Us?
Yes, Negroes.
Why, we're not very different from any one else except in colour. I don't see any difference.
I suppose we aren't, Mary spoke thoughtfully. And yet figures stand out.
Figures?
Do you know anything about Christophe? It seems to me that the story of Christophe would make a gorgeous subject for a novel.
Who was Christophe?
They were seated on chairs in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to boil.
Born and raised in slavery on the Island of Saint-Christophe, later French General in Hayti, Christophe proclaimed himself Emperor in March 1811. He became Henry I, and was called the Black Napoleon. On a rising slope at the apex of a narrow ravine he built himself a palace—not unlike Louis's great palace at Versailles—which he named Sans Souci. He erected other dwellings and country-seats, Queen's Delight, The Glory, The King's Beautiful View, but his masterpiece was La Ferrière.
La Ferrière was a citadel constructed of blocks of stone thirty feet thick. Capable of harbouring thirty thousand soldiers, it raised its stern face at the top of a mountain on the border of a cliff that dropped sheer two thousand feet. At present the only approach to this citadel is an uncertain footpath. Christophe erected this fortress as a protection against a possible French invasion of his Empire. It was guarded by brass cannon. It is still guarded by these cannon. The Haytian government has been offered large sums for them, and it would be perfectly willing to sell them, but no way has yet been devised of getting them down the mountain.
Christophe's way of getting them up, of getting up the huge rocks of which the citadel was constructed, was ingenious and simple. They were dragged up the cliff-sides and steep mountain passes by human hands. One day he watched a hundred men trying to haul a cannon to its resting place. Now and again they stopped to rest. These pauses were annoying to the Emperor. He dispatched a messenger to discover the reason for them. The labourers sent back word that the gun was too heavy for their strength and asked that they might be assisted by a hundred more men.
Commanding them brought into the royal presence, the Emperor ordered them to fall into line. Then he directed every fourth fellow to fall out. These were shot. He quietly informed the remaining seventy-five that he expected the cannon to be in its place before he had finished his luncheon.
Little progress was made. Two hours later they assured him that the task was impossible.
The Emperor laughed. Fall in, he commanded. . . . Every third man out. Guards, fire!
Now, he informed the cowering wretches, I will order every second man out next time. If the gun was too heavy for a hundred men, surely fifty will find it light.
They did.
On another occasion he grew cold to a former favourite. Strolling to the edge of the cliff with the fellow, he talked softly to him. Standing over the abyss, he bade the man leap. Reading no mercy in the Emperor's eyes, reading rather the horrible alternatives that awaited his refusal, he obeyed. By some chance the branch of a tree some twenty feet below broke his fall. With broken arm, his face bruised and bloody, he crept back to his master.
Sire, he said, I have done your bidding.
Christophe was laconic. Leap, he commanded.
Six feet tall, of pure African blood, black as coal, Christophe's nature was violent and impatient of all restraint. Loving splendour and power, he created a court and a nobility. Bravery and humility failed to touch him. He had no mercy. He ruled for fifteen years. When at the end of that period, during a revolution, his body-guard deserted him, he rose, bade farewell to his wife and family, retired to his own chamber and blew out his brains. . . . The coffee's boiling. Get some cups out of the cupboard.
Mary arranged the tray, setting the ejaculating percolator on a blue tile, and preceded Byron into the sitting-room. Seating herself, she poured out the coffee while he made himself comfortable in a chair and lighted a cigarette.
I couldn't write about things like that, Byron said.
What sort of things did you write about in college?
Oh, you know, the kind everybody else does.
Did your professors like your work?
Well, they encouraged me. They said it was pretty good for a coloured man.
I remember you told me that before. You said it wasn't enough.
Of course, I want to do better than that! I want to write as well as anybody.
Of course, you do. Why don't you choose a subject that you know all about? Something about our people? she asked him again.
I don't know so much about our people that is different. I told you that. We are born and we eat and we make love and we die. I suppose we're just like the others.
I suppose we are, Mary replied, only we don't eat where we want to or die where we want to.
But we make love where we want to. . . . Joining her on the couch, Byron seized her hand.
Mary felt a strange, tingling sensation. It was as though a mouse had raced up her arm from her captured hand to her shoulder and descended by way of her spine.
Don't do that, she adjured him faintly.
Why not, Mary? He caressed her hand softly with his lips and as she did not repeat her request to desist—all power of resistance seemed to have deserted her—he held her close in his arms. Mary could no longer control her will. It was delicious, this drifting feeling that came over her. As her head fell back against his shoulder, his moist lips met her mouth.
I love you, he whispered, beautiful golden-brown Mary!
You do love me, Byron? You do love me? She wanted to hear him say it again and again.
He stopped her mouth with kisses, and these, too, were the whole of his reply.