Nigger Heaven/Book 2/Chapter 3
Byron discovered that Howard had made a correct prognostication. Notwithstanding the fact that he soon found it possible to handle an elevator with almost as much skill as his instructor, at the end of the week he lost his job. Probably Joel had told the superintendent that he wouldn't do. Again began the weary round of employment agencies and office buildings. Again he was forced to endure bitter humiliation, although Byron vaguely realized that this humiliation was largely a matter of his own imagination, stimulated by his touchiness. Moreover his heart, never completely engaged, was no longer in the business, more especially because his father had been kind enough to send him another cheque—for a higher amount this time—without a word of advice or complaint.
He wished that he might look for as much understanding from Mary. It seemed impossible for them to meet without quarrelling. After several of these disagreements he was aware to some degree that what had happened was more his fault than hers. He was, in many ways, devoted to Mary, but she had become too critical of his actions, too demanding. Why couldn't she understand that a fellow had to grow? Cool reflection often informed him that she did, that she was trying her best to be fair, but when he was with her he resented this attitude more than anything else. How dare she try to be fair? He was enraged by this patronage, this condescension, as it seemed to him.
Sooner or later his thoughts obstinately reverted to Lasca. She had understanding. She, he felt certain, would give him sympathy. She was a real man's woman. He telephoned her more than once, but invariably received the message that she was still out of town and it was not known when she would return.
To rid himself of his recurring fits of depression, it became his habit to visit a pool-room where he could be sure of meeting fellows who were glad to see him, especially if he could pay for a drink. They often would go on to a cabaret to sit and talk or dance until late in the morning and it would be afternoon before he had summoned enough energy to start out on a renewed quest of employment.
Naturally his writing lagged. Sometimes he would sit before his table for an hour, striving to string words together. Nothing would come of this effort. His mind, he believed, was in too much of a turmoil, life disturbed him too much, to permit calm thinking and calm thinking was essential to a writer; he knew that. Further, there was the fundamental and disturbing question of a suitable subject. He seemed unable to assemble his material neatly, to select it. At college it had been different. There he had not tried to create fiction. He had written about plays he had seen in the theatre, incidents he had observed in the street. Here he saw too much, too much and too little. The habits of these people were both too familiar and too annoying to him. He loathed his landlady and her grandchildren. They were so good-hearted and so sordid. He had hated his working companions at the Cletheredge Building. They reminded him too painfully of his birthright. More than the others he detested the young Negro writers who were making names for themselves. Mary often pleaded with him to see more of them, but he always sullenly refused. He could not bear to think that they were getting on while he was still struggling at the foot of the ladder.
Unexpectedly one night, however, the scheme of a story came to him quite spontaneously—it had been suggested by an item in a newspaper. Elated, he immediately rushed to Mary to tell her the news. When he greeted her he was out of breath from running upstairs.
Whatever is the matter, Byron? she demanded, after she had kissed him.
I've got a wonderful idea for a story, Mary! he announced, puffing.
That's fine, dearest. Tell me about it.
He sat down to consider. The details were not yet clear in his mind, although the main outline was there.
You see, he began, I'll have a white boy who frequents Harlem cabarets pick up a coloured girl and have an affair with her. He goes to see her all the time. Then, you see, this boy has a sister who works in a settlement house. One day she meets an intelligent, young coloured man engaged in the same work. They become interested in each other and eventually decide to marry. You see, they love one another . . . Byron hesitated.
Well? Mary inquired.
Don't you know what would happen? The white boy had regarded such relations on a different plane. He didn't mind seducing a coloured girl. The fact that she loved him didn't affect his point of view. It was just fun, not to be taken seriously. But his sister's desire was different. The idea that his sister could bring herself to marry a coloured fellow, even though he is educated and they love each other, is so horrible to him that he shoots his sister's fiancé.
There was silence for a moment.
It isn't just the sort of thing I expected you to write, Byron dear, Mary remarked presently, but go ahead with it and see what you can do.
What do you mean by saying it's not the sort of thing you expected me to write? He flared up at once.
Don't get excited, Byron. . . . She still hesitated. At last she went on difffidently. These propaganda subjects are very difficult, Byron, difficult, that is, to make human. It is hard to keep them from becoming melodramatic, cheap even. Unless such a story is written with an exquisite skill, it will read like a meretricious appeal to the emotions arising out of race prejudice.
And you don't think I can do it! Byron was furious.
I didn't say that, dearest. I didn't say that at all. I don't know whether you can do it or not, but I think it would be safer if you wrote about something you know more about.
Don't you think I know anything about this? I've just told you the story, haven't I?
It isn't the story that counts; it's the treatment. . . . Mary was speaking very softly. . . . Of course, you'll understand the psychology of the intelligent coloured man, but as you have related the story, he would be one of the least important characters. In a way, too, I suppose you'd get the coloured woman's point of view, but that's more difficult. I don't think you'd comprehend the motives of the white characters at all. You know it won't be so easy to explain the white girl's attitude, that is, so that her actions will seem credible to readers.
I didn't say it would be easy, he growled, but you don't need to exaggerate the difficulty.
Dear Byron, I'm just talking it over with you. I want to help you. What is her attitude?
Why, she loves the man!
Of course, but you've got to make readers believe that, believe, moreover that she's willing to brave race-prejudice and conventions that have risen from it. There's her family, for instance. . . .
God! he shouted. I don't get anything but discouragement out of you! At the same time he made a mental note that he must put the girl's father in the story.
Byron, she pleaded, please don't quarrel with me again. I can't bear it.
He was drawing on his overcoat and she grasped the sleeve in a pitiful gesture of appeal.
It seems, she went on sadly, that all we do lately is quarrel.
So it seems. He set his face hard.
Byron, I love you so much. I only want to help you. Won't you let me?
I don't want any of your help.
Byron!
You're ashamed of me because I'm not getting on as well as Howard!
Byron, please!
And you think Rudolph Fisher's a great writer because he's published a rotten story or two in the Atlantic!
She was silent.
I'll be damned if I'm going to stand your nagging any longer. I guess I know what I can do better than you do. You'll see! Wait till you read my story in a magazine! Then you'll be sorry.
Sorry! Dearest, I'll be delighted.
Sure you will . . . not! Let me go.
Byron, for once, be reasonable.
Let me go!
He tore away from her grasp and out of the door which he slammed behind him, but this time he felt a trifle ashamed of himself and lingered, hesitant, in the hallway, hoping, perhaps, that she would call him back. No sound, however, came from within. Tiptoeing to the door, he applied his ear to the keyhole. She was not crying; he could hear nothing. She really didn't love him at all. She just wanted to possess him, to own him, to boss him. He strode away in a renewed fit of fury and this time he did not turn back.
In his present mood he had no desire to return to his sordid hole in the wall. Finding a couple of dollars in his pocket, he determined to visit the Black Venus. He wanted to be cheered up and at this cabaret there was always excitement of some kind. Perhaps Irwin would be there, or Lucas Garfield. Perhaps a new golden-brown girl. He felt he wanted to be unfaithful to Mary, to degrade her ideal. He wanted to throw mud at everything she stood for. He'd like to tell her about it afterwards.
Preparing to descend the stairs that led to the cabaret, he was violently pushed aside. Two waiters were forcing a man out into the street. As they brushed past him Byron turned to see them deliver a final kick in the fellow's buttocks. Landing with a thud in the muddy gutter, the victim lay inert, apparently insensible. Byron felt sick. Life was so cruel. For the moment he experienced a pang of compassion for this stranger. I might be that man, he said to himself with a gush of self-pity.
In the dance hall his mood changed perceptibly. The room was crowded; all the tables were occupied with gay men and women, laughing, drinking. A yellow girl in red with a megaphone was making the rounds of the tables. As he stood, hesitating by the doorway, wondering if he could find a place, she shouted her song in his ear:
The girl that was stolen from me,
She's just a child, didn't mean to be wild,
Fell for some one's flat-ter-y.
I got the news she may knock at my door,
I should refuse and I ought to get sore,
But I'll take her back if she wants to come back . . .
I'll be three times God damned if I will! Byron gritted his teeth as he surrendered his coat to the girl in the check-room.
Dawggone, ef that ain't the cat's kanittans! a fat, cheerful-looking black man near him exclaimed.
Bardacious! agreed his companion.
Byron heard his name called: Dick was advancing towards him.
Hello, old chap!
Hello yourself! cried Byron, grasping his friend's hand. What in the world are you doing here?
Slumming. Brought some friends up with me. Come and sit with us. We've got plenty of gin.
I'd be glad to. I was wondering where I would sit. He hesitated before he inquired. Are you white or coloured tonight?
Buckra, of course. And so are my friends, but they'll be delighted to meet you. They've heard about the New Negro! Dick grinned.
Well, Byron replied, I don't feel very new tonight. I feel more like Old Black Joe. However, I'll do the best I can for your patronizing friends.
Dick was more sober at once. I didn't mean that, he assured Byron. They're not a bit that sort. They honestly, seriously want to meet some people, and I didn't know a soul in the place before you came.
Look at duh spagingy-spagade talkin' wid duh fagingy-fagade, Byron heard a voice behind him say.
Out fo' a little hootchie-pap, Ah pre-sume, another voice commented.
Well, evidently they don't see behind the mask even here, Byron said. He was in a better humour.
Of course not, Dick replied as he took his friend's arm and led him to the table. His companions turned out to be Rusk Baldwin, the well-known columnist, and Roy McKain, the novelist. Byron recognized both names at once.
I can't see, McKain averred to Byron, after a few trivial remarks had passed back and forth, how fellows like you find anybody to talk to up here. Just look around! I'll bet you're the only college man in the place.
Oh, Byron knows a few, Dick remarked with a wink.
Well, it's wonderful up here, Baldwin exclaimed. I had no idea it would be like this. It's as wild as a jungle. Look at that waiter dancing the Charleston up the floor.
I don't see how he holds that tray of glasses, the novelist said. He doesn't spill a drop.
This remark reminded Dick that he had forgotten as yet to fill his friend's glass. He supplied his omission.
Can you Charleston, Mr. Kasson? Baldwin inquired.
Not very well, Byron responded.
McKain regarded him with unfeigned amazement. Why, he asserted, I thought all coloured people could dance the Charleston, didn't you, Dick?
I don't know much about it, was Dick's answer.
McKain poured out half a glass of gin and filled the receptacle to the brim with ginger ale. His enthusiasm mounted, soared.
I think you are a wonderful people, he announced, a perfectly wonderful people! Such verve and vivacity! Such dancing! Such singing! And I've always thought coloured people were lazy! I suppose, he added reflectively, that it's because you're all so happy. That's it, Rusk, he cried, they're all so happy!
Do you know the poems of a young coloured fellow named Langston Hughes? Baldwin demanded of Byron.
Yes, I do.
Well, I thought they were good before I came up here, but he's just a bus-boy or something like that, and he doesn't understand his race. Listen to this:
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!
Well, I thought that was good, Baldwin repeated laughing, but now I see it's only bus-boy bunk. He don't understand his race.
I should say not, McKain agreed.
I took the trouble to learn it too, Baldwin continued. I thought it was good. Let's see, how does it go on?
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall
Only the shadow.
Bunk, echoed McKain. Bunk. It isn't a bit like that.
The entertainer had at last arrived at their table. Swaying back and forth, her eyes obliquely surveying the room, her mind apparently a vacuum, she howled through her megaphone:
Pleasing sentiment, Baldwin remarked. How much shall I give her? he demanded of Byron.
Oh, half a dollar. A quarter. It doesn't matter.
McKain took out his purse and extracted a dollar bill.
Roy! some one across the room hailed him.
Why, there's Dana Paton, McKain cried. He's calling us over. He dragged Baldwin away with him.
They mean all right, Byron, Dick assured his friend apologetically.
I suppose they do, Byron replied, but I've had a hell of a day and I guess I'm more nervous than usual. They're not bad . . . for ofays, he added.
His friend gave him a close scrutiny. You'd pass for Spanish or Portuguese, he assured him. Why don't you come over? There's no good bucking the game. It isn't worth it.
Byron's lip curled. I couldn't, he responded. I just couldn't. I don't blame you, or any one else who does, but I couldn't. I guess I haven't got the guts.
What you're doing requires more guts.
Don't let's talk about it, Byron urged impatiently.
As the music stopped, the laughter rose and fell. An atmosphere of fate hovered over the place, as if something were going to happen that nobody could prevent. Behind them a man sang softly to his companion:
She's quit me in duh wrong for annuder man:
Learn me to let all women alone.
Ha! Ha!
Did you ever see yo' sweetie when her good man ain' aroun',
Gits up in duh mawnin', turns duh feather bed upside down?
Now an amber searchlight shot across the room. The jazz band vomited, neighed, barked, and snorted and the barbaric ceremony began.
Dick pointed to a sinewy figure, fantastically garbed, making his way from the entrance across the floor. Look! he exclaimed. That's the Scarlet Creeper!
Who's he? Byron inquired.
Haven't you heard of the famous Creeper? Why he's the most celebrated character along Lenox Avenue. Lives off women, a true Eastman. He's the sheik of the dives, Anatole Longfellow by name.
As the Creeper eased past the dancers—so slinking and catlike was his gait that walking would scarcely describe it—they edged away from him, although there was a whispered recognition from nearly every couple in the hall. It was apparent that his entrance had caused a sensation and it was also quite evident that he was very contented with his reception. People might not speak to him, but they spoke about him. The Creeper was accompanied by a sinister, hunchback dwarf with a wizened, wrinkled, black face like a monkey's, the chin discoloured by a tetter, the head glowing with bushy, laniferous, silver hair. As the pair seated themselves at a recently deserted table adjoining that occupied by Byron and Dick three waiters immediately Charlestoned up.
This obviously explains the origin of the phrase "dancing attendance," Dick remarked.
The Creeper gave his orders in a consequential manner and the waiters hastened away to execute his commands. Byron and Dick were in a position where they might observe the fellow without seeming to do so. Apparently, he was making some faint effort to control his tone, but in order to make himself heard over the tipsy dignity of the jazz band, he was obliged to raise his voice which, moreover, was placed so excellently forward in his mouth that its resonance was double that of the ordinary organ.
Dat Nigger ain' got long ter live, the Creeper was announcing.
The hunchback cringed in mock dismay, as he rubbed his hands together and smiled his approval. Then, making a significant gesture with his right middle finger around his throat, he croaked, Ah bet you cut him every way but loose.
Carvin's too good fo' an achin' pain lak him. Ah'll git him wid a gun.
The hunchback rolled his eyes until only the whites were visible, the while he licked his thick, black lips with his fat, red tongue.
No man steal mah gal an' live, the Creeper went on. Dey'll soon be throwin' dirt in his face.
Dat Ruby's one God damn fool, the leering dwarf contributed. One God damn fool! he repeated, wagging his head savagely from side to side. He was almost in ecstasy.
The waiter returned with the drinks which he deposited on the table. The Creeper, having filled his own glass, contemptuously bestowed a few drops in that of his companion.
Well, whispered Byron, it looks bad for somebody.
Nothing but cheap boasting, Dick retorted. These shines that live off women are all cowards. He won't do a damn thing.
The Creeper had swirled into a dance with a handsome mulatto. His palms were flat across her shoulders, his slender fingers spread apart. There was an ancient impiety about the sensual grace of their united movement.
Take your eyes off the golden-brown, Dick warned, laughing.
You know my type!
It wouldn't take long to learn that.
Byron turned to his companion and looked at him earnestly. Dick, I want to ask you something, he said. Now . . . now . . . that you've gone white, do you really want . . . pinks for boody?
Dick averted his eyes. That's the worst of it, he groaned. I just don't. Give me blues every time.
Baldwin and McKain rejoined them.
Talking to a fellow who's making drawings, the novelist explained. God, but this place is great! I could live up here. Is all Harlem like this?
The question awakened a swarm of perverse, dancing images in Byron's brain. They crowded about each other, all the incongruities, the savage inconsistencies, the peculiar discrepancies, of this cruel, segregated life.
Yes, he replied, I suppose it is.