Nigger Heaven/Book 2/Chapter 6
A very black fellow, six feet tall, in a purple uniform ornamented with gold braid, guarded the door, but he bowed low as Lasca and Byron approached the entrance and waved them in. At the foot of the stairway, they were subjected to a second scrutiny through the bars of a window in the upper half of another door.
Mrs. Sartoris, come right in, the defender of the portal cried, and, as they accepted the invitation, he called out: Table for Mr. Gunnion!
A waiter took up the cry.
Come right this way, Mr. Gunnion, he urged, and led the pair to a table directly opposite the band.
Why Mr. Gunnion? Byron demanded of Lasca as they seated themselves.
She laughed and threw back her green velvet evening cloak embroidered in silver flowers.
That's part of the code here, she explained. If you're Mr. Gunnion it means that you're a good spender and a generally desirable customer, so you get the best available table. If you're Mr. Lomax, you're lucky if you even get in.
But they don't even know me! he protested.
You're with Mrs. Gunnion tonight.
Seated at tables around the three sides of the hall unoccupied by the band, were parties of white people, parties of coloured people, mixed parties, but the amber light which flooded the gold and black hall gave everybody present much the same complexion, save one brown girl who had put on too much powder and consequently looked dirty green.
In the centre of the dance floor, a sinewy, male dancer, hair sleek and oiled, was performing the Charleston.
I'm Charleston crazy!
Buddy, I'm with you! cried Lasca, a she stepped on to the floor.
The crowd applauded her appearance. Some one cried, Strut your stuff, Lasca!
I'm going to Charleston back to Charleston!
Lasca tossed her heels back and danced with the utmost abandon.
Do that thing!
Camel walk!
Pull 'em down!
Pick cherries!
She lifted her short skirt of champagne-coloured crêpe high over her knees. A ruby set in platinum flashed its fire below her elbow. Her head was encased in a cloche of emerald-green.
As she returned to her table amidst a flurry of applause and laughter, the waiter bore in a bucket of ice from which a bottle-neck protruded. The manager of the Winter Palace, a dapper fellow, joined them.
Well, he exclaimed, I'm delighted. How's the little lady tonight?
How are you, Danny? She shook his hand. Sit down and meet Mr. Kasson.
My compliments. He lounged into the seat beside her. Delighted to see the little lady again. When you come in the lights are brighter and the band really works.
Behave, Danny. Say, has Sid been here? Her brow was clouded by a frown.
Not yet.
Don't let him in, see!
I get you.
Well, fill up! Lasca poured out the glasses. Then, raising her own, she proposed, Tea for three!
Byron emptied his glass at one swallow.
Got any happy dust, Danny? Lasca inquired.
Anything the little lady wants.
Send Myra to the lady's room.
Lasca preceded the vendor. Danny whistled until he attracted the attention of the cigarette-girl who nodded in reply to his signal.
First time here, Mr. Kasson?
Yes.
Well, you must come often.
Say, it's great. Is it always like this?
Wait awhile. You ain't seen nothing yet.
Byron looked around the room. He observed Piqua St. Paris and Arabia Scribner sitting with two men whom he did not recognize. Monte Esbon and a party occupied another table.
Presently Lasca returned.
Who's that punkin-seed sheik in the corner? she demanded.
Nothing for the little lady, Danny responded. He's queer.
Lasca grinned. Is Ran here yet? she asked.
No, Danny replied. He never gets here much before two.
I want to see him.
He'll want to see you.
Why, there's Monte! she cried, waving her hand.
Monte came over. Hello, Lasca! Hello, Byron! Some hoofer, Lasca! How you can shake your dogs!
Bottle it, Monte. How do you like my dress?
Nothing else but.
So's your old man.
Be your age! If you knew what I was thinkin' you'd lock me up.
Danny, having imbibed three-quarters of the contents of the bottle of champagne, begged to be excused. I've got to look out for some of my other guests, he explained. I'll be back.
Danny's a wonder, Lasca commented. He runs from table to table lapping up the expensive drinks. The customers hardly get a look-in on their own liquor. Another quart of Lanson 1914, she commanded the waiter, and ask Toscanini to play my favourite tune.
As the waiter whispered in his ear, the pianist gave his men their cue and the band broke into, I like pie, I like cake.
It's a grand symphony! cried Lasca. Ta! Ta! Monte. Come back later.
She led Byron to the floor.
Black Bottom, she whispered.
I can't do it very well, he protested.
Try it, she adjured him.
Strangely enough, he found it perfectly simple to execute the intricate steps under the inspiring influence of her example. The floor was not crowded; only three or four couples were dancing. The music was soft and sensual; the band knew all the tricks of jazz, but it was a jazz made exquisite, refined. The saxophone cooed like a turtle dove, the drumbeat seemed to reverberate from a distance.
As Byron's lips brushed Lasca's cheek, an exotic fragrance assailed his nostrils, a fragrance with which he was becoming more and more familiar, a fragrance it would be impossible henceforth for him to forget.
Coty? he whispered interrogatively.
No, body, she lisped.
Now they were dancing more slowly, lifting one leg while they swayed to the opposite side. They were as close together as two individuals can ever be. He was fascinated by her sense of rhythm, captivated by her personality, intoxicated by her magnetism.
As they swayed around the hall, his eyes caught those of Piqua St. Paris. She was looking straight at him, but she gave no sign of recognition. He shifted his gaze to Mrs. Scribner. She stared at him fixedly for a moment, and then turned ostentatiously away. Indubitably they had, both of them, cut him dead. What did it mean? What had he done? He could think of no reason to ascribe to their action. Well, what did it matter? Mind soul, and body, he belonged to Lasca. No use trying to think; no use trying to do anything but drift, drift, on this barge of pleasure bound for Cythera. The wind was favourable, the signs and tokens propitious.
As they returned to their table a stout entertainer in bright orange, began to shout:
I wasn't born to stay at home by myself.
The wisest old owl
When he's stung, he makes the loudest howl;
Don't think you've left me on the shelf.
My lovin' disposition's not so bad,
I'll tell the world I can be had.
While you're sneakin' out
To do your ramblin' all about,
Somebody else is sneakin' in.
Here's Ran, Danny came up to announce. Looking towards the entrance Byron saw the Bolito King, imposing with his gold cane and silk hat. He was accompanied by a girl. Waving his hand at Lasca, he escorted his companion to a table in the far end of the room, and then walked towards them.
How you been, Mrs. Sartoris? he demanded, nodding casually at the same time in Byron's general direction.
Fine, Rannie. Sit down. Who's the skirt?
Oh, dat's jes' little Ruby. Nobody you know.
Better be-have, Ran.
Oh, Ah's one o' duh best be-havers 'roun' dis place.
A shriek interrupted them. Instinctively they turned to see what was happening. A yellow girl at a table nearby had risen and stood facing another woman seated with two men.
Ah'll turn yo' damper down! she screamed.
Ah'll cut you every way but loose! the other retorted.
Lemme miss you.
Run 'roun' duh block an' git yo'self some air.
At this precise juncture, the man sitting on the outside of the table jumped up and hurled a glass full of whiskey with unsteady aim. It shivered against the mirror while the ineffectual assailant crumbled on the floor exactly as though he had been hit. Two waiters caught him under the arm-pits and dragged him outside. The yellow girl followed him, screaming. The woman left behind called out to the retreating male figure, Lemme see duh back o' yo' white collar an' den Ah knows you's goin'.
During this scene, the Bolito King sat smoking unconcernedly, quite as if he were unaware that anything unusual had occurred.
Hey! Hey! Do that thing!
Well, I guess Ah'll ramble back to Ruby, Mr. Pettijohn announced. How long you stayin', Mrs. Sartoris?
Till the dawn comes up like thunder.
Another entertainer had the floor.
Got a dance that's new;
Ain' nothin' to it,
It's easy to do,
Called shake that thing,
Oh, shake that thing,
Ah'm gettin' sick an' tired o' tellin' you to shake that thing.
An' the young ones too,
But the old ones learn the young folks
What to do
About shakin' that thing,
Oh, shake that thing.
Ah'm gettin sick and tired o' tellin' you to shake that thing.
The Jelly-roll King,
Got a hump in his back
From shakin' that thing,
Yet he still shakes that thing,
For an ole man how he can shake that thing,
An' he never gets tired o' tellin' young folks how to shake that thing.
Shake 'em out! went the cry. Strut your stuff!
The little dancer was lean and yellow, dressed in scarlet; her pink drawers were adorned with blue forget-me-nots. Her legs were like toothpicks.
Oh, gaze on dat wobble, man!
Too skinny, Danny, Lasca complained to the manager who was passing the table.
Wait! he adjured her.
Presently the dancer went into a shivering ecstasy. From the top of her head to her feet she quivered. It was like an enjoyable ague.
Lasca tossed a crumpled dollar bill on the floor. Stamping her heel squarely over the vail, the girl continued her strange, seismic performance as she shouted:
Raised in town,
Got every little movement,
From mah head on down.
Danny gave the signal and the crowd surged over the floor. The dancing was becoming wilder. There were camel-walkers, symptoms of the twa-twa and the skate. A pretty mulatto broke away from her partner and moved her hands convulsively up and down her body in the throes of the itch.
Hug me warmer, baby, Lasca begged.
Love me? Byron queried.
Red hot with love!
What are they playing?
She sang the words:
I said, now daddy, that's one on me.
The clock struck four, protested Byron. That's all right. It'll strike ten before we're through.
I'll never say Amen!
Don't boast. I've worn out better men than you.
Later, Byron's vision became somewhat blurred and his hearing inaccurate. He had a confused sense that all the instruments and human voices in the place were shrieking simultaneously. There was a constant beating of the drum. No longer were the dancers in pairs; apparently they had become quartets. Curious and unaccountable streaks of light wrinkled the faces of the mirrors. People appeared to be shuffling at peculiarly acute angles. Would they topple over?
Lasca poured out champagne from the fifth bottle.
Le's drink a little before we go on! Le's have a drink.
She was lying in Byron's arms, frequently seeking his mouth.
Break away! Time! Byron heard Monte, passing the table, admonish them.
Music! I jesh love music, was all Byron could think of to say.
It was six o'clock when, with some assistance from one of the waiters, he emerged from the Winter Palace. He thanked the cold morning air for blowing in his face.
Taxi! Lasca was crying, apparently as fresh as when she had started out.
Have a whiff of snow, she urged him as they sat in the taxicab, his head nestled in her bosom.
Gimme, he muttered feebly.
From a packet she sifted a line of white crystals along her first finger.
Sniff the happy dust, baby. It'll make you feel better.
He made the effort. A cool, refreshing sniff—like water from a spring.
Opening the door of the cab, the chauffeur stuck his head through the aperture.
Would you parties mind tellin' me where you wants to go? he demanded.
I said, Now daddy, do you know any more tricks?
While he was . . .
Quite unexpectedly, Byron revived. He was restored, energetic.
Drive to hell! he cried.
Yes, drive to hell! Lasca echoed.
To hell! To hell! On to hell!
To hell with red hot mama and cold weather papa!
I'm not cold weather papa! he protested.
The chauffeur scratched his head. I guess you means duh Black Mass.
He started the car.
What's that? Byron inquired.
It's a garden where champagne flows from all the fountains and the paths are made of happy dust and the perfume of the poppies is opium. Kiss me!
I'd like to be cruel to you! she cried, after she had momentarily slaked her thirst. I'd like to cut your heart out!
Cut it out, Lasca, my own! It belongs to you!
I'd like to bruise you!
Lasca, adorable!
I'd like to gash you with a knife!
Lasca! Lasca!
Beat you with a whip!
Lasca!
She drew her pointed nails across the back of his hand. The flesh came off in ribbons.
My baby! My baby! she sobbed, binding his bleeding hand with her handkerchief, kissing his lips.
Emerging from the cab, her dress caught in the door frame, and was torn straight down the front. She ripped off a yard or so of dangling crêpe.
I'll go naked to the Black Mass! she cried, as she extracted a dollar bill from her gold bag and handed it to the chauffeur.
They stood before a heavy unlighted portal. Lasca sought the push-button and pressed it rapidly eight times. Presently the door swung open and they faced utter darkness. She pulled Byron in after her and slammed the door behind them, an action, apparently, which automatically lighted the hallway. They walked down this long corridor, like a tunnel. At the further end was another door, protected by a heavy velvet curtain which Lasca brushed aside. She gave seven rapid knocks. A panel slid open; an eye appeared; this door too swung on its hinges.
They had not yet heard a sound, but now they were aware of music and laughter, uncanny, horrible laughter. A silent attendant, in red doublet and hose, deprived them of their wraps, and led them to still a third door which, when opened, disclosed a cabinet particulier painted a deep blue. It would seem they had been expected: wine and food appeared so immediately. The horrid laughter and the music persisted, drifting in from behind a curtain which walled one side of the room. Suddenly it stopped.
Come, said Lasca, after they had each drunk a glass of champagne, and she led him through a parting in this curtain.
They stood in a circular hall entirely hung in vermilion velvet; even the ceiling was draped in this fiery colour. The room, indeed, resembled a tent. The floor was of translucent glass, and through this clouds of light flowed, now orange, now deep purple, now flaming like molten lava, now rolling sea-waves of green. An invisible band, silent at the moment they had entered this deserted room, now began to perform wild music, music that moaned and lacerated one's breast with brazen claws of tone, shrieking, tortured music from the depths of heil. And now the hall became peopled, as dancers slipped through the folds of the hangings, men and women with weary faces, faces tired of passion and pleasure. Were these the faces of dead prostitutes and murderers? Pleasure seekers from the cold slabs of the morgue?
Dance! cried Lasca. Dance! She flung herself in his arms and they joined this witches' sabbath. Demoniac saxophones wailed like souls burning in an endless torment. Triumphant trumpets called to a profane glory. Byron offered himself freely to the conforming curves of her sensual body, delivered himself to the spell of the clouds of ever-changing colour that came up from below, of the depraved clang-tints of this perverted Dies Irae that sounded from an invisible source, and of an unfamiliar, pungent aroma.
Suddenly, a woman in a black cloak crept through the dancers to the centre of the floor. Simultaneously, the room became black with darkness and the music stopped. There was absolute silence.
When Byron could see again, he was aware that he and Lasca, together with all the others, were huddled against the vermilion velvet hangings. A pale, hideous, green glow suffused the room. The woman in the black cloak stood alone, perfectly motionless, in the centre of the glass floor. Now a pipe—oh, so far away—began to wail and there was a faint reverberation of the tom-tom. A cylinder of fierce white light shot up from below and enclosed the woman, playing in little ripples on the black satin of her cloak. A bell in the distance tinkled feebly and the cloak fell to the floor.
The girl—she could have been no more than sixteen—stood entirely nude. She was pure black, with savage African features, thick nose, thick lips, bushy hair which hovered about her face like a lanate halo, while her eyes rolled back so far that only the whites were visible. And now she began to perform her evil rites. . . . Byron groaned and hid his face in his hands. He could hear Lasca emitting little clucks of amazement. Standing before him, she protected him from the horror . . . while she watched. When he looked again, the light on the body was purple; the body was purple. The girl lifted a knife. . . . A woman shrieked. The knife . . .
Three days later, awakening at four in the afternoon, after his bath, Byron drew on a cerise burnous which Lasca had discovered for him in one of her chests of foreign treasures, and sought her, as usual, in the drawing-room. Although it was April, it was still slightly chilly, and he found her, in a clinging dressing-gown of sea-green, sitting before the fire, a half-filled glass of absinthe and water on a table beside her.
As he kissed her, she pushed him away, gently but impatiently.
Sit down, she said quietly. I want to talk to you.
He attempted to join her on the chaise-longue.
No, over there, she directed. I said I wanted to talk to you.
He obeyed her.
What have you been doing?
Loving you, my golden-brown, since the beginning of the world.
Yes, yes! I know all that, she retorted. I mean what were you doing with yourself before you met me.
I wanted to be a writer.
A writer! What kind of writer?
He told her the story he had conceived.
Are you interested in the race? she demanded, scorn in her tone.
I'm interested in you.
That's no answer. Giving him no opportunity to reply, she rapidly went on, Yes, I suppose it might be said of me that I am a Negro, but as I once informed you, I never permit that fact to make any difference. I loathe the race. Niggers are treacherous and deceitful. You'll never get anywhere if you depend on them. Why, that silly Sylvia actually tried to take a man away from me one night. Ihad my revenge. I showed her up for the weak, pitiful thing she really is. Well, they detest me because I get what I want. They'll hate you if you're a good writer and yet in that foolish story of yours you make out an ironic defence for them.
It's only a story, after all, Byron commented lamely.
I know—only a story. Well, let me tell you something. . . . Her tone was bitter and hard. . . . If you want to write about Niggers, show them up. Hit them, bully them! These raceleaders! These uplifters! They all make me sick. The black motto is: Drag down the topmost, no matter how much his influence might help you to rise. Put the rollers under him! Get rid of him. He's a menace. . . . I know, she went on. I've been through it. Don't imagine I haven't had to struggle. Christ! . . . She bowed her head in her flattened palms. . . . I've been hounded—until, thank God, I became too strong for the pack. They can't crucify me again. When they try, I crucify them.
She began to sob passionately.
Lasca! Lasca darling, don't do that! He was by her side on the instant.
Wiping the tears from her eyes, she pushed him away.
These Niggers! she cried. Well, I learned about life from them. They taught me to kick my rivals. They taught me to hate everybody who got more than I did. And I'll say this: they gave me the strength with their dirty tricks to lift myself out of the muck and mire they call Negro society. There isn't one of 'em, at that, who would dare thwart me, cross my path. Let them dare. . . . Now she was raging . . . They know I'll beat them, beat them at their own game
Byron attempted to interrupt her. But . . . he began.
Let them alone! she screamed. They'll pull you down! They'll spit upon you! Always sweet to your face! Always charming—God, I'm sick of that Nigger charm—but behind your back a constant bickering and whispering. Gossip! Jealousy! Hatred! Smiles to your face, and a knife in the back.
Lasca!
Well, she continued, in a cold, calm tone, while I'm talking I might as well tell you that I don't think any more of you than I do of the others.
Lasca! He was on his knees before her. Don't say that! Don't say that!
I do say it. I'm using you just the way I use tooth-powder. After I'm done with your body I'll throw it out of the window, in the sewer, anywhere.
Lasca! Weeping softly, he buried his face in his hands. You can't mean that! I can't live without you!
You can't live without me! Hell, you can't. Forty men have said that and they're all walking the streets. White men and brown men, they're all the same. All. I use 'em until I tire of oem and then I say, damn you and good-bye!
He raised his head to look at her. What he saw, the hideous distortion of the features, the tautness of the muscles of her throat, the glare in her eyes, terrified him.
You're just like all the others, you filthy Nigger kept boy.
Suddenly he flamed with rage. With a swift movement he caught her throat in his strong hands and shook her violently.
You won't say that to me, you dirty bitch! he cried.
He flung her back on the chaise-longue and stepped away. Her hair dishevelled, she was gasping for breath, her tongue lolling out, but she lifted her arms feebly and beckoned him.
Kiss me, Byron, she panted. I love you. You're so strong! I'm your slave, your own Nigger! Beat me! I'm yours to do with what you please!