Nigger Heaven/Book 2/Chapter 9
At midnight he entered the Black Venus. This resort was usually crowded at any hour between twelve and six in the morning. On this particular night there were so many people present that nearly all the space ordinarily reserved for dancing was occupied by tables. Byron, indeed, was forced to take a chair at a table at which four persons were already sitting. He ordered a quart of gin.
A girl with peppercorn hair, with a band of freckles across the bridge of her yellow nose, moved from table to table, singing through the din:
Feelin' lak Ah am,
Doin' what Ah am,
Ef you hadn't gone away,
Ah wouldn't sit here and laugh
At yo' photograph
That Ah tore in half,
Ef you hadn't gone away.
Wherever Ah go,
Whatever Ah do,
Ah wants you to know
Ah blame it on you,
An' ef et's all over town
That Ah run aroun'
Here is all Ah have to say,
Ah wouldn't be where Ah am,
Doin' what Ah am,
Ef you hadn't gone away.
Byron subconsciously was aware of conversation at his table: Lawdy ain't her legs skinny! . . . She's no sheba. . . . Bank wouldn't pay today. Too many winners. Dey jes' wouldn't pay. . . . Was it duh nummer you was playin'? . . . Naw, Ah figgers Ah won 'cause Ah lost. . . . Sho' Ah knowed Siki. Useter strut down duh boulevards o' Paris wid a long, black coat, a stove-pipe hat, an' a glass in his eye, carryin' a monkey on his shoulder an' draggin' one yowlin' lion cub on a chain. He was nobody's business.
It all became a jumble in Byron's mind, a jumble of meaningless phrases accompanied by the hard, insistent, regular beating of the drum, the groaning of the saxophone, the shrill squealing of the clarinet, the laughter of the customers and occasionally the echo of the refrain,
A meaningless jumble. Like life. Like Negro life. Kicked down from above. Pulled down from below. No cheer but dance and drink and happy dust . . . and golden-browns. Wine, women, and song, and happy dust. Gin, shebas, Blues, and snow. However you looked at it. . . . Whatever you called it. . . .
He'd make it up with Mary after he got even with those two who'd made a fool out of him. He'd show 'em. Tomorrow he'd make it all right with Mary. Tomorrow he'd go to her and humble himself. How he hated Lasca! The whore! He'd show her!
Gert ain' here tonight . . . Ef you hadn't gone away . . . Come along to duh washroom an' Ah'll give you a sniff . . . Snow am duh great pacifier. . . . Ah's goin' to play two hundred an' seben tomorrow. . . . Leanshanks Pescod's got a lef' . . . Harry Greb, Flowers . . . Gaze on dat hoofer . . Ah done hates duh spring; Ah sighs fo' August ham. . . . Ax yo' mammy what makes she so black. . . . How come you do me lak you do, daddy?
He'd show 'em. He'd make 'em sorry. God, how he hated that she-devil. Byron drained another glass of straight gin.
The entertainer, having made the rounds of the tables, lifted her skirts to dance in a space on the floor near the band. Her pink, silk drawers, bordered with bands of lace with knots and bows of blue ribbon, were exposed.
Skinny legs! Too skinny! . . . Hey! Hey! . . . Doan care fo' dose high yallers. . . . Tum-tum! Tum-tum! Tum-tum!
Would that drummer never stop? Jungle! Savages! Amber moonlight! Why did that girl have a purple face? Rouge on chocolate. And that other girl was green as an olive. Powder on chocolate. Shebas, golden-brown shebas. Lousy Niggers, all of 'em. Drinking, laughing, sniffing snow, getting ready to push him down. . . . Pretty panties on that dancing sheba. To hell with her! To hell with 'em all!
He gulped down another glassful. Mary, sweet Mary, golden-brown too. She was his friend. She stuck by him. She wouldn't make a fool out of him. She . . . He'd get that black Nigger Pettijohn!
A couple at his table departed. The others still chattered: Been to Sam's new joint? . . . Pig's feet, hot-dogs, eggs. Pig's feet, hot-dogs, eggs. . . . A white-coated vendor stood over the table with a tray laden with food, each article wrapped in white tissue-paper. . . . Gimme . . . Ten cents . . . Dat's duh berries. . . . Gaze on dat gal wid duh monkey-chaser. . . . Dey's an achin' pain, dose monkey-chasers. We doan want 'em heah! Monkey land fo' duh monkey-chasers. . . . Look at Buddie wid Miss Annie. . . . Dat ain' Miss Annie, dat's kinkout. . . . Ah tells you et is Miss Annie, Buddie's gettin' keerless. Dose ofays stink powerful.
Keep you in trouble all duh time,
Doan never let yo' woman have her way;
Keep you in trouble all yo' day.
Doan never have one woman fo' yo' frien';
When yo' out, nuther man in!
The music shivered and broke, cracked and smashed. Jungle land. Hottentots and Bantus swaying under the amber moon. Love, sex, passion . . . hate. Lef? side, right side! Git off dat dime. . . . The dancers swayed from one side to the other like sailors heaving an anchor. Black, green, blue, purple, brown, tan, yellow, white: coloured people!
In the tangle of dancers Byron caught a glimpse of Anatole Longfellow, dancing with . . . Where had he seen that girl? He knew he had seen her before. Yes, he remembered now: at the Winter Palace . . . with Randolph Pettijohn. Frightened eyes. He was her man; she was afraid. No woman afraid of me. Made a fool out of me. Hate her! Hate 'em all! . . . Doan never git One woman on yo' min' . . . Byron filled his glass.
The Creeper and his girl sat down in the two deserted places at Byron's table.
'Toly, you sho' is one bardacious scroncher.
You's goin' git scronched.
Lak mine,
Nobody in town can bake a sweet jelly-roll so fine,
So fine,
a new entertainer boasted through a megaphone.
Ah ain' had no hours ob happiness an' ease sence Ah lef' you, 'Toly.
Shet up!
Pacify yo'self, 'Toly. Pacify yo'self. Doan git recited.
The Creeper scowled.
Jungle, jumble. Waiters with shields, bearing poisoned wine: waiter-warriors. . . . Jelly-roll lak mine. . . . Pink silk. Blue silk. That green girl. . . . What made her look green? Coloured girl, Byron remembered. That was it: coloured girl. If you've never been vamped by a brown skin. . . . Too skinny! Ain' she loose! Jelly-roll lak mine!
Byron poured himself out another drink. What 'was going round and round in his head? My way, my way's cloudy; go send dem angels down! . . . Gin, golden-browns, Blues, and snow. Where did they get the snow? He wanted some. He was about to call a waiter when he heard a voice announce, Shine butter an' egg man. His weary eyes sought the doorway. Randolph Pettijohn! He thought he'd get him later with Lasca! Well, here would do. Res' yo' coat, he knew the girl was saying. The bastard! He'd soon rest his coat for ever! Byron's hand involuntarily sought his hip-pocket.
The King was walking towards him, straight towards him. The fool! All the waiters in the place surrounded him. He could have any table. Nobody else good enough to keep a table if that black Nigger wanted it. He could hear them: Git up an' give Mr. Pettijohn yo' table. Any table for him. He'd show 'em! They'd never make a fool out of him again. How slowly the King was moving! He walked but he never seemed to come any closer.
Nobody in town can bake a sweet jelly-roll lak . . . Pzzz: a bullet whizzed past Byron's ear. A shriek . . . Pzzz! Another shot. Byron, dazed, turned his head. Weapon in hand, the Creeper stood poised for the fraction of a second. Yo' won't hitch on to no mo' mah gals! he muttered. Then like a streak he leaped through the crowd and disappeared through the doorway in the back wall. With a cry of 'Toly, the girl followed him. Pandemonium. Stampede. Glasses smashed. 'Tables upset. Shrieks. Cries. Howls. The room was empty.
Byron alone sat staring ahead of him. Ai fixed, blank stare. He was thinking how Paul Robeson looked when he sang Were you there? He remembered that he owed Howard a hundred dollars. Fingers like golden-brown chrysanthemum petals . . .
Then he saw the thing on the floor in a pool of blood under the amber moon. Fascinated, he crept slowly towards it.
Suddenly, he stamped on the face with the heel of his boot.
You Nigger bastard! he screamed.
He drew his revolver and shot once, twice into the ugly black mass.
Immediately his anger left him. The gun slipped from his fingers. His legs, shaking with terror, refused to support him. He sank to his knees.
Mary, he cried aloud, I didn't do it! I didn't do it!
He was curiously conscious that a white hand was reaching for the gun. He looked up to face a coat of blue buttoned with brass.
New York
March 1, 1926