Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The odor of Mary's cabbage changed my mind. Standing engulfed in the fumes filling the hall, it struck me that I couldn't realistically reject the job. Cabbage was always a depressing reminder of the leaner years of my childhood and I suffered silently whenever she served it, but this was the third time within the week and it dawned on me that Mary must be short of money.
And here I've been congratulating myself for refusing a job, I thought, when I don't even know how much money I owe her. I felt a quick sickness grow within me. How could I face her? I went quietly to my room and lay upon the bed, brooding. There were other roomers, who had jobs, and I knew she received help from relatives; still there was no mistake, Mary loved a variety of food and this concentration upon cabbage was no accident. Why hadn't I noticed? She'd been too kind, never dunning me, and I lay there hearing her, "Don't come bothering me with your little troubles, boy. You'll git something bye and bye"—when I would try to apologize for not paying my rent and board. Perhaps another roomer had moved, or lost his job. What were Mary's problems anyway; who "articulated her grievances," as the redheaded man had put it? She had kept me going for months, yet I had no idea. What kind of man was I becoming? I had taken her so much for granted that I hadn't even thought of my debt when I refused the job. Nor had I considered the embarrassment I might have caused her should the police come to her home to arrest me for making that wild speech. Suddenly I felt an urge to go look at her, perhaps I had really never seen her. I had been acting like a child, not a man.
Taking out the crumpled paper, I looked at the telephone number. He had mentioned an organization. What was it called? I hadn't inquired. What a fool! At least I should have learned what I was turning down, although I distrusted the red-headed man. Had I refused out of fear as well as from resentment? Why didn't he just tell me what it was all about instead of trying to impress me with his knowledge?
Then from down the hall I could hear Mary singing, her voice clear and untroubled, though she sang a troubled song. It was the "Back Water Blues." I lay listening as the sound flowed to and around me, bringing me a calm sense of my indebtedness. When it faded I got up and put on my coat. Perhaps it was not too late. I would find a telephone and call him; then he could tell me exactly what he wanted and I could make a sensible decision.
Mary heard me this time. "Boy, when you come home?" she said, sticking her head out of the kitchen. "I didn't even hear you."
"I came in a short while ago," I said. "You were busy so I didn't bother you."
"Then where you going so soon, ain't you going to eat supper?"
"Yes, Mary," I said, "but I've got to go out now. I forgot to take care of some business."
"Shucks! What kind of business you got on a cold night like this?" she said.
"Oh, I don't know, I might have a surprise for you."
"Won't nothing surprise me," she said. "And you hurry on back here and git something hot in your stomach."
Going through the cold seeking a telephone booth I realized that I had committed myself to bring her some kind of surprise, and as I walked I became mildly enthusiastic. It was, after all, a job that promised to exercise my talent for public speaking, and if the pay was anything at all it would be more than I had now. At least I could pay Mary something of what I owed her. And she might receive some satisfaction that her prediction had proved correct.
I seemed to be haunted by cabbage fumes; the little luncheonette in which I found the telephone was reeking.
Brother Jack didn't sound at all surprised upon receiving my call.
"I'd like some information about —"
"Get here as quickly as you can, we're leaving shortly," he said, giving me a Lenox Avenue address and hanging up before I could finish my request.
I went out into the cold, annoyed both by his lack of surprise and by the short, clipped manner in which he'd spoken, but I started out, taking my own time. It wasn't far, and just as I reached the corner of Lenox a car pulled up and I saw several men inside, Jack among them, smiling.
"Get in," he said. "We can talk where we're going. It's a party; you might like it."
"But I'm not dressed," I said. "I'll call you tomorrow —"
"Dressed?" he chuckled. "You're all right, get in."
I got in beside him and the driver, noticing that there were three men in the back. Then the car moved off.
No one spoke. Brother Jack seemed to sink immediately into deep thought. The others looked out into the night. It was as though we were mere chance passengers in a subway car. I felt uneasy, wondering where we were going, but decided to say nothing. The car shot swiftly over the slush.
Looking out at the passing night I wondered what kind of men they were. Certainly they didn't act as though they were heading for a very sociable evening. I was hungry and I wouldn't get back in time for supper. Well, maybe it would be worth it, both to Mary and to me. At least I wouldn't have to eat that cabbage!
For a moment the car paused for the traffic light, then we were circling swiftly through long stretches of snow-covered landscape lighted here and there by street lamps and the nervously stabbing beams of passing cars: We were flashing through Central Park, now completely transformed by the snow. It was as though we had plunged suddenly into mid-country peace, yet I knew that here, somewhere close by in the night, there was a zoo with its dangerous animals. The lions and tigers in heated cages, the bears asleep, the snakes coiled tightly underground. And there was also the reservoir of dark water, all covered by snow and by night, by snow-fall and by night-fall, buried beneath black and white, gray mist and gray silence. Then past the driver's head I could see a wall of buildings looming beyond the windshield. The car nosed slowly into traffic, dropped swiftly down a hill.
We stopped before an expensive-looking building in a strange part of the city. I could see the word Chthonian on the storm awning stretched above the walk as I got out with the others and went swiftly toward a lobby lighted by dim bulbs set behind frosted glass, going past the uniformed doorman with an uncanny sense of familiarity; feeling now, as we entered a soundproof elevator and shot away at a mile a minute, that I had been through it all before. Then we were stopping with a gentle bounce and I was uncertain whether we had gone up or down. Brother Jack guided me down the hall to a door on which I saw a bronze door-knocker in the shape of a large-eyed owl. Now he hesitated a moment, his head thrust forward as though listening, then his hand covered the owl from view, producing instead of the knock which I expected, an icy peal of clear chimes. Shortly the door swung partly open, revealing a smartly dressed woman, whose hard, handsome face broke into smiles.
"Come in, Brothers," she said, her exotic perfume filling the foyer.
I noticed a clip of blazing diamonds on her dress as I tried to stand aside for the others, but Brother Jack pushed me ahead.
"Excuse me," I said, but she held her ground, and I was pressing tensely against her perfumed softness, seeing her smile as though there were only she and I. Then I was past, disturbed not so much by the close contact, as by the sense that I had somehow been through it all before. I couldn't decide if it were from watching some similar scene in the movies, from books I'd read, or from some recurrent but deeply buried dream. Whatsoever, it was like entering a scene which, because of some devious circumstance, I had hitherto watched only from a distance. How could they have such an expensive place, I wondered.
"Put your things in the study," the woman said. "I'll go see about drinks."
We entered a room lined with books and decorated with old musical instruments: An Irish harp, a hunter's horn, a clarinet and a wooden flute were suspended by the neck from the wall on pink and blue ribbons. There were a leather divan and a number of easy chairs.
"Throw your coat on the divan," Brother Jack said.
I slid out of my overcoat and looked around. The dial of the radio built into a section of the natural mahogany bookshelf was lighted, but I couldn't hear any sound; and there was an ample desk on which rested silver and crystal writing things, and, as one of the men came to stand gazing at the bookcase, I was struck by the contrast between the richness of the room and their rather poor clothing.
"Now we'll go into the other room," Brother Jack said, taking me by the arm.
We entered a large room in which one entire wall was hung with Italian-red draperies that fell in rich folds from the ceiling. A number of well-dressed men and women were gathered in groups, some beside a grand piano, the others lounging in the pale beige upholstery of the blond wood chairs. Here and there I saw several attractive young women but carefully avoided giving them more than a glance. I felt extremely uncomfortable, although after brief glances no one paid me any special attention. It was as though they hadn't seen me, as though I were here, and yet not here. The others were moving away to join the various groups now, and Brother Jack took my arm.
"Come, let's get a drink," he said, guiding me toward the end of the room.
The woman who'd let us in was mixing drinks behind a handsome free-form bar which was large enough to have graced a night club.
"How about a drink for us, Emma?" Brother Jack said.
"Well, now, I'll have to think about it," she said, tilting her severely drawn head and smiling.
"Don't think, act," he said. "We're very thirsty men. This young man pushed history ahead twenty years today."
"Oh," she said, her eyes becoming intent. "You must tell me about him."
"Just read the morning papers, Emma. Things have begun to move. Yes, leap ahead." He laughed deeply.
"What would you like, Brother?" she said, her eyes brushing slowly over my face.
"Bourbon," I said, a little too loudly, as I remembered the best the South had to offer. My face was warm, but I returned her glance as steadily as I dared. It was not the harsh uninterested-in-you-as-a-human-being stare that I'd known in the South, the kind that swept over a black man as though he were a horse or an insect; it was something more, a direct, what-type-of-mere-man-have-we-here kind of look that seemed to go beneath my skin . . . Somewhere in my leg a muscle twitched violently.
"Emma, the bourbon! Two bourbons," Brother Jack said.
"You know," she said, picking up a decanter, "I'm intrigued."
"Naturally. Always," he said. "Intrigued and intriguing. But we're dying of thirst."
"Only of impatience," she said, pouring the drinks. "I mean you are. Tell me, where did you find this young hero of the people?"
"I didn't," Brother Jack said. "He simply arose out of a crowd. The people always throw up their leaders, you know . . ."
"Throw them up," she said. "Nonsense, they chew them up and spit them out. Their leaders are made, not born. Then they're destroyed. You've always said that. Here you are, Brother."
He looked at her steadily. I took the heavy crystal glass and raised it to my lips, glad for an excuse to turn from her eyes. A haze of cigarette smoke drifted through the room. I heard a series of rich arpeggios sound on the piano behind me and turned to look, hearing the woman Emma say not quite softly enough, "But don't you think he should be a little blacker?"
"Shhh, don't be a damn fool," Brother Jack said sharply. "We're not interested in his looks but in his voice. And I suggest, Emma, that you make it your interest too . . ."
Suddenly hot and breathless, I saw a window across the room and went over and stood looking out. We were up very high; street lamps and traffic cut patterns in the night below. So she doesn't think I'm black enough. What does she want, a black-face comedian? Who is she, anyway, Brother Jack's wife, his girl friend? Maybe she wants to see me sweat coal tar, ink, shoe polish, graphite. What was I, a man or a natural resource?
The window was so high that I could barely hear the sound of traffic below . . . This was a bad beginning, but hell, I was being hired by Brother Jack, if he still wanted me, not this Emma woman. I'd like to show her how really black I am, I thought, taking a big drink of the bourbon. It was smooth, cold. I'd have to be careful with the stuff. Anything might happen if I had too much. With these people I'll have to be careful. Always careful. With all people I'll have to be careful . . .
"It's a pleasant view, isn't it?" a voice said, and I whirled to see a tall dark man. "But now would you mind joining us in the library?" he said.
Brother Jack, the men who had come along in the car, and two others whom I hadn't seen before were waiting.
"Come in, Brother," Jack said. "Business before pleasure is always a good rule, whoever you are. Some day the rule shall be business with pleasure, for the joy of labor shall have been restored. Sit down."
I took the chair directly before him, wondering what this speech was all about.
"You know, Brother," he said, "we don't ordinarily interrupt our social gatherings with business, but with you it's necessary."
"I'm very sorry," I said. "I should have called you earlier."
"Sorry? Why, we're only too glad to do so. We've been waiting for you for months. Or for someone who could do what you've done."
"But what . . . ?" I said.
"What are we doing? What is our mission? It's simple; we are working for a better world for all people. It's that simple. Too many have been dispossessed of their heritage, and we have banded together in brotherhood so as to do something about it. What do you think of that?"
"Why, I think it's fine," I said, trying to take in the full meaning of his words. "I think it's excellent. But how?"
"By moving them to action just as you did this morning. . . Brothers, I was there," he said to the others, "and he was magnificent. With a few words he set off an effective demonstration against evictions!"
"I was present too," another said. "It was amazing."
"Tell us something of your background," Brother Jack said, his voice and manner demanding truthful answers. And I explained briefly that I had come up looking for work to pay my way through college and had failed.
"Do you still plan to return?"
"Not now," I said. "I'm all done with that."
"It's just as well," Brother Jack said. "You have little to learn down there. However, college training is not a bad thing—although you'll have to forget most of it. Did you study economics?"
"Some."
"Sociology?"
"Yes."
"Well, let me advise you to forget it. You'll be given books to read along with some material that explains our program in detail. But we're moving too fast. Perhaps you aren't interested in working for the Brotherhood."
"But you haven't told me what I'm supposed to do," I said.
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.