Another Country (12 page)

But suppose something, somewhere, failed, and the yellow lights went out and no one could see, any longer, the platform’s edge? Suppose these beams fell down? He saw the train in the tunnel, rushing under water, the motor-man gone mad, gone blind, unable to decipher the lights, and the tracks gleaming and snarling senselessly upward forever, the train never stopping and the people screaming at windows and doors and turning on each other with all the accumulated fury of their blasphemed lives, everything gone out of them but murder, breaking limb from limb and splashing in blood, with joy— for the first time, joy, joy, after such a long sentence in chains, leaping out to astound the world, to astound the world again. Or, the train in the tunnel, the water outside, the power failing, the walls coming in, and the water not rising like a flood but breaking like a wave over the heads of these people, filling their crying mouths, filling their eyes, their hair, tearing away their clothes and discovering the secrecy which only the water, by now, could use. It could happen. It could happen; and he would have loved to see it happen, even if he perished, too. The train came in, filling the great scar of the tracks. They all got on, sitting in the lighted car which was far from empty, which would be choked with people before they got very far uptown, and stood or sat in the isolation cell into which they transformed every inch of space they held.

The train stopped at Fourteenth Street. He was sitting at the window and he watched a few people get on. There was a colored girl among them who looked a little like his sister, but she looked at him and looked away and sat down as far from him as she could. The train rolled on through the tunnel. The next stop was Thirty-fourth Street, his stop. People got on; he watched the stop roll by. Forty-second Street. This time a crowd got on, some of them carrying papers, and there were no seats left. A white man leaned on a strap near him. Rufus felt his gorge rise.

At Fifty-ninth Street many came on board and many rushed across the platform to the waiting local. Many white people and many black people, chained together in time and in space, and by history, and all of them in a hurry. In a hurry to get away from each other, he thought, but we ain’t never going to make it. We been fucked for fair.

Then the doors slammed, a loud sound, and it made him jump. The train, as though protesting its heavier burden, as though protesting the proximity of white buttock to black knee, groaned, lurched, the wheels seemed to scrape the track, making a tearing sound. Then it began to move uptown, where the masses would divide and the load become lighter. Lights flared and teetered by, they passed other platforms where people waited for other trains. Then they had the tunnel to themselves. The train rushed into the blackness with a phallic abandon, into the blackness which opened to receive it, opened, opened, the whole world shook with their coupling. Then, when it seemed that the roar and the movement would never cease, they came into the bright lights of 125th Street. The train gasped and moaned to a halt. He had thought that he would get off here, but he watched the people move toward the doors, watched the doors open, watched them leave. It was mainly black people who left. He had thought that he would get off here and go home; but he watched the girl who reminded him of his sister as she moved sullenly past white people and stood for a moment on the platform before walking toward the steps. Suddenly he knew that he was never going home any more.

The train began to move, half-empty now; and with each stop it became lighter; soon the white people who were left looked at him oddly. He felt their stares but he felt far away from them.
You took the best. So why not take the rest?
He got off at the station named for the bridge built to honor the father of his country.

And walked up the steps, into the streets, which were empty. Tall apartment buildings, lightless, loomed against the dark sky and seemed to be watching him, seemed to be pressing down on him. The bridge was nearly over his head, intolerably high; but he did not yet see the water. He felt it, he smelled it. He thought how he had never before understood how an animal could smell water. But it was over there, past the highway, where he could see the speeding cars.

Then he stood on the bridge, looking over, looking down. Now the lights of the cars on the highway seemed to be writing an endless message, writing with awful speed in a fine, unreadable script. There were muted lights on the Jersey shore and here and there a neon flame advertising something somebody had for sale. He began to walk slowly to the center of the bridge, observing that, from this height, the city which had been so dark as he walked through it seemed to be on fire.

He stood at the center of the bridge and it was freezing cold. He raised his eyes to heaven. He thought, You bastard, you motherfucking bastard. Ain’t I your baby, too? He began to cry. Something in Rufus which could not break shook him like a rag doll and splashed salt water all over his face and filled his throat and his nostrils with anguish. He knew the pain would never stop. He could never go down into the city again. He dropped his head as though someone had struck him and looked down at the water. It was cold and the water would be cold.

He was black and the water was black.

He lifted himself by his hands on the rail, lifted himself as high as he could, and leaned far out. The wind tore at him, at his head and shoulders, while something in him screamed, Why? Why? He thought of Eric. His straining arms threatened to break.
I can’t make it this way
. He thought of Ida. He whispered,
I’m sorry, Leona,
and then the wind took him, he felt himself going over, head down, the wind, the stars, the lights, the water, all rolled together,
all right
. He felt a shoe fly off behind him, there was nothing around him, only the wind,
all right, you motherfucking Godalmighty bastard, I’m coming to you
.

2

It was raining. Cass sat on her living-room floor with the Sunday papers and a cup of coffee. She was trying to decide which photograph of Richard would look best on the front page of the book-review section. The telephone rang.

“Hello?”

She heard an intake of breath and a low, vaguely familiar voice:

“Is this Cass Silenski?”

“Yes.”

She looked at the clock, wondering who this could be. It was ten-thirty and she was the only person awake in her house.

“Well”— swiftly— “I don’t know if you remember me, but we met once, downtown, in a night club where Rufus was working. I’m his sister— Ida? Ida Scott—”

She remembered a very young, striking, dark girl who wore a ruby-eyed snake ring. “Why, yes, I remember you very well. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Well”— with a small, dry laugh— “maybe I’m not so fine. I’m trying to locate my brother. I been calling Vivaldo’s house all morning, but he’s not home”— the voice was making an effort not to tremble, not to break— “and so I called you because I thought maybe you’d seen him, Vivaldo, I mean, or maybe you could tell me how to reach him.” And now the girl was crying. “You haven’t seen him, have you? Or my brother?”

She heard sounds coming from the children’s bedroom. “Please,” she said, “try not to be so upset. I don’t know where Vivaldo is this morning but I saw your brother last night. And he was fine.”

“You saw him
last night?
”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you see him? Where was he?”

“We had a couple of drinks together in Benno’s.” Then she remembered Rufus’ face and felt a dim, unwilling alarm. “We talked for a while. He seemed fine.”

“Oh!”— the voice was flooded with relief and made Cass remember the girl’s smile— “wait till I get my hands on him!” Then: “Do you know where he went? Where’s he staying?”

The sounds from the bedroom suggested that Paul and Michael were having a fight. “I don’t know.” I should have asked him, she thought. “Vivaldo would know, they were together, I left them together— look—” Michael screamed and then began to cry, they were going to awaken Richard. “Vivaldo is coming by here this afternoon; why don’t you come, too?”

“What time?”

“Oh. Three-thirty, four. Do you know where we live?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll be there. Thank you.”

“Please don’t be so upset. I’m sure everything will be all right.”

“Yes. I’m glad I called you.”

“Till later, then.”

“Yes. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Cass ran into the children’s bedroom and found Paul and Michael rolling furiously about on the floor. Michael was on top. She dragged him to his feet. Paul rose slowly, looking defiant and ashamed. He was eleven, after all, and Michael was only eight. “What’s all this noise about?”

“He was trying to take my chess set,” Michael said.

The box, the board, and broken chessmen were scattered on both beds and all over the room.

“I was not,” Paul said, and looked at his mother. “I was only trying to teach him how to play.”

“You don’t know
how
to play,” said Michael; now that his mother was in the room, he sniffed loudly once or twice and began collecting his property.

Paul
did
know how to play— or knew, anyway, that chess was a game with rules that had to be learned. He played with his father from time to time. But he also loved to torment his brother, who preferred to make up stories about his various chessmen as he moved them about. For this, of course, he did not need a partner. Watching Michael manipulate Richard’s old, broken chess set always made Paul very indignant.

“Never mind that,” Cass said, “you know that’s Michael’s chess set and he can do whatever he wants with it. Now, come on, wash up, and get your clothes on.”

She went into the bathroom to supervise their washing and get them dressed.

“Is Daddy up yet?” Paul wanted to know.

“No. He’s sleeping. He’s tired.”

“Can’t I go in and wake him?”

“No. Not this morning. Stand still.”

“What about his breakfast?” Michael asked.

“He’ll have his breakfast when he gets up,” she said.

“We never have breakfast together any more,” said Paul. “Why can’t I go and wake him?”

“Because I told you not to,” she said. They walked into the kitchen. “
We
can have breakfast together now, but your father needs his sleep.”

“He’s always sleeping,” said Paul.

“You were out real late last night,” said Michael, shyly.

She was a fairly impartial mother, or tried to be; but sometimes Michael’s shy, grave charm moved her as Paul’s more direct, more calculating presence seldom could.

“What do you care?” she said, and ruffled his reddish blond hair. “And, anyway, how do you know?” She looked at Paul. “I bet that woman let you stay up until all hours. What time did you go to bed last night?”

Her tone, however, had immediately allied them against her. She was their common property; but they had more in common with each other than they had with her.

“Not so late,” Paul said, judiciously. He winked at his brother and began to eat his breakfast.

She held back a smile. “What time was it, Michael?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said, but it was
real
early.”

“If that woman let you stay up one minute past ten o’clock—”

“Oh, it wasn’t
that
late,” said Paul.

She gave up, poured herself another cup of coffee, and watched them eat. Then she remembered Ida’s call. She dialed Vivaldo’s number. There was no answer. He was probably at Jane’s, she thought, but she did not know Jane’s address, or her last name.

She heard Richard moving about in the bedroom and eventually watched him stumble into the shower.

When he came out, she watched him eat a while before she said,

“Richard—? Rufus’s sister just called.”

“His sister? Oh, yes, I remember her, we met her once. What did she want?”

“She wanted to know where Rufus was.”

“Well, if she doesn’t know, how the hell does she expect us to know?”

“She sounded very worried. She hasn’t seen him, you know— in a long time.”

“She’s complaining? Bastard’s probably found some other defenseless little girl to beat up.”

“Oh— that hasn’t got anything to do with it. She’s worried about her brother, she wants to know where he is.”

“Well, she hasn’t got a very nice
brother;
she’ll probably run into him someplace one of these days.” He looked into her worried face. “Hell, Cass, we saw him last night, there’s nothing wrong with him.”

“Yes,” she said. Then: “She’s coming here this afternoon.”

“Oh, Christ. What time?”

“I told her about three or four. I thought Vivaldo would be here by then.”

“Well, good.” He stood up. They walked into the living room. Paul stood at the window, looking out at the wet streets. Michael was on the floor, scribbling in his notebook. He had a great many notebooks, all of them filled with trees and houses and monsters and entirely cryptic anecdotes.

Paul moved from the window to come and stand beside his father.

“Are we going to go now?” he asked. “It’s getting late.”

For Paul never forgot a promise or an appointment.

Richard winked at Paul and reached down to cuff Michael lightly on the head. Michael always reacted to this with a kind of surly, withdrawn delight; seeming to say to himself, each time, that he loved his father enough to overlook an occasional lapse of dignity.

“Come on, now,” Richard said. “You want me to walk you to the movies, you got to get a move on.”

Then she stood at the window and watched the three of them, under Richard’s umbrella, walking away from her.

Twelve years. She had been twenty-one, he had been twenty-five; it was the middle of the war. She eventually ended up in San Francisco and got paid for hanging around a shipyard. She could have done better, but she hadn’t cared. She was simply waiting for the war to be over and for Richard to be home. He ended up in a quartermaster depot in North Africa where he had spent most of his time, as far as she could gather, defending Arab shoeshine boys and beggars against the cynical and malicious French.