Another Country (56 page)

“And what about me? What about us?”

She looked up at him with a bitter smile. “What about us? I hoped I’d get through this and then we’d see. But last night something happened, I couldn’t take it any more. We were up at
Small’s Paradise
—”

“Last night? You and Ellis?”

“Yes.
And
Cass.”

“Cass?”

“I asked her to come and have a drink with me.”

“Did you leave together?”

“No.”

“So that’s why she got in late last night.” He looked at her. “It’s a good thing I didn’t come home then, isn’t it?”

“What would you have done,” she cried, “if you had? You’d have sat at that typewriter for a while and then you’d have played some music and then you’d have gone out and got drunk. And when I came home, no matter
when
I came home, you’d have believed any lie I told you because you were afraid not to.”

“What a bitch you are,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, with a terrible sobriety, “I know.” She lit a cigarette. The hand that held the match trembled. “But I’m trying not to be. I don’t know if there’s any hope for me or not.” She dropped the match on the table. “He made me sing with the band. They didn’t really want me to, and I didn’t want to, but they didn’t want to say No, to him. So I sang. And of course I knew some of the musicians and some of them had known Rufus. Baby, if musicians don’t want to work with you, they sure can make you know it. I sang
Sweet Georgia Brown,
and something else. I wanted to get off that stand in the worst way. When it was over, and the people were clapping, the bass player whispered to me, he said, ‘You black white man’s whore, don’t you never let me catch you on Seventh Avenue, you hear? I’ll tear your little black pussy
up
.’ And the other musicians could hear him, and they were grinning. ‘I’m going to do it twice, once for every black man you castrate every time you walk, and once for your poor brother, because I loved that stud. And he going to thank me for it, too, you can bet on that, black girl.’ And he slapped me on the ass, hard, everybody could see it and, you know, those people up there aren’t fools, and before I could get away, he grabbed my hand and raised it, and he said, ‘She’s the
champion,
ain’t she, folks? Talk about walking, this girl ain’t
started
walking!’ And he dropped my hand, hard, like it was too hot or too dirty, and I almost fell off the stand. And everybody laughed and cheered, they knew what he meant, and I did, too. And I got back to the table. Ellis was grinning like it was all a big joke. And it was. On me.”

She rose, and poured herself a fresh drink.

“Then he took me to that place he has, way over on the East River. I kept wondering what I was going to do. I didn’t know what to do. I watched his face in the taxicab. He put his hand on my leg. And he tried to take my hand. But I couldn’t move. I kept thinking of what that black man had said to me, and his face when he said it, and I kept thinking of Rufus, and I kept thinking of you. It was like a merry-go-round, all these faces just kept going around in my mind. And a song kept going around in my head,
Oh, Lord, is it I?
And there he sat, next to me, puffing on his cigar. The funny thing was that I knew if I really started crying or pleading, he’d take me home. He can’t stand scenes. But I couldn’t even do that. And God knows I wanted to get home, I hoped you wouldn’t be here, so I could just crawl under the sheets and die. And, that way, when you came home, I could tell you everything before you came to bed, and— maybe— but, no, we were going to his place and I felt that I deserved it. I felt that I couldn’t fall much lower, I might as well go all the way and get it over with. And then we’d see, if there was anything left of me after that, we’d see.” She threw down about two fingers of whiskey and immediately poured herself another drink. “There’s always further to fall, always, always.” She moved from the table, holding her glass, and leaned against the icebox door. “And I did everything he wanted, I let him have his way. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.” She gestured aimlessly with her glass, tried to drink from it, dropped it, and suddenly fell on her knees beside the table, her hands against her belly, weeping.

Stupidly, he picked up the glass, afraid that she would cut herself. She was kneeling in the spilt whiskey, which had stained the edges of her skirt. He dropped the broken glass in the brown paper bag they used for garbage. He was afraid to go near her, he was afraid to touch her, it was almost as though she had told him that she had been infected with the plague. His arms trembled with his revulsion, and every act of the body seemed unimaginably vile. And yet, at the same time, as he stood helpless and stupid in the kitchen which had abruptly become immortal, or which, in any case, would surely live as long as he lived, and follow him everywhere, his heart began to beat with a newer, stonier anguish, which destroyed the distance called pity and placed him, very nearly, in her body, beside that table, on the dirty floor. The single yellow light beat terribly down on them both. He went to her, resigned and tender and helpless, her sobs seeming to make his belly sore. And, nevertheless, for a moment, he could not touch her, he did not know how. He thought, unwillingly, of all the whores, black whores, with whom he had coupled, and what he had hoped for from them, and he was gripped in a kind of retrospective nausea. What would they see when they looked into each other’s faces again? “Come on, Ida,” he whispered, “come on, Ida. Get up,” and at last he touched her shoulders, trying to force her to rise. She tried to check her sobs, she put both hands on the table.

“I’m all right,” she murmured, “give me a handkerchief.”

He knelt beside her and thrust his handkerchief, warm and wadded, but fairly clean, into her hand. She blew her nose. He kept his arm around her shoulder. “Stand up,” he said. “Go wash your face. Would you like some coffee?”

She nodded her head, Yes, and slowly rose. He rose with her. She kept her head down and moved swiftly, drunkenly, past him, into the bathroom. She locked the door. He had the spinning sensation of having been through all this before. He lit a flame under the coffee pot, making a mental note to break down the bathroom door if she were silent too long, if she were gone too long. But he heard the water running, and, beneath it, the sound of the rain. He ate a pork chop, greedily, with a piece of bread, and drank a glass of milk; for he was trembling, it had to be because of hunger. Otherwise, for the moment, he felt nothing. The coffee pot, now beginning to growl, was real, and the blue fire beneath it and the pork chops in the pan, and the milk which seemed to be turning sour in his belly. The coffee cups, as he thoughtfully washed them, were real, and the water which ran into them, over his heavy, long hands. Sugar and milk were real, and he set them on the table, another reality, and cigarettes were real, and he lit one. Smoke poured from his nostrils and a detail that he needed for his novel, which he had been searching for for months, fell, neatly and vividly, like the tumblers of a lock, into place in his mind. It seemed impossible that he should not have thought of it before: it illuminated, justified, clarified everything. He would work on it later tonight; he thought that perhaps he should make a note of it now; he started toward his work table. The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver at once, stealthily, as though someone were ill or sleeping in the house, and whispered into it, “Hello?”

“Hello, Vivaldo. It’s Eric.”

“Eric!” He was overjoyed. He looked quickly toward the bathroom door. “How did things go?”

“Well. Cass is beautiful, as you know. But life is grim.”

“As I know. Has anything been decided?”

“Not really, no. She just called me a few minutes ago— I haven’t been home long. Oh, thanks for your note. She thinks that she might go up to New England for a little while, with the kids. Richard hasn’t come home yet.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s probably out getting drunk.”

“Who with?”

“Well, Ellis, maybe—”

They both halted at the name. The wires hummed. Vivaldo looked at the bathroom door again.

“You knew about that, Eric, didn’t you, this morning.”

“Knew about what?”

He dropped his voice lower, and struggled to say it: “Ida. You knew about Ida and Ellis. Cass told you.”

There was silence for a moment. “Yes.” Then, “Who told
you?
”

“Ida.”

“Oh. Poor Vivaldo.” After a moment: “But it’s better that way, isn’t it? I didn’t think that
I
was the one to tell you— especially— well, especially not this morning.”

Vivaldo was silent.

“Vivaldo—?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you think I was right? Are you sore at me?”

“Don’t be silly. Never in this world. It’s— much better this way.” He cleared his throat, slowly, deliberately, for he suddenly wanted to weep.

“Vivaldo, it’s a terrible time to ask you, I know— but do you think it’s at all likely that you— and Ida— will feel up to coming over to my joint tomorrow night, or the night after?”

“What’s up?”

“Yves will be here in the morning. I know he’d like to meet my friends.”

“That was the cablegram, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Are you glad, Eric?”

“I guess so. Right now, I’m just scared. I don’t know whether to try to sleep— it’s so
early,
but it feels like midnight— or go to a movie, or what.”

“I’d love to go to a movie with you. But— I guess I can’t.”

“No. When will you let me know about tomorrow?”

“I’ll call you later tonight. Or I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Okay. If you call in the morning and miss, call back. I’ve got to go to Idlewild.”

“What time is he getting in?”

“Oh, at dawn, practically. Naturally. Seven
A
.
M
., something convenient like that.”

Vivaldo laughed. “Poor Eric.”

“Yes. Life’s catching up with us. Good night, Vivaldo.”

“Good night, Eric.”

He hung up, smiling thoughtfully, switched on his worktable lamp, and scribbled his note. Then he walked into the kitchen, turned off the gas, and poured the coffee. He knocked on the bathroom door.

“Ida? Your coffee’s getting cold.”

“Thank you. I’ll be right out.”

He sat down on his work stool, and, presently, here she came, scrubbed and quiet, looking like a child. He forced himself to look into her eyes; he did not know what she would see in them; he did not know what he felt.

“Vivaldo,” she said, standing, speaking quickly, “I just want you to know that I wouldn’t have been with you so long, and wouldn’t have given you such a hard time, if”— she faltered, and held on with both hands to the back of a chair— “I didn’t love you. That’s why I had to tell you everything I’ve told you. I mean— I know I’m giving you a tough row to hoe.” She sat down, and picked up her coffee. “I had to say that while I could.”

She had the advantage of him, for he did not know what to say. He realized this with shame and fear. He wanted to say,
I love you,
but the words would not come. He wondered what her lips would taste like now, what her body would be like for him now: he watched her quiet face. She seemed utterly passive; yet, she was waiting, in a despair which steadily chilled and hardened, for some word, some touch, of his. And he could not find himself, could not summon or concentrate enough of himself to make any sign at all. He stared into his cup, noting that black coffee was not black, but deep brown. Not many things in the world were really black, not even the night, not even the mines. And the light was not white, either, even the palest light held within itself some hint of its origins, in fire. He thought to himself that he had at last got what he wanted, the truth out of Ida, or the true Ida; and he did not know how he was going to live with it.

He said, “Thank you for telling me— everything you’ve told me. I know it wasn’t easy.” She said nothing. She made a faint, steamy sound as she sipped her coffee, and this sound was unaccountably, inexpressibly annoying. “And forgive me, now, if I don’t seem to know just what to say, I’m maybe a little— stunned.” He looked over at her, and a wilderness of anger, pity, love, and contempt and lust all raged together in him. She, too, was a whore; how bitterly he had been betrayed! “I’m not trying to deny anything you’ve said, but just the same, there are a lot of things I didn’t— don’t— understand, not really. Bear with me, please give me a little time—”

“Vivaldo,” she said, wearily, “just one thing. I don’t want you to be
understanding
. I don’t want you to be kind, okay?” She looked directly at him, and an unnameable heat and tension flashed violently alive between them, as close to hatred as it was to love. She softened and reached out, and touched his hand. “Promise me that.”

“I promise you that,” he said. And then, furiously, “You seem to forget that I love you.”

They stared at each other. Suddenly, he reached out and pulled her to him, trembling, with tears starting up behind his eyes, burning and blinding, and covered her face with kisses, which seemed to freeze as they fell. She clung to him; with a sigh she buried her face in his chest. There was nothing erotic in it; they were like two weary children. And it was she who was comforting him. Her long fingers stroked his back, and he began, slowly, with a horrible, strangling sound, to weep, for she was stroking his innocence out of him.

By and by, he was still. He rose, and went to the bathroom and washed his face, and then sat down at his work table. She put on a record by Mahalia Jackson,
In the Upper Room,
and sat at the window, her hands in her lap, looking out over the sparkling streets. Much, much later, while he was still working and she slept, she turned in her sleep, and she called his name. He paused, waiting, staring at her, but she did not move again, or speak again. He rose, and walked to the window. The rain had ceased, in the black-blue sky a few stars were scattered, and the wind roughly jostled the clouds along.

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