Black Silk (36 page)

But don’t worry, I said years later. When I was forty-one years old. When you were forty-two years old. When we were “in secret
again,” I said. “Yes,” you whispered, taking that part of me in your hands and smelling it. “Yes.” Don’t worry, I said, squeezing
that part. You don’t need to worry, I said, for (but how powerful it felt in my hands!) there will never come a time when
the globes are not blue and there. When you do not wear that thing that makes them blue, as you did when you
were
fourteen
years old. There will never come a time when I will not want to smell their secretmost things, those things shared only with
me, about which I will never tell. You will never tell your her, I whispered into one of your parts last night, and I will
never tell mine. I will take my finger that bears the ring that pledges my self to my her and put that finger in your secretmost
place that is only for me, and never (but no. How could I?) tell her that I did so. You will take your hand that bears the
ring that pledges your self to your her and do that to me as severely as you can, yes, please, once more and again, just like
that, with those circles, those spirals, all of those circlings around the secret part—you will do that, I will command you
the way you command me when I smell you and open myself up to (uhhuh), but you will never tell her, her whom you never ask
to smell anything as you ask me to and have asked me to since the two o’clock dance of that first afternoon. Don’t worry,
I said, because you are—of course—deep, deep down inside my lungs. You’ve been there deep down there for every year of all
these years. The way I’ve been in your dreams and you’ve been inside my (yes) and we in all the secret places for all of these
years. The way no one will ever know about it. No one knows about it. The way your ring shines when you move it around me
that way and I can still smell you because the blue globes are only inches over my face. The way the globes move when you
dance, the way they shudder when you want me to breathe in. The way the children you begat laugh when you come home. “Daddy,”
they say. “Daddy, Daddy!” The way she smiles at you when you’re tired. Smiles, not knowing not ever knowing how you have been
smelled for years, and how another face that smiles at her (“How are things, baby? Looking good, baby!”) has disappeared within
your secret-most parts for more than (fill in the years). The way you dance over my face, wearing that skirt (last week it
was a Scottish kilt with pleats) and those shiny high heels prance close enough to lick. The way I inhale you—

No. No one will ever know. Will ever see. Will ever hear. Nor smell. Smell that smell that is for me. Me only. Only mine.
In darkness, yes, and in light. The globes in blue.

Close to my face. As you do that. Yes, please do that. And that and. About which we will
never tell. Never tell as I am smelling
you. As I am fifty-one
years old. As you are fifty-two
years old. As you are

Above me. Dancing, yes. And the globes. Shining, always in blue, full and round.

Shining, before they descend. Descend to cover my face and I inhale and

Laughing. We who are laughing. We who are—

_________________

by Cheo Tyehimba

Cam was late for rehearsal. The door to the Caribee was swung open and strong gusts of wind were violently slamming it back
and forth against the wall. He grabbed the door, ducked inside, and latched it shut. Then dashed upstairs.

Sekou’s djun-djun was vibrating the wooden steps beneath his feet:
BOOM
-boom-boom!
BOOM
-boom-boom
!Ba
-ba-boom-boom/Ba-ba-boom-boom! At the break the djembe player rolled in: KRAK! Kri-kri-kri-KRAK-KRAK!… then the hollow, jostling
sound of beads shaking against the thin calabash shell skin: Shi-Shi-
Shika!
Shi-Shi-
Shika!
Shi-Shi-
Shika!
… the cowbells’ jingling music kept time and completed the orchestration.

The second company was going through warm-up steps, moving across the floor in successive waves as the drummers played. Three
drummers, Tunde, Randy, and Sekou, were assembled down in front, by the stage. Sekou, the elder of the group, shot Cam a look
of disapproval as Cam unwrapped his drum and began to set up. When they finished playing, Cam approached him.

“Peace,” Cam said, extending his hand. Then he greeted the others. “Sorry I’m late, I had an appointment that went overtime.”

“Okay, we’ve got to tighten this up,” said Sekou, stepping out from behind his djun-djun. “I agree with Grace, we’re lagging
behind her dancers on both ‘
Lindjian
and
Sedeba.
’ We’ve got to pick it up, play, play, play…
together!
” he said, glancing at Cam.

“Well, I’m ready,” Cam said, tightening his drum strap over his hip.

“Now that’s what I want to hear,” said a female voice. Cam turned around and saw her beaming, hands on her hips. It was Grace.

“Greetings, sista, sorry about holding you up.”

“No apologies,” she said with a quick wave. “Sekou, y’all ready?” With a quick nod between them, the short, yam-colored woman
spun on her heels and walked out to the center of the floor.

“All right, now.” She surveyed the dozen or so women standing in front of her. “Now I want to go over ‘
Lindjian
and
Sedeba
’ again until we’re moving on spirit. Spirit alone. Remember, this is an initiation dance, it has to be on this plane,” she
said as she spread her long arms wide, letting her elbows dangle high at about ear level.

They were playing the rhythm light, at slow tempo, while she demonstrated. She sprang, rising slowly, came down and kick-stepped,
kick-stepped, turned, sprang again and spread her arms up higher in top flight, then fanned them down across her heart as
she descended. She gathered a personal mist between her arms and seemed to move with the sway of its tide. Grace broke the
dance down into parts and moved very slowly, dancing in and out of a solitary square of light on the floor from a nearby window.
She dipped her head forward in a delicate bobbing motion with each fluid swoop of her arms, a black swan lifting off in the
hot light.

Cam looked over at Nyema. Grace’s moves mesmerized her; she swayed her own arms slowly in imitation.

“This is the dance of the bird!” shouted Grace, swirling to a stop. “And I want y’all to fly! We’ve got two weeks before we
take this out on the road, so let’s do it!” The light from the window filled the room as the women began dancing upstage in
rows of four. The drummers picked up the tempo. A pulsation of plum-, chocolate-, caramel-, and honey-colored limbs flew and
flailed forward beneath a jungle of brilliant sarongs and head wraps. They moved confidently, smiling and dancing up to the
feet of the drummers. Black women, all, full of creative longing and tangible fire.

Then they spun around and hurried back to try the move again. Tunde was picking up the pace, slapping his djembe harder and
harder. The
BOOM-BOOM
from Sekou’s bass drum began to come quicker. Everything was rising. After a few passes, Cam could see steam vapor just above
the heads of the dancers, seeping up into the wooden-beamed ceiling.

As twilight filled the room, the dancers flew through the routine. Cam’s arms were burning and beginning to sag but he sucked
down a deep breath and bore down. He straightened his back and slapped out his part. Then he played a break and Tunde quickly
rolled from his drum part into a solo. Tunde lit out like he was on fire! Cam nodded and smiled at him to show his admiration,
but the brother was already gone. His eyes were closed. He tossed his head to the right, as if listening for some faint note.

Tunde was a tall master drummer from Mali. He’d been teaching Cam and a small coterie of drummers for several years. He stood,
half crouched, and feverishly pushed beats out of his drum like it was a sonic washboard. Spikes of sweat shot off his locks
as he tossed his head in a fever. Slapping his hands against his drum with the speed of a humming bird, Tunde rapped out a
succession of fire-crack beats: KRAK-kri-kri-kri-kri-KRAK! Then a machine-gun solo:

PING-PING-PA-TA! PING-PING-PA-TA! PA-TA-PaTaPa-TaPaTaPaTaPaTaPaTaPaTa-PATOW-PATOW!!PATOW-PA-TOW!!DOW!! He spun in the direction
of approaching dancers, shooting his rhythms directly to them. Supernatural foods rolled and popped and riffed from the skin
covering his drum. The lines of dancers moved across the floor like high-kicking, soft-sailing birds of paradise on some high-speed
assembly line. They were flying!

As they moved on in a trance to Tunde’s energy, Cam watched Nyema swirl to a stop in front of him and felt a thin tingle in
his middle. He held his rhythm tight. She was lovely, and with each pass she gave a little more of herself to him. As spirit
rose, all of the dancers began to move on feeling, on the love that they already possessed. Tunde played on, in some preternatural
zone, and soon even Grace had to jump out of her skin. Her long black braids spilled out of her white head wrap and as she
tossed it aside, she hopped in front of his drum and received his offering.

Cam yearned to play like Tunde. Knew he would one day. He was drenched in sweat and began to feel himself lag behind and even
play over Tunde’s parts at times. But he avoided Sekou’s piercing eyes. He just shook his head clear, grimaced, and tried
to level his breathing. He moved to the edge of his chair and got ready for his solo.

A red sweat burned in the crease of his eyelids and his stomach blazed but he had to play! Had to play! Cam brought his part
to its crest, playing a quick combination of slap, tone, and bass notes with a rapid succession. Tunde had sat back down and
was back to playing his minor part. He nodded for Cam to go for it. Cam glanced at Sekou. He was solid and cadence-sure on
the djun-djun. Four sistas simultaneously dipped their winglike arms low as they knelt in front of Cam, then shot up in a
turning kick-spin. Their soft, buoyant forms swelled beneath the thin multicolored fabric covering their bodies.

Nyema was dance-stepping forward in a line about two rows back. She was smiling at Cam, reassuring him. He heard Tunde’s break
and lit into it. His heartbeat popped in his throat and he bit down on his lip, pounding the drum as fast as he could. Suddenly
it seemed the dancers were flying directly into his face, flashing madly forward like a spray of fluttering pigeons rising
quickly beneath the feet of running children. Cam tried to match their movements with each roll and finger pop but found himself
outpaced. He felt his knees tightening around his drum like a vise. He tried to concentrate.

Nyema’s line was now dancing in front of him. He stood up. Just play, man. Relax and play, he told himself. Nyema leaped out
in front of him, just as she’d done so many times before. Beads of sweat spiraled off her and splashed the teak hardwood floor
as she spun and dipped and successively stretched forth her arms, seemingly beckoning him to play faster. The dance danced
her. Cam felt a surge of strength coil and radiate behind his navel and invigorate his sinews. It simmered up through his
sweaty skin and found his fingertips. Once again she’d saved him. Buoyed his failing energy and made him proud to love her.