Counternarratives (36 page)

At Robert Johnson's Dixie on 133rd St. they climb
out . . . Langston leads his guest into the mid-sized
restaurant . . . they cut up in here, he laughs, and I mean cut
up . . . Xavier doesn't understand the idiom but laughs
too . . . a fox-faced maître d' ushers them to a
table . . . the dining space is not especially
full . . . but all there are, Xavier notes, are black
people . . . no one gives him more than a glance, though several
greet Langston . . . I have to be on my best behavior, he whispers,
grinning . . . though you can get away with quite a bit in
here . . . Xavier again fails to grasp what he means but savors that
smile . . . the wall of reserve he observed in Mexico City has
fallen . . . a bandstand, empty but with some instruments, hunkers
off to the side . . . I was trying to think of all the people I want
to meet you . . . but I have been so busy with this play and
all . . . it is a budding disaster, not that that
matters . . . is it on Broadway, Xavier asks . . .
yes, at the Vanderbilt, it's called
Mulatto
 . . . like your
poem: “Into my father's heart to plunge the knife / To gain the utmost freedom that
is life” . . . Yes, though there's a fuller story, actors, the whole
deal . . . I'm sure it is brilliant and I hope to see
it . . . If you only knew what they were doing to
it . . . but let's talk about something else, like your studies at
Yale . . . they chat about Xavier's classes . . . his
desire not just to write but understand the theory of theater . . .
to know drama's extensive history . . . do they teach you about rich
white Southern dictators, who fancy themselves
producer-directors . . . Xavier is not sure exactly what or whom
Langston means . . . is this the father he wrote the poem
about . . . he notices two fey men at a table, observing
them . . . Yale is one of the most elite schools, Langston
continues . . . they make sure not to let many, really any Negroes
in . . . Unsure what to say Xavier sips his
water . . . at another table he spots a woman's leg rising along the
line of her table partner, another woman . . . the waiter glides up
to take their order . . . a minute more to choose,
please . . . Xavier asks questions about Harlem . . .
when he'll be returning to Mexico . . . Langston promises a tour of
Harlem and the rest of the city when Xavier comes back . . . the
drinks, then the main dishes arrive . . . the meal is passable, but
there's the ambience . . . all the restaurants, like the people up
here, are suffering badly . . . Xavier nods, affirming things are
tough in Mexico City too . . . we're still waiting, Langston adds, on
President Roosevelt to help us, and I mean
us
 . . . we'll
even take Presidente Cárdenas if he isn't too busy . . . both laugh
and launch into a discussion of poetry . . . the poets of Mexico
first, Langston lists all he knows, Cuesta, Gorostiza, Torres Bodet, Ortiz de
Montellano . . . then other poets leaving their mark in the Spanish
language, Darío, Vallejo, Guillén . . . the Chileans Mistral and
Neruda . . . especially the ones committed to the cause of political,
economic and social liberation . . . the Contemporáneos are not
Communists, Xavier responds, but are quietly striving to transform Mexican
literature . . . what does he think of Borges, Langston
asks . . . the avant-garde without a political compass can easily
become reactionary . . . Xavier assures him there is no danger of
this among his group . . . you must read Alfonso Reyes, Gutiérrez
Cruz . . . what of the poets of Harlem, of
America . . . he has heard of some of the names but not many
others . . . Cullen, yes, a master stylist, Douglas Johnson, the
powerful McKay . . . Nugent, never heard of him, Bontemps, no,
Grimke, Walrond, Brown . . . he withdraws a little notebook and his
fountain pen . . . he has to ask Langston to repeat a number of
them . . . then the white ones, Crane, why of course, Crane came to
Mexico a few years ago . . . Eliot, certainly, so erudite and
forbidding . . . Pound, Williams, he is familiar with these, yes, and
Bénet, Sandburg, Robinson, Millay . . . Stevens? No. Moore? No. H.D.?
No . . . most are politically retrograde . . . the
whole passel including Hillyer, Coffin, as well as the Southern Agrarians (though
Ransom is a good poet) and the rest not worth mentioning . . . there
are poets with far better politics, like Fearing, Rukeyser, Davidman,
Beecher . . . does he know any American poets who are of Mexican
descent or write in Spanish . . . he will send Xavier some issues of
the newer periodicals he has appeared in . . . they talk of Gide,
Wilde, Proust . . . through their ideas of
poetry . . . what makes it so necessary always . . .
especially now, even more than novels or essays . . . like plays it
is, Langston says, an immediate and economical way of reaching the
masses . . . promoting the ideas that will foster and allow
revolution to flourish in society . . . look at the bloody lesson of
Mexico, Xavier says . . . one should exercise caution when invoking
that term . . . he views poetry's role and power as more
modest . . . poetic language always carries the seed of something
revolutionary . . . merely by being a testimony to one's always
complex and difficult interior journeys . . . in language you need to
lose yourself . . . to recover yourself . . . yes,
Langston says, that too, so true . . . still talking, they finish
dinner, another round of drinks . . . Xavier mentions an early train
back to New Haven . . . over Langston's gentle objections he pays the
bill . . . the male couple, now openly holding hands at their table,
offer familial approval . . . we are not afraid of night..the next
one will be my treat . . . they walk down to 125th Street to hail a
taxi . . . shoulder to shoulder, fingers grazing . . .
Xavier offers to have the cab drop him off . . . then abruptly says
why don't you come back downtown with me . . . have a final nightcap
and relax . . . Langston muses a second, then
agrees . . . there are places in Times Square where we can get a
drink . . . I have a bottle of whiskey in my
room . . .

The taxi knifes through the city's dark canyons . . . the
sky glowing blue as a gas flame . . . Xavier presses his thigh into
Langston's . . . they are discussing the options in
nightlife . . . if this were a Saturday I would have many places to
take you . . . no bullfighters but we have some things almost as
delectable . . . Xavier laughs and says not everyone longs for a
brute . . . yes, Langston answers, a poet's touch can do the
trick . . . the taxi lets them off right in front of the
hotel . . . in the room Xavier takes Langston's hat, coat and
scarf . . . he glimpses himself in the mirror . . .
more cold, more fire . . . pours each a little
glassfull . . . they sip in silence for a while . . .
Langston inspects the room . . . the neatly folded clothes, small
pile of books, the sheaf of poems . . . Xavier asks Langston if he is
keeping him from anyone . . . no luck in that regard, he
responds . . . they pour through my fingers like
water . . . Ferdinand, A, C . . . so beautiful, Xavier
says to himself, it seems incomprehensible . . . and you, I imagine
you have someone back in Mexico City . . . or someone new up in New
Haven . . . there is a novio at home, but things are
complicated . . . Always, Langston says, the toll you pay for your
art . . . he sits down at the desk . . . please don't
read those poems, they aren't ready . . . ah, but this one is a
gem . . . “Somnambulant, asleep and awakened all at once / in silence
I roam the submerged city.” . . . That one is titled “Nocturnal
Estancias” . . . Nocturnal ranches and stanzas, how
intriguing . . . I think my whole next book will be a volume of
nocturnes . . . I myself have written so many poems about the
night . . . That is where I truly live . . . Xavier
pours each another drink, takes off his tie and jacket . . . Tás
cansado . . . Sí, un poco . . . It is getting late,
Langston says . . . you have an early train and I a long trip back
uptown . . . Please, no hurry, finish your drink . . .
Langston knocks it back . . . Thank you for a wonderful
evening . . . Thank you, and I will be your Virgil through the city
next time . . . Xavier passes him his hat and
coat . . . they embrace, peck each other's
cheeks . . . He departs . . . Xavier slips out of his
remaining clothes . . . packs, sets the alarm
clock . . . he notices Langston's scarf is still on the
chair . . . he will mail it to the Emersons' when he reaches New
Haven . . . he finishes off a cigarette, reads one of his
poems . . . not so bad, but not yet as good as he wants
it . . . climbs into bed, douses the light . . . there
is a knock on the door . . . he listens, ignores
it . . . it persists . . . he
rises . . . cracks it open . . . I'm so sorry,
Xavier . . . but I left my scarf here I think . . .
please come in . . . it's just over there . . .
Langston enters . . . he does not light the lamp . . .
he wants to say something . . . nothing to be
said . . . let hunger and instinct guide them . . . in
this confusion . . . of bodies, he will show . . .
this one is mine . . . slides Langston's coat from his
shoulders . . . the jacket, tie, underpants,
shoes . . . his lips on his lips . . . their bodies
bare . . . together . . . his chest on
his . . . armpits and thighs . . . he guides his hand
down there . . . he kneels and tastes . . . his hard
sex . . . of salt, silkenness . . . he guides him to
the bed . . . they caress, and kiss . . . this mouth
is mine . . . he climbs atop him . . . dulce, tan
dulce . . . tastes his salt again . . . takes his sex
again . . . in that blue darkness . . . spit and
sweat . . . satin funk and musk . . . sweetens his
tongue . . . opening . . . he takes him
in . . . dulce, slowly . . .
again . . . a double death . . . ay
morenito . . . this mouth is his . . . sweetly, mi
ángel . . . fills him . . . the firm grip on his
hips . . . nipples, ankles . . . fast now,
angel . . . moving together . . . in
sync . . . this rhythm . . . of
men . . . alone together . . . a
blues. . . . fills them . . . he feels
him . . . deep inside . . . his
soul . . . ay negrito . . . moans . . .
this man is his . . . mi amor . . . short
breaths . . . as one . . .
together . . . sweet fire . . . ay
cariño . . . they come . . . to
this . . . yes, this . . . this
fire . . . together . . . cry sí, este
fuego . . . sí . . . sí . . .
softly . . . softly . . . they
lie . . . beside each other . . . in the crepuscular
dark . . . holding tight . . . night pouring
in . . . to stir the blueblack shadows . . . somewhere
out there dawn . . . on the horizon . . . somewhere
out there dawn . . . and trains to New Haven,
Harlem . . . the open grave of life, this dying
room . . . its waning song . . . will you write a
poem . . . about tonight . . . I already
have . . . and you . . . I have
too . . . who will you give it to . . . you, my
angel..and you . . . you, my very own . . . our
secret . . . I loved my friend . . . amid this
solitude . . . let us roam the night . . .
together . . . loving . . .
living . . . these blues . . .

ANTHROPOPHAGY

The poet sleeps without the need to dream.

—Mário de Andrade

E
very day the
quickening passage of the years manifests itself around him, in him. The morning
light burning its entry through the shutters, too bright to bear except in blinks,
winks, the armor of fished-out-of-pocket spectacles. The endless clangor and perfume
of the streets outside the windows, once a comfort, now a menace, requiring a
miracle to survive another Carnaval. The heat, as if every oven, stove and kiln in
Rio were firing, glazing him and all but the hardiest to half their size. The sheet
music's notes, like the newsprint's accounts of the unfolding and distant world war,
the dictator and Depression closer to home, all sliding inexorably away from his
fingers and eyes. His knees, back, the ankles that rattle with each hike up a
stairwell, each trek across the University of the Federal District's grounds. The
liver's complaints after another glass of beer or cachaça, another snort of cocaine.
All those words that gushed like water from a fountain, that now have to be hunted
with an unsteady hand and head. The heart's berimbau quivering in irregular time, a
rhythm only the reaper can and will discern if allowed. Except in those moments when
the hours fall away, disappear, he lying on his side, in dreams or awake and a
record cycles on the player, Debussy, Villa-Lobos, Pixinguinha, or a disc grooved
from the recordings of catimbó from his journeys across the northeast, its
sonorities drumming out a bridge between the present and the past; and behind him,
beside him the one who—unlike the glittering young men in his circle of friends, the
well-bred law students and witty budding writers who claim to celebrate him, the
young, poor blond athlete from Porto Alegre he met in the stall on rua Conde de Lage
seeking a sinecure, through his, the distinguished writer's, intervention, at the
Ministry of Culture, the beautiful and not so beautiful sycophants who say they have
read his
Macunaíma
and studies and poetry and the ones who have managed to
mis-memorize a few lines—like this one, known only by his first name, gained in the
passageway between the Budapesto's dining room and its kitchen, by his braided locks
and his careful gait, trained through climbing the hillside shanties ringing the
city, by his dark arms embracing, knotting around the writer's chest, their fingers
interlacing, locking as he enters, moves, dances inside him, the beat mutual and
infinite in its tenderness and knowingness; or later, the day after, crouching over
his desk, having just finished breakfast downstairs once the cup of cafezinho and
the bowl of half-eaten papaya, the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice have been
cleared, the letters to Anita and Murilo and Henrique and Manuel written, the
reviews for his column, and he begins the strophe,

“Heroic anxiety of my feelings

to awaken the secret of beings and things.”

or

“They are forms . . . Forms that burn,
individual

forms, jostling, a jingling of elusive forms

that barely open, flower, that close, flower, flower,
unformed

inaccessible,

In the night. Everything is night. . . . ”

and who need regard the message of the clock's hands,
acknowledge the calendar's insistent story? Then, he rests the pen beside the
typewriter and blotter and rises, puts on his straw hat to shield his rice-powered
face and bald pate, bows the canary tie around his neck, and dives out into the
afternoon, walking toward the competing planes of gold sand and the Atlantic's
silvery waves, the lines blurring like a freshly painted watercolor. The Cariocas,
beachcombers, bathers, the steady stream of vacationers from the nearby hotels pass
him, on their way to the huts, umbrellas, the beckoning water. He is here, in Lapa,
on the rua Russell, peering at the roofs of Niterói, and there, on the dais in the
Municipal Theater in São Paulo, Oswald, Di Cavalcanti, the other radicals at either
side of him at the podium, our Pierrot, our Miss São Paulo, our brown-skinned,
bucktoothed hero with such character, beginning the excerpt from
Th
e
Hallucinated City
, to hoots and catcalls, while thinking to himself, then
as now, we must never let the lies and the tears devour us, we must devour and savor
the years.