Jazz Moon (17 page)

T
hey slept and woke on separate sides of the bed. Ben wondered if that was the new way of things as he watched Baby Back commence his grooming routine—a listless exercise without a speck of the swaggering, Harlem hepcat. Ben cowered on the silk sheets, afraid of being repelled again. He lowered his head each time Baby Back turned in his direction.

Baby Back finished dressing. He checked himself in the mirror, then let out a heavy sigh. He walked over to the bed, looked down at his lover. Ben tried to read him, but his face was neutral. Baby Back tickled Ben's head.

“Mr. Poet,” he said, “come on. Let's see what these French folks can do with breakfast.”

Clifford Treadwell waved them over as soon as they entered the dining hall. Millicent glowed with an ember of hostility, then quickly cooled. They ordered big bowls of hot chocolate, a pitcher of grapefruit juice, and tartines, which they spread with jam.

“I guess you folks been to Europe before?” Baby Back said.

“Why, yes, of course,” Millicent said in her light, pretty voice. “Our honeymoon was Paris. We've been back a number of times, as well as other European cities, naturally. This trip is an anniversary gift from Clifford's parents. They insisted we go, wouldn't take no for an answer.” She took her husband's hand, eyed him sweetly. “This is a second honeymoon, isn't it, dear?”

“Indeed,” Clifford said, extracting his hand. He addressed Baby Back. “Your first time to Paris, I take it?”

“Yeah. Wanted to go all my life.”

Clifford laughed. “What? All sixteen years?”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Baby Back said.

“I'm just telling you the truth, Mr. Johnston.”

Baby Back relaxed back like he was in an easy chair. “I like your truth. And it's Baby Back.”

Clifford relaxed back, too. “I'm here to please.”

Baby Back's mouth spread into a grin, wide and sly and bordering on lewd. “Might have to take you up on that.”

“Do.”

Millicent's ember returned. It burnished her light skin a humid red.

 

“Gotta love this!” Baby Back said, lounging in his deck chair, arms up and behind his head like he'd hit the high life. “If the folks in Locke's Creek could see me now.” He closed his eyes. He wore a big, toothy grin.

The first-class deck was lounge, game room, and playground all at once. Passengers in fur-trimmed coats relaxed in deck chairs, legs covered with blankets, while stewards served tea. A round of shuffleboard was in progress on one section of the deck while on the other children engaged in three-legged races and tug-of-war. Ben and Baby Back were the only coloreds, but Ben barely noticed. The novelty of congregating with whites was already thinning. Besides, he was too furious.

“Did you enjoy flirting with him?” Ben said.

Baby Back remained with his eyes closed, arms up and above his head. “You sound like a guilty man, Mr. Poet. A man who knows he did wrong and tries to take the heat off himself.”

Ben concentrated on the
plink
of the shuffleboard pucks as he contemplated what to say. “He's one of us, you know.”

“Treadwell? Hell, I knew that as soon as I saw him last night. All it took was one look. Like when I met
you
. But I ain't hardly interested in that half-white man.”

“You acted like you were,” Ben said.

Baby Back sat up. “Uh-oh. I do declare that Mr. Ben Charles is colored, and that color is green.” He tickled Ben's side, his neck, his ear, and made him giggle. “Mr. Jealous. Afraid of that light-skinned nothing with the uppity wife.” He affected a half-falsetto, faux-aristocratic voice: “
And of course we've been to Europe thousands of times and Clifford's parents sent us on this trip because they think it'll make him want me. But all Clifford wants is a juicy dick up his butt
.
Oh, so sorry. Didn't mean to curse. I meant
penis.
He wants a juicy
penis
up his butt.
”

They disintegrated into a reckless bout of giggling. It took flight in the deck's open air. They clapped hands over their mouths to stifle it, but each time they looked at each other they disintegrated again. Before long everyone on deck was looking at the two gleeful colored men. Ben turned inadvertently to the couple next to them. They began laughing, too. And then the people next to
them
started. And the people next to
them
. Within moments half the deck was in mirthful uproar.

Perhaps the mirth prevented Ben and Baby Back from noticing the white American couple nearby. Maybe laughter drowned out the American woman when, in a flowery and affronted Southern drawl, she said to her husband, “Dear sweet Jesus. Samuel, there's
niggers
sittin' right there.” And Baby Back's antics must have distracted Ben so that he only vaguely noticed when the American man stood and said, “What the hell you boys think you're doin'?” But the mirth and the antics could not block out the man when he roared, “Get out of here, you dumb-fuck niggers!”

His outburst cut the air like a shotgun. The deck went silent.

“Your darky asses shouldn't even be on this ship.”

He had fat cheeks, a graying mustache, trench-like lines on his face. Not a tall man, but his straight back and sturdy weight planted soundly in his feet gave the illusion of height.

Baby Back rose.

“Baby, no!” Ben said, leaping up.

But Baby Back approached the man. “Sit your fat ass down and leave us be. Fuckin' white cracker.”

An awful smile dirtied the Southern man's face. “Where I come from, I would kill you for that. Hunt you down like a deer, string you up from a sycamore, and savor every goddamn minute.” He stepped closer. “Filthy nigger.”

Baby Back turned as if to walk away, then pivoted back and swung his fist. The man intercepted the punch and struck one of his own deep in Baby Back's gut. He began thrashing with unrelenting speed as Baby Back struggled to protect his eyes and face. Ben tried to run to him, but a group of women circled him, holding him from jumping into the fray while a quartet of male passengers subdued the assailant.

“Get off me!” the Southern man yelled, squirming in their grasp.

Ben freed himself from the women and went to Baby Back. Captain Olivier, accompanied by a troop of first officers, strode onto the scene, demanding to know why hell was raging on his ship. Bedlam ensued as witnesses asserted their explanations—the Europeans in languages Ben didn't understand, the assailant and his wife in Southern accents he understood too well. He didn't detect any other American accents, but saw groups of whites, observing from a distance.

“Niggers sit with whites, but
I
get assaulted for doing something about it?” the Southern man said.

“
Monsieur,
” Olivier said, “this is a French vessel and in France, we treat
everyone
with respect. Now, kindly cooperate while my officers escort you from the deck.”

Assailant and wife were led away amid protests from both.

“I will send the ship's physician to administer to you,” Captain Olivier said to Baby Back.

“No, I'm fine.” He held out his hand. The captain grasped it. “Thank you. Thank you very, very much.”

As soon as the captain left the deck the Europeans surrounded Ben and Baby Back. The men gripped Baby Back's shoulders, slapped his back. The women took Ben's hands in theirs. They guided the two colored men to the deck chairs, sat them down, babied them, fawned over them, took care of them.

F
or the first time,
ever,
Ben was on vacation. He had either worked or looked for work almost every day of his life. Having nothing to do but eat, sleep, and lounge felt unnatural. There had to be a catch.

“Ain't no catch,” Baby Back said. “And it ain't gonna last forever. Best enjoy it.”

While Baby Back rehearsed, Ben toured the ship.

The
Bonaparte
was a self-contained dream civilization coasting on the Atlantic. Ben discovered a beauty parlor; a library with everything from Chaucer to Gertrude Stein; a full-size, working carousel for the junior passengers; a restaurant that was a fully functioning replica of a Parisian outdoor café complete with a sidewalk and potted trees. Smoking rooms. A music room where passengers listened to ship-to-ship broadcasts of phonograph records. A radio room for sending and receiving telegrams. Even an airplane that brought and delivered mail when the ship was in range of the shore and a swimming pool that Ben didn't dive in, though he longed to. The Europeans wouldn't mind, but he could imagine how white Americans would react to a Negro swimming in the same water as they. Anyway, he hadn't brought a bathing suit.

Baby Back joined him when he wasn't rehearsing. They lunched at the sidewalk café; smoked cigars in the smoking room though they would have preferred reefer; rode the carousel, to the amusement of the adults and the kids.

Everything was good again.

They had returned to their cabin following the Southern man's assault. Baby Back sat on the bed. Ben knelt in front of him to apply iodine to his wounds.

“Baby, I'm so proud of you. The way you stood up to him.”

“Wasn't exactly
standing
. He thrashed me pretty good.”

“Don't matter. You didn't back down. You was brave. I couldn't have done it. I'm so proud to be with a man who's brave and strong. What happened on that deck makes me see how lucky I am. Makes me see how wrong I was to put you through that mess with Angeline. Strong man like you deserves better. I ain't have no business expecting you to compromise. And I was wrong to think you should apologize. Baby Back, please forgive me.”

Baby Back smiled down at Ben like a father so proud his son has, at last, become respectful enough, man enough, to own up to his sins. Ben's humble admission of wrong made things right. Baby Back lavished him with forgiveness, summoned him back from the outskirts.

They strolled the promenade one afternoon along with folks who walked as leisurely as they would the Fifth Avenue Easter Parade. Women in fur stoles and cloche hats over bobbed curls. Men so sporty in single-breasted button-down jackets, plus-fours, and argyle socks. The string quartet played, its stately tunes much more appropriate to the austerity of the promenade than for evenings in the first-class dining hall.

They left the promenade to stand near the prow and watch the water as the ship carved through the Atlantic, as the distance between them and America expanded. Could distance be reversed? Ben sensed that, even if they returned to America, the distance between them and their homeland would remain. Because on the
Bonaparte
they had nibbled on a morsel of freedom. If that morsel represented what they'd find in Paris, then the distance from America would seep into their blood. It would change them. They could never go back.

Baby Back stared across the water, rapt, as if he could already see the French shore. Impatience gripped him. He grasped the railing like he would strangle it. Ben knew what he was thinking.

“He'd be proud of you,” Ben said. “He
is
proud of you.”

“Sometimes I still see him hanging from that tree. Sometimes I dream about him and when I wake up I can smell him burning. That smell got in my nose that day and I swear to God it ain't never came out. The least I can do is to get over there and play my music and be a success. Then I'll
know
he's proud. And I ain't stopping at LeRoi Jasper's club. Hell, no.” He looked at Ben. When he spoke again, it was chilly, low, explicit. “You listen to me, Ben Charles, and you listen damn good: This gig at Chez LeRoi—it's only the beginning. I'm gonna play every big spot in Paris. Every big spot in Europe. Make records. Tour the world.” He was nose-to-nose with Ben now. “You think I can't? Think I won't? Watch me.”

Ben had never seen him exhibit such ambition. There was something shrewd about it. Something careful and cunning and glossed with ruthlessness. Ben wondered where all this ambition left
him
.

“Let me tell you something: Anybody—and I mean
anybody
—who's in my way,” Baby Back said, “had better get the fuck
out
of my way. 'Cause ain't nothing gonna stop me.”

 

“
Comment allez-vous?
. . . How are you? . . .
Je suis de l' États-Unis
. . . I am from the United States....
Quelle heure est-il?
. . . What time is it? . . .
J'ai vingt-deux ans
. . . I am twenty-two years old.”

He had to distract himself, so he sequestered himself in the cabin and plunged into French. What a strange language. Adjectives followed the nouns they described instead of the other way around. You could address someone in either a formal or familiar way depending on their age or class. Every single noun was either masculine or feminine and you had to memorize which was which. But French was beautiful, too. He recalled the French guests he had served at The Pavilion, their nasal tones, the melodiousness of their speech.

“
Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. Comment arrive-je à la gare?
. . . Excuse me, miss? How do I get to the train station? . . .
Pouvez-vous me dire combien cela coûte?
. . . Can you tell me how much this costs?”

Were colored people supposed to talk this way? In Dogwood, any colored person speaking French would be derided as some kind of strange creature. Human, surely, colored, yes, but only on the outside. Colored Dogwood wouldn't approve. Neither would the whites. An uppity French-talking nigger would qualify as an impeccable candidate for lynching. Both coloreds and whites would perceive it as trying to fly higher than you had the right to. A bird flouting the boundary of the sky in a profane attempt to reach the moon.

That's what Baby Back wanted. To crack the sky, reach the moon, then reach higher, fly farther.
How far?
The question bedeviled Ben. Baby Back's ambition bedeviled him. Not the ambition itself, but its magnitude, its greedy and still-evolving shape buttressed by his discipline, his talent, his majestic confidence. Baby Back would be a star. It wasn't in him not to be.

Ben admired him. He envied him. He feared himself unworthy, that he may not be the lover Baby Back needed. Deserved. He couldn't match the trumpeter's ambition. He wasn't confident or big and broad-shouldered. He lacked the moxie to electrify a room. He was talented, but his talent was a quiet one, an intimate gift that might make people cry (if he was lucky), but never dance.

Ben would never be a Baby Back Johnston.

Until now, he hadn't known how much he wanted to be. What would become of him when Baby Back outdistanced the moon?

The question tormented him as they lay in bed later after making love. Though early morning, outside remained the color of night. Baby Back had entertained passengers jolly, drunk, and ravenous for jazz until the wee hours, then sought Ben. He had been gentler than usual, though no less zealous, his blood still rumbling from the performing high, the audience high, from having roused the very essence of his artistry that simultaneously invigorated and exhausted him; that shot him up and burned him down.

“Why do you love me?” Ben asked. He hadn't planned to. It popped into his head and out his lips before he could think.

“Your quiet soul. Your poetry,” Baby Back said. “I love how you give in to me. I love your body: It's nice and slim and smooth and pretty and muscled.”

“I ain't got muscles.”

“You got more than you think. You got a lot more of everything than you think.”

A beautiful thing to say. And reliably true since Baby Back always told it straight. It heartened Ben. With heart came the courage to ask the un-askable.

“What
don't
you love about me?”

He had imagined an uncomfortable silence, maybe a full minute or two, while Baby Back wrangled with what to say and how to say it. But with no hesitation—not a sliver—he said, “Weakness.”

Ben had asked for it; had voluntarily rambled across a floor he knew could be riddled with trapdoors. Baby Back now released a barrage.

“You already had everything: a good man who loves the hell out of you; a chance to start over in a place that wants us. And you risked it all. 'Cause you were weak. Even if that bitch had really been pregnant, you didn't have to stay. You gotta be cold—gotta be
able
to be cold—to get what you want. You can't be weak. Even asking why I love you—that's weak, Ben. Shows you ain't sure of yourself.”

The barrage stung. It triggered Ben's defenses. “Then why the hell are you with me? Why the hell are you with someone so damn weak and so damn unsure of himself?”

The hesitation and uncomfortable silence that would have been appropriate earlier now settled in. Ben waited, weighed down by his own hypocrisy: He couldn't disagree with what Baby Back had said, but he hated him for saying it.

“Well?” Ben said.

“I already told you.”

“Oh, because you like my poems and I got so much muscle.”

“Ben. I love you. We're on our way to Paris. This is our chance to be together—”

“—in a place that wants us. I know.”

Silence again. Not uncomfortable or appropriate. Just plain quiet. Ben was on the floor, knees up, his head resting against them. He wasn't sure when he'd gotten off the bed, moved away from Baby Back. He was lying next to him one minute. The next minute, he wasn't.