My Sister's Hand in Mine (7 page)

She looked out the window of the taxicab and she noticed that there was a terrific amount of activity going on around her in the streets. The people, for the most part Negroes and uniformed men from the fleets of all nations, were running in and out and making so much noise that Mrs. Copperfield wondered if it was not a holiday of some kind.

“It's like a city that is being constantly looted,” said her husband.

The houses were painted in bright colors and they had wide porches on the upper floors, supported beneath by long wooden posts. Thus they formed a kind of arcade to shade the people walking in the street.

“This architecture is ingenious,” remarked Mr. Copperfield. “The streets would be unbearable if one had to walk along them with nothing overhead.”

“You could not stand that, mister,” said the cab-driver, “to walk along with nothing over your head.”

“Anyway,” said Mrs. Copperfield, “do let's choose one of these hotels quickly and get into it.”

They found one right in the heart of the red-light district and agreed to look at some rooms on the fifth floor. The manager had told them that these were sure to be the least noisy. Mrs. Copperfield, who was afraid of lifts, decided to go up the stairs on foot and wait for her husband to arrive with the luggage. Having climbed to the fifth floor, she was surprised to find that the main hall contained at least a hundred straight-backed dining-room chairs and nothing more. As she looked around, her anger mounted and she could barely wait for Mr. Copperfield to arrive on the lift in order to tell him what she thought of him. “I must get to the Hotel Washington,” she said to herself.

Mr. Copperfield finally arrived, walking beside a boy with the luggage. She ran up to him.

“It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen,” she said.

“Wait a second, please, and let me count the luggage; I want to make sure it's all here.”

“As far as I'm concerned, it could be at the bottom of the sea—all of it.”

“Where's my typewriter?” asked Mr. Copperfield.

“Talk to me this minute,” said his wife, beside herself with anger.

“Do you care whether or not you have a private bath?” asked Mr. Copperfield.

“No, no. I don't care about that. It's not a question of comfort at all. It's something much more than that.”

Mr. Copperfield chuckled. “You're so crazy,” he said to her with indulgence. He was delighted to be in the tropics at last and he was more than pleased with himself that he had managed to dissuade his wife from stopping at a ridiculously expensive hotel where they would have been surrounded by tourists. He realized that this hotel was sinister, but that was what he loved.

They followed the bellhop to one of the rooms, and no sooner had they arrived there than Mrs. Copperfield began pushing the door backwards and forwards. It opened both ways and could only be locked by means of a little hook.

“Anyone could break into this room,” said Mrs. Copperfield.

“I dare say they could, but I don't think they would be very likely to, do you?” Mr. Copperfield made a point of never reassuring his wife. He gave her fears their just due. However, he did not insist, and they decided upon another room, with a stronger door.

*   *   *

Mrs. Copperfield was amazed at her husband's vivacity. He had washed and gone out to buy a papaya.

She lay on the bed thinking.

“Now,” she said to herself, “when people believed in God they carried Him from one place to another. They carried Him through the jungles and across the Arctic Circle. God watched over everybody, and all men were brothers. Now there is nothing to carry with you from one place to another, and as far as I'm concerned, these people might as well be kangaroos; yet somehow there must be someone here who will remind me of something … I must try to find a nest in this outlandish place.”

Mrs. Copperfield's sole object in life was to be happy, although people who had observed her behavior over a period of years would have been surprised to discover that this was all.

She rose from her bed and pulled Miss Goering's present, a manicuring set, from her grip. “Memory,” she whispered. “Memory of the things I have loved since I was a child. My husband is a man without memory.” She felt intense pain at the thought of this man whom she liked above all other people, this man for whom each thing he had not yet known was a joy. For her, all that which was not already an old dream was an outrage. She got back on her bed and fell sound asleep.

When she awoke, Mr. Copperfield was standing near the foot of the bed eating a papaya.

“You must try some,” he said. “It gives you lots of energy and besides it's delicious. Won't you have some?” He looked at her shyly.

“Where have you been?” she asked him.

“Oh, walking through the streets. As a matter of fact, I've walked for miles. You should come out, really. It's a madhouse. The streets are full of soldiers and sailors and whores. The women are all in long dresses … incredibly cheap dresses. They'll all talk to you. Come on out.”

*   *   *

They were walking through the streets arm in arm. Mrs. Copperfield's forehead was burning hot and her hands were cold. She felt something trembling in the pit of her stomach. When she looked ahead of her the very end of the street seemed to bend and then straighten out again. She told this to Mr. Copperfield and he explained that it was a result of their having so recently come off the boat. Above their heads the children were jumping up and down on the wooden porches and making the houses shake. Someone bumped against Mrs. Copperfield's shoulder and she was almost knocked over. At the same time she was very much aware of the strong and fragrant odor of rose perfume. The person who had collided with her was a Negress in a pink silk evening dress.

“I can't tell you how sorry I am. I can't tell you,” she said to them. Then she looked around her vaguely and began to hum.

“I told you it was a madhouse,” Mr. Copperfield said to his wife.

“Listen,” said the Negress, “go down the next street and you'll like it better. I've got to meet my beau over at that bar.” She pointed it out to them. “That's a beautiful barroom. Everyone goes in there,” she said. She moved up closer and addressed herself solely to Mrs. Copperfield. “You come along with me, darling, and you'll have the happiest time you've ever had before. I'll be your type. Come on.”

She took Mrs. Copperfield's hand in her own and started to drag her away from Mr. Copperfield. She was bigger than either of them.

“I don't believe that she wants to go to a bar just now,” said Mr. Copperfield. “We'd like to explore the town awhile first.”

The Negress caressed Mrs. Copperfield's face with the palm of her hand. “Is that what you want to do, darling, or do you want to come along with me?” A policeman stopped and stood a few feet away from them. The Negress released Mrs. Copperfield's hand and bounded across the street laughing.

“Wasn't that the strangest thing you've ever seen?” said Mrs. Copperfield, breathlessly.

“You better mind your own business,” said the policeman. “Why don't you go over and look at the stores? Everybody walks along the streets where the stores are. Buy something for your uncle or your cousin.”

“No, that's not what I want to do,” said Mrs. Copperfield.

“Well, then, go to a movie,” said the policeman, walking away.

Mr. Copperfield was hysterical with laughter. He had his handkerchief up to his mouth. “This is the sort of thing I love,” he managed to say. They walked along farther and turned down another street. The sun was setting and the air was still and hot. On this street there were no balconies, only little one-story houses. In front of every door at least one woman was seated. Mrs. Copperfield walked up to the window of one house and looked in. The room inside was almost entirely filled by a large double bed with an extremely bumpy mattress over which was spread a lace throw. An electric bulb under a lavender chiffon lamp shade threw a garish light over the bed, and there was a fan stamped
Panama City
spread open on the pillow.

The woman seated in front of this particular house was rather old. She sat on a stool with her elbows resting on her knees, and it seemed to Mrs. Copperfield, who had now turned to look at her, that she was probably a West Indian type. She was flat-chested and raw-boned, with very muscular arms and shoulders. Her long disgruntled-looking face and part of her neck were carefully covered with a light-colored face powder, but her chest and arms remained dark. Mrs. Copperfield was amused to see that her dress was of lavender theatrical gauze. There was an attractive gray streak in her hair.

The Negress turned around, and when she saw that both Mr. and Mrs. Copperfield were watching her, she stood up and smoothed the folds of her dress. She was almost a giantess.

“Both of you for a dollar,” she said.

“A dollar,” Mrs. Copperfield repeated after her. Mr. Copperfield, who had been standing nearby at the curb, came closer to them.

“Frieda,” he said, “let's walk down some more streets.”

“Oh, please!” said Mrs. Copperfield. “Wait a minute.”

“A dollar is the best price I can make,” said the Negress.

“If you care to stay here,” suggested Mr. Copperfield, “I'll walk around a bit and come back for you in a little while. Maybe you'd better have some money with you. Here is a dollar and thirty-five cents, just in case.…”

“I want to talk to her,” said Mrs. Copperfield, looking fixedly into space.

“I'll see you, then, in a few minutes. I'm restless,” he announced, and he walked away.

“I love to be free,” Mrs. Copperfield said to the woman after he had left. “Shall we go into your little room? I've been admiring it through the window.…”

Before she had finished her phrase the woman was pushing her through the door with both hands and they were inside the room. There was no rug on the floor, and the walls were bare. The only adornments were those which had been visible from the street. They sat down on the bed.

“I had a little gramophone in that corner over there,” said the woman. “Someone who came off a ship lent it to me. His friend came and took it back.”

“Te-ta-ta-tee-ta-ta,” she said and tapped her heels for a few seconds. She took both Mrs. Copperfield's hands in her own and pulled her off the bed. “Come on now, honey.” She hugged Mrs. Copperfield to her. “You're awful little and very sweet. You
are
sweet, and maybe you are lonesome.” Mrs. Copperfield put her cheek on the woman's breast. The smell of the theatrical gauze reminded her of her first part in a school play. She smiled up at the Negress, looking as tender and as gentle as she was able.

“What do you do in the afternoons?” she asked the woman.

“Play cards. Go to a movie.…”

Mrs. Copperfield stepped away from her. Her cheeks were flamed-red. They both listened to the people walking by. They could now hear every word that was being said outside the window. The Negress was frowning. She wore a look of deep concern.

“Time is gold, honey,” she said to Mrs. Copperfield, “but maybe you're too young to realize that.”

Mrs. Copperfield shook her head. She felt sad, looking at the Negress. “I'm thirsty,” she said. Suddenly they heard a man's voice saying:

“You didn't expect to see me back so soon, Podie?” Then several girls laughed hysterically. The Negress's eyes came to life.

“Give me one dollar! Give me one dollar!” she screamed excitedly at Mrs. Copperfield. “You have stayed your time here anyway.” Mrs. Copperfield hurriedly gave her a dollar and the Negress rushed out into the street. Mrs. Copperfield followed her.

In front of the house several girls were hanging onto a heavy man who was wearing a crushed linen suit. When he saw Mrs. Copperfield's Negress in the lavender dress, he broke away from the others and put his arms around her. The Negress rolled her eyes joyously and led him into the house without so much as nodding good-by to Mrs. Copperfield. Very shortly the others ran down the street and Mrs. Copperfield was left alone. People passed by on either side of her, but none of them interested her yet. On the other hand, she herself was of great interest to everyone, particularly to those women who were seated in front of their doors. She was soon accosted by a girl with fuzzy hair.

“Buy me something, Momma,” said the girl.

As Mrs. Copperfield did not answer but simply gave the girl a long sad look, the girl said:

“Momma, you can pick it out yourself. You can buy me even a feather, I don't care.” Mrs. Copperfield shuddered. She thought she must be dreaming.

“What do you mean, a feather? What do you mean?”

The girl squirmed with delight.

“Oh, Momma,” she said in a voice which broke in her throat. “Oh, Momma, you're funny! You're so funny. I don't know what is a feather, but anything you want with your heart, you know.”

They walked down the street to a store and came out with a little box of face powder. The girl said good-by and disappeared round the corner with some friends. Once again Mrs. Copperfield was alone. The hacks went past filled with tourists. “Tourists, generally speaking,” Mrs. Copperfield had written in her journal, “are human beings so impressed with the importance and immutability of their own manner of living that they are capable of traveling through the most fantastic places without experiencing anything more than a visual reaction. The hardier tourists find that one place resembles another.”

Very soon Mr. Copperfield came back and joined her. “Did you have a wonderful time?” he asked her.

She shook her head and looked up at him. Suddenly she felt so tired that she began to cry.

“Cry-baby,” said Mr. Copperfield.

Someone came up behind them. A low voice said: “She was lost?” They turned around to see an intelligent-looking girl with sharp features and curly hair standing right behind them. “I wouldn't leave her in the streets here if I were you,” she said.