Another Country Page 4

  “Anyway,” Jane said, “you aren’t an artist and so I don’t see how you can possibly judge the work I do—”

  “Oh, stop it,” said Vivaldo. “Do you know how silly you sound? You mean you just paint for this half-assed gang of painters down here?”

  “Oh, let her swing, man,” Rufus said, beginning to enjoy himself. He leaned forward, grinning at Jane in a way at once lewd and sardonic. “This chick’s too deep for us, man, we can’t dig that shit she’s putting down.”

  “You’re the snobs,” she said, “not I. I bet you I’ve reached more people, honest, hard-working, ignorant people, right here in his bar, than either of you ever reach. Those people you hang out with are dead, man— at least, these people are alive.”

  Rufus laughed. “I thought it smelled funny in here. So that’s it. Shit. It’s life, huh?” And he laughed again.

  But he was also aware that they were beginning to attract attention, and he glanced at the windows where the rain streamed down, saying to himself, Okay, Rufus, behave yourself. And he leaned back in the booth, where he sat facing Jane and Vivaldo.

  He had reached her, and she struck back with the only weapon she had, a shapeless instrument which might once have been fury. “It doesn’t smell any worse in here than it does where you come from, baby.”

  Vivaldo and Rufus looked at each other. Vivaldo’s lips turned white. He said, “You say another word, baby, and I’m going to knock your teeth, both of them, right down your throat.”

  This profoundly delighted her. She became Bette Davis at once, and shouted at the top of her voice, “Are you threatening me?”

  Everyone turned to look at them.

  “Oh, shit,” said Rufus, “let’s go.”

  “Yes,” said Vivaldo, “let’s get out of here.” He looked at Jane. “Move. You filthy bitch.”

  And now she was contrite. She leaned forward and grabbed Rufus’ hand. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” He tried to pull his hand away; she held on. He relaxed, not wanting to seem to struggle with her. Now she was being Joan Fontaine. “Please, you must believe me, Rufus!”

  “I believe you,” he said, and rose; to find a heavy Irishman standing in his way. They stared at each other for a moment and then the man spit in his face. He heard Jane scream, but he was already far away. He struck, or thought he struck; a fist slammed into his face and something hit him at the back of the head. The world, the air, went red and black, then roared in at him with faces and fists. The small of his back slammed against something cold, hard, and straight; he supposed it was the end of the bar, and he wondered how he had got there. From far away, he saw a barstool poised above Vivaldo’s head, and he heard Jane screaming, keening like all of Ireland. He had not known there were so many men in the bar. He struck a face, he felt bone beneath the bone of his fist, and weak green eyes, glaring into his like headlights at the moment of collision, shuttered in distress. Someone had reached him in the belly, someone else in the head. He was being spun about and he could no longer strike, he could only defend. He kept his head down, bobbing and shifting, pushed and pulled, and he crouched, trying to protect his private parts. He heard the crash of glass. For an instant he saw Vivaldo, at the far end of the bar, blood streaming down from his nose and his forehead, surrounded by three or four men, and he saw the back of a hand send Jane spinning half across the room. Her face was white and terrified. Good, he thought, and felt himself in the air, going over the bar. Glass crashed again, and wood was splintered. There was a foot on his shoulder and a foot on one ankle. He pressed his buttocks against the floor and drew his free leg in as far as he could; and with one arm he tried to hold back the fist which crashed down again and again into his face. Far behind the fist was the face of the Irishman, with the green eyes ablaze. Then he saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. Then he heard running feet. He was on his back behind the bar. There was no one near him. He pulled himself up and half-crawled out. The bartender was at the door, shooing his customers out; an old woman sat at the bar, tranquilly sipping gin; Vivaldo lay on his face in a pool of blood. Jane stood helplessly over him. And the sound of the rain came back.

  “I think he’s dead,” Jane said.

  He looked at her, hating her with all his heart. He said, “I wish to God it was you, you cunt.” She began to cry.

  He leaned down and helped Vivaldo to rise. Half-leaning on, half-supporting each other, they made it to the door. Jane came behind them. “Let me help you.”

  Vivaldo stopped and tried to straighten. They leaned, half-in, half-out of the door. The bartender watched them. Vivaldo looked at the bartender, then at Jane. He and Rufus stumbled together into the blinding rain.

  “Let me help you,” Jane cried again. But she stopped in the doorway long enough to say to the bartender, whose face held no expression whatever, “You’re going to hear about this, believe me. I’m going to close this bar and have your job, if it’s the last thing I ever do.” Then she ran into the rain, and tried to help Rufus support Vivaldo.

  Vivaldo pulled away from her touch, and slipped and almost fell. “Get away from me. Get away from me. You’ve been enough help for one night.”

  “You’ve got to get in somewhere!” Jane cried.

  “Don’t you worry about it. Don’t worry about it. Drop dead, get lost, go fuck yourself. We’re going to the hospital.”

  Rufus looked into Vivaldo’s face and became frightened. Both his eyes were closing and the blood poured down from some wound in his scalp. And he was crying.

  “What a way to talk to my buddy, man,” he said, over and over. “Wow! What a way to talk to my buddy!”

  “Let’s go to her place,” Rufus whispered. “It’s closer.” Vivaldo did not seem to hear him. “Come on, baby, let’s go on over to Jane’s, it don’t matter.”

  He was afraid that Vivaldo had been badly hurt, and he knew what would happen at the hospital if two fays and a spade came bleeding in. For the doctors and nurses were, first of all, upright, clean-living white citizens. And he was not really afraid for himself, but for Vivaldo, who knew so little about his countrymen.

  So, slipping and sliding, with Jane now circling helplessly around them and now leading the way, like a big-assed Joan of Arc, they reached Jane’s pad. He carried Vivaldo into the bathroom and sat him down. He looked in the mirror. His face looked like jam, but the scars would probably heal, and only one eye was closed; but when he began washing Vivaldo, he found a great gash in his skull, and this frightened him.

  “Man,” he whispered, “you got to go to the hospital.”

  “That’s what I said. All right. Let’s go.”

  And he tried to rise.

  “No, man. Listen. If I go with you, it’s going to be a whole lot of who shot John because I’m black and you’re white. You dig? I’m telling it to you like it is.”

  Vivaldo said, “I really don’t want to hear all that shit, Rufus.”

  “Well, it’s true, whether you want to hear it or not. Jane’s got to take you to the hospital, I can’t come with you.” Vivaldo’s eyes were closed and his face was white. “Vivaldo?”

  He opened his eyes. “Are you mad at me, Rufus?”

  “Shit, no, baby, why should I be mad with you?” But he knew what was bothering Vivaldo. He leaned down and whispered, “Don’t you worry, baby, everything’s cool. I know you’re my friend.”

  “I love you, you shithead, I really do.”

  “I love you, too. Now, get on to that hospital, I don’t want you to drop dead in this phony white chick’s bathroom. I’ll wait here for you. I’ll be all right.” Then he walked quickly out of the bathroom. He said to Jane, “Take him to the hospital, he’s hurt worse than I am. I’ll wait here.”

  She had the sense, then, to say nothing. Vivaldo remained in the hospital for ten days and had three stitches taken in his scalp. In the morning Rufus went uptown to see a doctor and stayed in bed for a week. He and Vivaldo never spoke of this night, and though he knew that Vivaldo had f
inally begun seeing her again, they never spoke of Jane. But from that time on, Rufus had depended on and trusted Vivaldo— depended on him even now, as he bitterly watched him horsing around with the large girl on the path. He did not know why this was so; he scarcely knew that it was so. Vivaldo was unlike everyone else that he knew in that they, all the others, could only astonish him by kindness or fidelity; it was only Vivaldo who had the power to astonish him by treachery. Even his affair with Jane was evidence in his favor, for if he were really likely to betray his friend for a woman, as most white men seemed to do, especially if the friend were black, then he would have found himself a smoother chick, with the manners of a lady and the soul of a whore. But Jane seemed to be exactly what she was, a monstrous slut, and she thus, without knowing it, kept Rufus and Vivaldo equal to one another.

  At last Vivaldo was free and hurried toward them on the path still grinning, and now waving to someone behind them.

  “Look,” he cried, “there’s Cass!”

  Rufus turned and there she was, sitting alone on the rim of the circle, frail and fair. For him, she was thoroughly mysterious. He could never quite place her in the white world to which she seemed to belong. She came from New England, of plain old American stock— so she put it; she was very fond of remembering that one of her ancestors had been burned as a witch. She had married Richard, who was Polish, and they had two children. Richard had been Vivaldo’s English instructor in high school, years ago. They had known him as a brat, they said— not that he had changed much; they were his oldest friends.

  With Leona between them, Rufus and Vivaldo crossed the road.

  Cass looked up at them with that smile which was at once chilling and warm. It was warm because it was affectionate; it chilled Rufus because it was amused. “Well, I’m not sure I’m speaking to either of you. You’ve been neglecting us shamefully. Richard has crossed you off his list.” She looked at Leona and smiled. “I’m Cass Silenski.”

  “This is Leona,” Rufus said, putting one hand on Leona’s shoulder.

  Cass looked more amused than ever, and at the same time more affectionate. “I’m very happy to meet you.”

  “I’m glad to meet you,” said Leona.

  They sat down on the stone rim of the fountain, in the center of which a little water played, enough for small children to wade in.

  “Give an account of yourselves,” Cass said. “Why haven’t you come to see us?”

  “Oh,” said Vivaldo, “I’ve been busy. I’ve been working on my novel.”

  “He’s been working on a novel,” said Cass to Leona, “ever since we’ve known him. Then he was seventeen and now he’s nearly thirty.”

  “That’s unkind,” said Vivaldo, looking amused at the same time that he looked ashamed and annoyed.

  “Well, Richard was working on one, too. Then he was twenty-five and now he’s close to forty. So—” She considered Vivaldo a moment. “Only, he’s had a brand-new inspiration and he’s been working on it like a madman. I think that’s one of the reasons he’s been rather hoping you’d come by— he may have wanted to discuss it with you.”

  “What is this new inspiration?” Vivaldo asked. “Offhand, it sounds unfair.”

  “Ah!”— she shrugged merrily, and took a deep drag on her cigarette— “I wasn’t consulted, and I’m kept in the dark. You know Richard. He gets up at some predawn hour and goes straight to his study and stays there until it’s time to go to work; comes home, goes straight to his study and stays there until it’s time to go to bed. I hardly ever see him. The children no longer have a father, I no longer have a husband.” She laughed. “He did manage to grunt something the other morning about it’s going very well.”

  “It certainly sounds as though its going well.” Vivaldo looked at Cass enviously. “And you say its new?— it’s not the same novel he was working on before?”

  “I gather not. But I really know nothing about it.” She dragged on her cigarette again, crushed it under her heel, immediately began searching in her bag for another.

  “Well, I’ll certainly have to come by and check on all this for myself,” said Vivaldo. “At this rate, he’ll be famous before I am.”

  “Oh, I’ve always known that,” said Cass, and lit another cigarette.

  Rufus watched the pigeons strutting along the walks and the gangs of adolescents roaming up and down. He wanted to get away from this place and this danger. Leona put her hand on his. He grabbed one of her fingers and held it.

  Cass turned to Rufus. “Now, you haven’t been working on a novel, why haven’t you come by?”

  “I’ve been working uptown. You promised to come and hear me. Remember?”

  “We’ve been terribly broke, Rufus—”

  “When I’m working in a joint, you haven’t got to worry about being broke, I told you that before.”

  “He’s a great musician,” Leona said. “I heard him for the first time last night.”

  Rufus looked annoyed. “That gig ended last night. I ain’t got nothing to do for awhile except take care of my old lady.” And he laughed.

  Cass and Leona looked briefly at each other and smiled.

  “How long have you been up here, Leona?” Cass asked.

  “Oh, just a little over a month.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Oh, I love it. It’s just as different as night from day, I can’t tell you.”

  Cass looked briefly at Rufus. “That’s wonderful,” she said, gravely. “I’m very glad for you.”

  “Yes, I can feel that,” said Leona. “You seem to be a very nice woman.”

  “Thank you,” said Cass, and blushed.

  “How’re you going to take care of your old lady,” Vivaldo asked, “if you’re not working?”

  “Oh, I’ve got a couple of record dates coming up; don’t you worry about old Rufus.”

  Vivaldo sighed. “I’m worried about me. I’m in the wrong profession— or, rather, I’m not. In it, I mean. Nobody wants to hear my story.”

  Rufus looked at him. “Don’t let me start talking to you about my profession.”

  “Things are tough all over,” said Vivaldo.

  Rufus looked out over the sun-filled park.

  “Nobody ever has to take up a collection to bury managers or agents,” Rufus said. “But they sweeping musicians up off the streets every day.”

  “Never mind,” said Leona, gently, “they ain’t never going to sweep you up off the streets.”

  She put her hand on his head and stroked it. He reached up and took her hand away.

  There was a silence. Then Cass rose. “I hate to break this up, but I must go home. One of my neighbors took the kids to the zoo, but they’re probably getting back by now. I’d better rescue Richard.”

  “How are your kids, Cass?” Rufus asked.

  “Much you care. It would serve you right if they’d forgotten all about you. They’re fine. They’ve got much more energy than their parents.”

  Vivaldo said, “I’m going to walk Cass home. What do you think you’ll be doing later?”

  He felt a dull fear and a dull resentment, almost as though Vivaldo were deserting him. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess we’ll go along home—”

  “I got to go uptown later, Rufus,” said Leona. “I ain’t got nothing to go to work in tomorrow.”

  Cass held out her hand to Leona. “It was nice meeting you. Make Rufus bring you by to see us one day.”

  “Well, it was sure nice meeting you. I been meeting some real nice people lately.”

  “Next time,” said Cass, “we’ll go off and have a drink by ourselves someplace, without all these men.”

  They laughed together. “I really would like that.”

  “Suppose I pick you up at Benno’s,” Rufus said to Vivaldo, “around ten-thirty?”

  “Good enough. Maybe we’ll go across town and pick up on some jazz?”

  “Good.”

  “So long, Leona. Glad to have met you.”

  “Me,
too. Be seeing you real soon.”

  “Give my regards,” said Rufus, “to Richard and the kids, and tell them I’m coming by.”

  “I’ll do that. Make sure you do come by, we’d dearly love to see you.”

  Cass and Vivaldo started slowly in the direction of the arch. The bright-red, setting sun burned their silhouettes against the air and crowned the dark head and the golden one. Rufus and Leona stood and watched them; when they were under the arch, they turned and waved.

  “We better be making tracks,” said Rufus.

  “I guess so.” They started back through the park. “You got some real nice friends, Rufus. You’re lucky. They’re real fond of you. They think you’re somebody.”

  “You think they do?”

  “I know they do. I can tell by the way they talk to you, the way they treat you.”

  “I guess they are pretty nice,” he said, “at that.”

  She laughed. “You’re a funny boy”— she corrected herself— “a funny person. You act like you don’t know who you are.”

  “I know who I am, all right,” he said, aware of the eyes that watched them pass, the nearly inaudible murmur that came from the benches or the trees. He squeezed her thin hand between his elbow and his side. “I’m your boy. You know what that means?”

  “What does it mean?”