Another Country Page 5

  “It means you’ve got to be good to me.”

  “Well, Rufus, I sure am going to try.”

  * * *

  Now, bowed down with the memory of all that had happened since that day, he wandered helplessly back to Forty-second Street and stopped before the large bar and grill on the corner. Near him, just beyond the plate glass, stood the sandwich man behind his counter, the meat arrayed on the steam table beneath him. Bread and rolls, mustard, relish, salt and pepper, stood at the level of his chest. He was a big man, wearing white, with a blank, red, brutal face. From time to time he expertly knifed off a sandwich for one of the derelicts within. The old seemed reconciled to being there, to having no teeth, no hair, having no life. Some laughed together, the young, with dead eyes set in yellow faces, the slackness of their bodies making vivid the history of their degradation. They were the prey that was no longer hunted, though they were scarcely aware of this new condition and could not bear to leave the place where they had first been spoiled. And the hunters were there, far more assured and patient than the prey. In any of the world’s cities, on a winter night, a boy can be bought for the price of a beer and the promise of warm blankets.

  Rufus shivered, his hands in his pockets, looking through the window and wondering what to do. He thought of walking to Harlem but he was afraid of the police he would encounter in his passage through the city; and he did not see how he could face his parents or his sister. When he had last seen Ida, he had told her that he and Leona were about to make it to Mexico, where, he said, people would leave them alone. But no one had heard from him since then.

  Now a big, rough-looking man, well dressed, white, with black-and-gray hair, came out of the bar. He paused next to Rufus, looking up and down the street. Rufus did not move, though he wanted to; his mind began to race, painfully, and his empty stomach turned over. Once again, sweat broke out on his forehead. Something in him knew what was about to happen; something in him died in the freezing second before the man walked over to him and said:

  “It’s cold out here. Wouldn’t you like to come in and have a drink with me?”

  “I’d rather have a sandwich,” Rufus muttered, and thought You’ve really hit the bottom now.

  “Well, you can have a sandwich, too. There’s no law that says you can’t.”

  Rufus looked up and down the street, then looked into the man’s ice-cold, ice-white face. He reminded himself that he knew the score, he’d been around; neither was this the first time during his wanderings that he had consented to the bleakly physical exchange; and yet he felt that he would never be able to endure the touch of this man. They entered the bar and grill.

  “What kind of sandwich would you like?”

  “Corned beef,” Rufus whispered, “on rye.”

  They watched while the meat was hacked off, slammed on bread, and placed on the counter. The man paid and Rufus took his sandwich over to the bar. He felt that everyone in the place knew what was going on, knew that Rufus was peddling his ass. But nobody seemed to care. Nobody looked at them. The noise at the bar continued, the radio continued to blare. The bartender served up a beer for Rufus and a whiskey for the man and rang up the money on the cash register. Rufus tried to turn his mind away from what was happening to him. He wolfed down his sandwich. But the heavy bread, the tepid meat, made him begin to feel nauseous; everything wavered before his eyes for a moment; he sipped his beer, trying to hold the sandwich down.

  “You were hungry.”

  Rufus, he thought, you can’t make this scene. There’s no way in the world you can make it. Don’t come on with the man. Just get out of here.

  “Would you like another sandwich?”

  The first sandwich was still threatening to come up. The bar stank of stale beer and piss and stale meat and unwashed bodies.

  Suddenly he felt that he was going to cry.

  “No, thank you,” he said, “I’m all right now.”

  The man watched him for a moment.

  “Then have another beer.”

  “No, thank you.” But he leaned his head on the bar, trembling.

  “Hey!”

  Lights roared around his head, the whole bar lurched, righted itself, faces weaved around him, the music from the radio pounded in his skull. The man’s face was very close to his: hard eyes and a cruel nose and flabby, brutal lips. He smelled the man’s odor. He pulled away.

  “I’m all right.”

  “You almost blacked out there for a minute.”

  The bartender watched them.

  “You better have a drink. Hey, Mac, give the kid a drink.”

  “You sure he’s all right?”

  “Yeah, he’s all right, I know him. Give him a drink.”

  The bartender filled a shot glass and placed it in front of Rufus. And Rufus stared into the gleaming cup, praying, Lord, don’t let it happen. Don’t let me go home with this man.

  I’ve got so little left, Lord, don’t let me lose it all.

  “Drink. It’ll do you good. Then you can come on over to my place and get some sleep.”

  He drank the whiskey, which first made him feel even sicker, then warmed him. He straightened up.

  “You live around here?” he asked the man. If you touch me, he thought, still with these strange tears threatening to boil over at any moment, I’ll beat the living shit out of you. I don’t want no more hands on me, no more, no more, no more.

  “Not very far. Forty-sixth Street.”

  They walked out of the bar, into the streets again.

  “It’s a lonely city,” the man said as they walked. “I’m lonely. Aren’t you lonely, too?”

  Rufus said nothing.

  “Maybe we can comfort each other for a night.”

  Rufus watched the traffic lights, the black, nearly deserted streets, the silent black buildings, the deep shadows of doorways.

  “Do you know what I mean?”

  “I’m not the boy you want, mister,” he said at last, and suddenly remembered having said exactly these words to Eric— long ago.

  “How do you mean, you’re not the boy I want?” And the man tried to laugh. “Shouldn’t I be the best judge of that?”

  Rufus said, “I don’t have a thing to give you. I don’t have nothing to give nobody. Don’t make me go through with this. Please.”

  They stopped on the silent Avenue, facing each other. The man’s eyes hardened and narrowed.

  “Didn’t you know what was going on— back there?”

  Rufus said, “I was hungry.”

  “What are you, anyway— just a cock teaser?”

  “I was hungry,” Rufus repeated; “I was hungry.”

  “Don’t you have any family— any friends?”

  Rufus looked down. He did not answer right away. Then, “I don’t want to die, mister. I don’t want to kill you. Let me go— to my friends.”

  “Do you know where to find them?”

  “I know where to find— one of them.”

  There was a silence. Rufus stared at the sidewalk and, very slowly, the tears filled his eyes and began trickling down his nose.

  The man took his arm. “Come on— come on to my place.”

  But now the moment, the possibility, had passed; both of them felt it. The man dropped his arm.

  “You’re a good-looking boy,” he said.

  Rufus moved away. “So long, mister. Thanks.”

  The man said nothing. Rufus watched him walk away.

  Then he, too, turned and began walking downtown. He thought of Eric for the first time in years, and wondered if he were prowling foreign streets tonight. He glimpsed, for the first time, the extent, the nature, of Eric’s loneliness, and the danger in which this placed him; and wished that he had been nicer to him. Eric had always been very nice to Rufus. He had had a pair of cufflinks made for Rufus, for Rufus’ birthday, with the money which was to have bought his wedding rings: and this gift, this confession, delivered him into Rufus’ hands. Rufus had despised him because he came
from Alabama; perhaps he had allowed Eric to make love to him in order to despise him more completely. Eric had finally understood this, and had fled from Rufus, all the way to Paris. But his stormy blue eyes, his bright red hair, his halting drawl, all returned very painfully to Rufus now.

  Go ahead and tell me. You ain’t got to be afraid.

  And, as Eric hesitated, Rufus added— slyly, grinning, watching him:

  “You act like a little girl— or something.”

  And even now there was something heady and almost sweet in the memory of the ease with which he had handled Eric, and elicited his confession. When Eric had finished speaking, he said, slowly;

  “I’m not the boy for you. I don’t go that way.”

  Eric had placed their hands together, and he stared down at them, the red and the brown.

  “I know,” he said.

  He moved to the center of his room.

  “But I can’t help wishing you did. I wish you’d try.”

  Then, with a terrible effort, Rufus heard it in his voice, his breath:

  “I’d do anything. I’d try anything. To please you.” Then, with a smile, “I’m almost as young as you are. I don’t know— much— about it.”

  Rufus had watched him, smiling. He felt a flood of affection for Eric. And he felt his own power.

  He walked over to Eric and put his hands on Eric’s shoulders. He did not know what he was going to say or do. But with his hands on Eric’s shoulders, affection, power, and curiosity all knotted together in him— with a hidden, unforeseen violence which frightened him a little; the hands that were meant to hold Eric at arm’s length seemed to draw Eric to him; the current that had begun flowing he did not know how to stop.

  At last, he said in a low voice, smiling, “I’ll try anything once, old buddy.”

  Those cufflinks were now in Harlem, in Ida’s bureau drawer. And when Eric was gone, Rufus forgot their battles and the unspeakable physical awkwardness, and the ways in which he had made Eric pay for such pleasure as Eric gave, or got. He remembered only that Eric had loved him; as he now remembered that Leona had loved him. He had despised Eric’s manhood by treating him as a woman, by telling him how inferior he was to a woman, by treating him as nothing more than a hideous sexual deformity. But Leona had not been a deformity. And he had used against her the very epithets he had used against Eric, and in the very same way, with the same roaring in his head and the same intolerable pressure in his chest.

  * * *

  Vivaldo lived alone in a first-floor apartment on Bank Street. He was home, Rufus saw the light in the window. He slowed down a little but the cold air refused to let him hesitate; he hurried through the open street door, thinking, Well, I might as well get it over with. And he knocked quickly on Vivaldo’s door.

  There had been the sound of a typewriter; now it stopped. Rufus knocked again.

  “Who is it?” called Vivaldo, sounding extremely annoyed.

  “It’s me. It’s me. Rufus.”

  The sudden light, when Vivaldo opened the door, was a great shock, as was Vivaldo’s face.

  “My God,” said Vivaldo.

  He grabbed Rufus around the neck, pulling him inside and holding him. They both leaned for a moment against Vivaldo’s door.

  “My God,” Vivaldo said again, “where’ve you been? Don’t you know you shouldn’t do things like that? You’ve had all of us scared to death, baby. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  It was a great shock and it weakened Rufus, exactly as though he had been struck in the belly. He clung to Vivaldo as though he were on the ropes. Then he pulled away.

  Vivaldo looked at him, looked hard at him, up and down. And Vivaldo’s face told him how he looked. He moved away from the door, away from Vivaldo’s scrutiny.

  “Ida’s been here; she’s half crazy. Do you realize you dropped out of sight almost a month ago?”

  “Yes,” he said, and sat down heavily in Vivaldo’s easy chair— which sagged beneath him almost to the floor. He looked around the room, which had once been so familiar, which now seemed so strange.

  He leaned back, his hands over his eyes.

  “Take off your jacket,” Vivaldo said. “I’ll see if I can scare up something for you to eat— are you hungry?”

  “No, not now. Tell me, how is Ida?”

  “Well, she’s worried, you know, but there’s nothing wrong with her. Rufus, you want me to fix you a drink?”

  “When was she here?”

  “Yesterday. And she called me tonight. And she’s been to the police. Everybody’s been worried, Cass, Richard, everybody—”

  He sat up. “The police are looking for me?”

  “Well, hell, yes, baby, people aren’t supposed to just disappear.” He walked into his small, cluttered kitchen and opened his refrigerator, which contained a quart of milk and half a grapefruit. He stared at them helplessly. “I’ll have to take you out, I haven’t got anything to eat in this joint.” He closed the refrigerator door. “You can have a drink, though, I’ve got some bourbon.”

  Vivaldo made two drinks, gave one to Rufus and sat down on the other, straight-backed, chair.

  “Well, let’s have it. What’ve you been doing, where’ve you been?”

  “I’ve just been wandering the streets.”

  “My God, Rufus, in this weather? Where’ve you been sleeping?”

  “Oh. Subways, hallways. Movies sometimes.”

  “And how’d you eat?”

  He took a swallow of his drink. Perhaps it was a mistake to have come. “Oh,” he said, astonished to hear the truth come out, “sometimes I sort of peddled my ass.”

  Vivaldo looked at him. “I guess you had pretty rough competition.” He lit a cigarette and threw the pack and the matches to Rufus. “You should have got in touch with somebody, you should have let somebody know what was happening.”

  “I— couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

  “We’re supposed to be friends, you and me.”

  He stood up, holding an unlit cigarette, and walked around the small room, touching things. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He lit the cigarette. “I know what I did to Leona. I’m not dumb.”

  “So do I know what you did to Leona. Neither am I dumb.”

  “I guess I just didn’t think—”

  “What?”

  “That anyone would care.”

  In the silence that hung in the room then, Vivaldo rose and went to his phonograph. “You didn’t think Ida would care? You didn’t think I would care?”

  He felt as though he were smothering. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought.”

  Vivaldo said nothing. His face was pale and angry and he concentrated on looking through his records. Finally he put one on the machine; it was James Pete Johnson and Bessie Smith batting out Backwater Blues.

  “Well,” said Vivaldo, helplessly, and sat down again.

  Besides Vivaldo’s phonograph, there wasn’t much else in his apartment. There was a homemade lamp, brick-supported bookshelves, records, a sagging bed, the sprung easy chair, and the straight-backed chair. There was a high stool before Vivaldo’s worktable on which Vivaldo teetered now, his coarse, curly black hair hanging forward, his eyes somber, and his mouth turned down. The table held his pencils, papers, his typewriter, and the telephone. In a small alcove was the kitchen in which the overhead light was burning. The sink was full of dirty dishes, topped by a jaggedly empty and open tin can. A paper sack of garbage leaned against one of the kitchen table’s uncertain legs.

  There’s thousands of people, Bessie now sang, ain’t got no place to go, and for the first time Rufus began to hear, in the severely understated monotony of this blues, something which spoke to his troubled mind. The piano bore the singer witness, stoic and ironic. Now that Rufus himself had no place to go— ’cause my house fell down and I can’t live there no mo’, sang Bessie— he heard the line and the tone of the singer, and he wondered how others had moved beyond the
emptiness and horror which faced him now.

  Vivaldo was watching him. Now he cleared his throat and said, “Maybe it would be a good idea for you to make a change of scene, Rufus. Everything around here will just keep reminding you— sometimes it’s better just to wipe the slate clean and take off. Maybe you should go to the Coast.”

  “There’s nothing happening on the Coast.”

  “A lot of musicians have gone out there.”

  “They’re on their ass out there, too. It’s no different from New York.”

  “No, they’re working. You might feel differently out there, with all the sunshine and oranges and all.” He smiled. “Make a new man of you, baby.”

  “I guess you think,” said Rufus, malevolently, “that it’s time I started trying to be a new man.”

  There was a silence. Then Vivaldo said, “It’s not so much what I think. It’s what you think.”

  Rufus watched the tall, lean, clumsy white boy who was his best friend, and felt himself nearly strangling with the desire to hurt him.

  “Rufus,” said Vivaldo, suddenly, “believe me, I know, I know— a lot of things hurt you that I can’t really understand.” He played with the keys of his typewriter. “A lot of things hurt me that I can’t really understand.”

  Rufus sat on the edge of the sprung easy chair, watching Vivaldo gravely.

  “Do you blame me for what happened to Leona?”

  “Rufus, what good would it do if I did blame you? You blame yourself enough already, that’s what’s wrong with you, what’s the good of my blaming you?”

  He could see, though, that Vivaldo had also hoped to be able to avoid this question.

  “Do you blame me or don’t you? Tell the truth.”

  “Rufus, if I wasn’t your friend, I think I’d blame you, sure. You acted like a bastard. But I understand that, I think I do, I’m trying to. But, anyway, since you are my friend, and, after all, let’s face it, you mean much more to me than Leona ever did, well, I don’t think I should put you down just because you acted like a bastard. We’re all bastards. That’s why we need our friends.”

  “I wish I could tell you what it was like,” Rufus said, after a long silence. “I wish I could undo it.”