Dunfords Travels Everywheres

by William Melvin Kelley

  “I’m not talking about morals, Frank. That’s a personal thing. Moral base means nothing.” He looked around the table for something more to eat. “His life forms an immoral pattern, if you want to get over into that area. But that’s because it’s very sophisticated now. It’s not simple anymore, like, say, Pontius Pilate.” He picked up a spoon and began to scrape the last of fish stuffed with cheese onto his plate. “You understand now?”

  “That’s not fair. In the first place, we have no doubts that Pilate knew he was doing wrong because he washed his hands. Lane, are you listening?” He looked down at Lane’s head. “Hey, that’s my cheese-in-fish.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Lane did not raise his head. “It’s Cloode’s.”

  “Wait a minute, Lane. Cleurdia and I were supposed to share that platter.”

  “You had yours. Besides, you made a hog of yourself with my stew.”

  “You said it was all right. I only had one helping of cheese-in-fish. I have seconds coming.”

  “Listen, I saw you gulp down at least three servings.” He chewed as he talked.

  “Three?”

  “You see that?” Lane turned to Cleurdia. “He’s trying to hog your cheese-in-fish.”

  “That’s not true!” Frank sat up straight. “It’s the principle.”

  Lane fingered the hair away from Cleurdia’s ear, whispered to her. Quite suddenly, she laughed, once. Lane continued to whisper.

  “Lane? Lane? Lane, listen. Lane?”

  “Frank, for golly’s sake, I’m trying to tell her something.”

  “What about my cheese-in-fish?”

  “Oh, take your cheese-in-fish…” He picked up his plate and extended it toward Frank. But before Frank could raise his hands to receive it, Lane let go.

  “You did that on purpose, Lane.” Kicking his chair back into the aisle, Frank rose to his feet, and started around the table, his arms raised. “You did that on purpose.”

  Lane met him, ducked Frank’s embrace and pushed him off-balance, and onto Ira. The table jumped, skidded.

  “You see, Frank? Look!” Lane stood over the kneeling Frank. “Look at what you did to Chig’s pants, you stupid shit!”

  Dark, red wine had dyed the lap of Chig’s yellow pants.

  “What I did? It wasn’t just my fault, Lane.” Frank stood up, came around the table, his head lowered. “Lane and I’ll pay for the cleaning, Chig.”

  They all made a fuss over Chig’s pants. They hoped the pants could be cleaned, felt sure they could be. But Chig knew already that the dark stain would never disappear.

  6

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  He stood reading in the toilet room of the Café of One Hand, a cubicle with a fist-sized hole in the middle of its white tile floor. The corner’s sink, one spigot, cold, dripped. Like most public toilets Chig had ever used, writings covered the walls.

  The stain had almost dried, but Chig dawdled, troubled by his feelings. At the table, he had begun to sweat with the realization that he neither loved nor hated the late President. The man had seemed capable enough, a little more honest and sincere than most politicians. But these qualities had not produced in Chig the feelings that boiled inside his friends. The man remained, quite simply, an ordinary President.

  He knew he could not stay away from his friends for more than a few minutes; they would think his ruined pants upset him. He used only water on his hands, dried them with toiletpaper, then unlocked the door.

  “God Chig, I’m about to bust!” Marian waited outside in the hallway. “Your pants all right?”

  He nodded, held the door for her.

  She slipped by him. “Wait for me, Chig. I want to ask you something about Lane.” She closed the door on her smile.

  He leaned against the hallway wall, looking out into the café. In the center aisle, an Atzuoreurso, very drunk, danced, a glass of wine balanced on his forehead. He looked at the ceiling and spun in circles, his face and collar covered with wine while the Atzuoreursos applauded him. When the glass on his head had emptied, he sat down, and began to cry.

  Marian unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway. “I dread that place. No wonder so many of them get bad kidneys. And it’s worse for a girl because we have to squat.”

  He could not think of a comment, then remembered why she had asked him to wait. “What about Lane?”

  “What?” She half-closed her eyes. “About Lane?”

  “You had some gossip.” He often kidded her about gossiping. They all gossiped.

  “No, I don’t, Chig. It’s just that Lane, well, you know Lane.”

  He did not understand.

  “He, you know, he was getting real sexy with Cleurdia, right in front of us. You don’t think that’s right, do you?”

  “I don’t guess not.” He shook his head, hoping she would not ask him to talk to Lane. He had acted as a messenger for his friends more than once. If Frank wanted Ira to know something, but could not tell him, he asked Chig to carry the message. He had conveyed messages from Cleurdia to Lane, Lane to Ira, Ira to Lane, Marian to Frank, Frank to Cleurdia. Only Wendy had never used him as a messenger.

  “But to feel her up like that. Today especially.”

  “When today?”

  “After you left.”

  “What did she say?”

  “What could she say?”

  He shrugged. “She should say something. I mean, we can’t do anything unless she complains.” He smiled. “She might even enjoy it.”

  “That’s cruel, Chig.” She lowered her chin, but kept her eyes on his. “She doesn’t know what’s going on most of the time. Someone should really say something to him.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “You know what he did after you left the table? He grabbed her breast, like this.” She reached for him. “He didn’t just pinch it, like that, he just kind of squeezed it a few times.” She did not remove her hand from his chest. “Today of all days, with the President dead like that. He shouldn’t be acting like that. Something might really be wrong in the country and we might all have to go back. What if they find out the people who killed him are Southerners? The Negroes might revolt to avenge his death. We’d have to do something. It’s our country and we’d have to save it.”

  She moved closer as she talked, her hand caught in the trap formed by her breasts and his chest. She looked up at him, concern in her eyes. “There was hope with him. And now it’s different. I know the country’s in good hands, but they’re not the same hands.”

  She pressed him to the wall; she seemed boneless. “Especially after how he died. The pictures’ll be horrible, lots of blood, closeups. Oh, it’s so disgusting.” One tear started out of each eye; she rested her forehead against his collarbone. “You have real strength, Chig. You inspire me. I’m an artist and that means I have bad moods, but you never seem to worry about anything. I mean, you should be
really bitter and hate-filled, but you’re always so sweet and strong. I hope I can keep myself sweet if my art isn’t recognized or something like that.” She kissed him on the cheek, put her arms around his waist, hugged him tightly, then pushed him away. “Chig, you have a hard-on.”

  He could not deny it. “Well, really Marian, you shouldn’t, you know, hug me.” He laughed. “I mean, you must know you’re, well, sexy—”

  “You mean you think I’m trying to make you?”

  “I didn’t mean that, Marian. I know you love Ira, but—”

  “Then why did you get like that?” She pointed at the wine stain.

  “I couldn’t help it, Marian.”

  “You couldn’t help it? God, what’s wrong with you? One hug and you act like I’m raping you? God.”

  “Wait a minute, Marian.” It surprised him to discover his anger building. “I didn’t accuse you of anything. But I wish, well, you wouldn’t rub up against me. You are—”

  “Me? I’m not doing anything but trying to be nice. I just want to show you that I like you. As an ordinary person. Can’t you accept that? You act like I’m doing something dirty.”

  He smiled. “I didn’t say it was dirty. Just disturbing.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “God, Chig, you’re oversexed. And don’t think I haven’t noticed it before. You didn’t have to tell me you think I’m sexy. I know already how you feel about me. You just be glad I don’t tell Ira, whose friend you’re supposed to be. But every time I turn around, there you are. At first it was flattering, but now you stick that hard-on into my stomach. God! And Ira thinks you’re his friend. Talk about me? You’re the one who’s always raping me. And you think I’m stupid and don’t know it.” She started away, then stopped, returned. “Today of all days. You must have some high opinion of yourself. You must really think you’re sexier than ordinary people. Well, I don’t. But if you want to believe that, go on. I’m just warning you, Chig, the next time, I’ll tell Ira.”

  He watched her return to their table and sit down, in his chair. His friends ignored her. They had ordered a new bottle of wine, had consumed half of it. Ira leaned over his glass, rocking forward and back. Frank lectured Lane, who did not listen. He had busied himself with snapping the strap of Cleurdia’s brassiere. In the corner, Wendy smoked. Then over the heads of his friends, she looked at him, and he thought that she smiled an instant.

  On impulse, he winked.

  Back winked one dark brown eye.

  7

  HE RETURNED TO THE TABLE and sat next to Marian.

  Frank talked on: “…about the way the branches of the government balance that no one else ever solved before. In the Judiciary, we have nine men who sit above politics.” He counted on stiff fingers. “In the Legislature, the direct representatives of small groups of common people, and regional representation too. And in the Administrative, a man elected by all the people—”

  “So what took you so long, Chig?” Ira raised his head, stopped rocking, sipped his wine. “Marian talk your ear in?”

  Frank snorted.

  “In a way, Ira.” He smiled. “She warned me against my worst enemy. Isn’t that right, Marian?”

  “Yes.” She tried to laugh. “I warned him.”

  “Against who, Chigboy?”

  “My enemy.”

  “I sure hope it’s nobody here.”

  Chig almost asked Lane why he hoped that, then decided to let the matter die. “Nobody here now.”

  “Good, and so back to the wooing of Cloode.” He laughed, leaned down and kissed Cleurdia’s breast, leaving wet lip marks on her pink cotton blouse. “I’m getting hitched and taking her back with me.”

  “All that happen while I was in the W.C.?” His mouth tasted vinegar, excitement left over perhaps from his encounter with Marian. His mind buzzed.

  “Yes sirree, Mr. Dunford, while you were in the old W.C.” Cleurdia’s bra snapped. She sat quietly, her hands in her lap, her face a face in a portrait in a museum.

  Chig smiled. “Who’s best man?”

  “Well, Ira seems prejudiced against marriage, and Frank’s church won’t let him inside mine…”

  “That’s not true, Lane.”

  “…so that leaves you. Okay?”

  “It’ll be a pleasure.” He reached for the bottle. “Let’s drink to it.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Lane pushed forward his glass. “Damn good idea. Huh, Cloode?”

  “Yes, Lane.”

  Chig filled all their glasses, put the bottle down.

  “We’re drinking to my wedding, right?”

  “Just about.” Chig clinked Lane’s glass. They drank.

  “My fellow countrymen, and you too Cloode, I guess wine in the afternoon is getting to me a little bit, but I’m listening.” Lane began to talk. “I’m listening to you, Frank, and you’re right. It’s really great to come from a country like ours. Every four years, like in spring, the people have their say. And it runs so smooth we all just take it for granted. But I bet Cloode understands what I’m saying. This country’s a mess.” He leaned on Cleurdia, his hands beneath the table. She blushed. “Don’t you, honeybunch?”

  “Yes, Lane.”

  “That’s the thing we should remember, specially today. Presidents come and go, but the government continues on. We should drink to that.” He picked up the bottle, emptied it into their glasses. “I want to propose another toast. I’m not afraid to wave a flag sometimes, even if painters are supposed to be cynical.” He lifted his glass. “To home.”

  Frank nodded. “Sure.”

  “No matter what my father says it’s certainly the best place in the world to be an artist.” Ira clicked glasses with Frank, then Lane. “At least some bureaucrat isn’t telling you what—”

  “…the government is to somebody else’s and you’ll see just how true what I just said is. It’s the best civilized man has developed, better than the Greeks even.”

  Cleurdia raised her glass, her hand shaking. Marian stopped brooding to join the toast. Wendy held her glass a few inches from her tanned cheek, disinterested. Chig imitated her. Then they drained their glasses, and quietly at first Lane started singing, one of the two or three songs the people back home considered patriotic:

  God, our Father, gave this country…

  First Frank, then Wendy began to sing with him.

  Hills of iron and oak trees wintry…

  Ira and Marian came in, smiling at each other. Even Cleurdia hummed.

  To be a place of liberty…

  But Chig could not remember the words. He looked at their mouths, trying to read their lips.

  Pilgrims bold brought faith of old…

  To start anew in the wilderness cold…

  A place for liberty to ring!

  “What’s wrong with you?” Lane leaned on his elbows, staring at him.

  “I was listening.”

  “Listening?” He turned to Frank. “You hear that?”

  Frank lowered his eyes. The rest looked at him.

  “Well, didn’t you feel like singing?”

  He could only smile; his mind still buzzed, louder now.

  “Chigboy, did you hear me? Didn’t you feel—”

  “No, motherfucker!” Wow.

  Lane’s face grew very white, then very red. Chig waited for more to happen.

  “Marian?” Ira struggled to his feet. “I think I’m going to work today, maybe an homage to a fallen President. Anybody take a lift?”

  “I will.” Wendy mashed out her cigaret.

  Chig stood up; Marian, then Wendy came out into the aisle, avoiding his eyes.

  “Come on.” Lane got up. “Me and Cloode are going to spend a nice Sunday evening at my place.”

  “I guess you can drop me off, Ira.” For the day at least,
Frank had lost her.

  They all nodded good-bye, but no one spoke.

  Chig sat down, in the corner, in Wendy’s place. Clean white butts filled the ashtray on the table in front of him. She did not wear lipstick. He guessed he had upset her; she had left so quickly. Where on earth had those words come from? He tried always to choose his words with care, to hold back even anger until he found the correct words. Luckily, he had never suffered a pronunciation problem. His family lived in Harlem; he had grown up there, but had no trouble saying that, they, these, those or them. He had always spoken properly at Shaddy Bend Primary School. There, he had never heard those words, and as a gradeschooler, one of his parents had always driven him to school and back. But when he continued on to Shaddy Bend Upper School, twice each weekday he had walked between his house and the subway. Some days he had stopped to watch boys playing in the street, had heard that kind of talk, must have remembered it. He smiled, laughed behind closed lips, at the street words that had waited inside him all these years to jump out at Lane’s face. He shook his head, resigned. He would always stay—

  “Chig, I told them I lost my lighter.” Wendy stood at the end of the table. “Do you know my phone number?”

  “Yes, Wendy.”

  “Please call me tomorrow.” She turned and walked toward the door, the long black hair around her ears catching in a breeze, tanned cheeks glowing in the late-day light of the café.

  He half-rose, nodded at her back, to himself, whispering, “I will, Wendy.”

  Maya we now go on wi yReconstruction, Mr. Chuggle? Awick now?

  8

  WITCHES ONEWAY tspike Mr. Chigyle’s Languish, n curryng him back tRealty, recoremince wi hUnmisereaducation. Maya we now go on wi yReconstruction, Mr. Chuggle? Awick now? Goodd, a’god Moanng agen everybubbahs n babys among you, d’yonLadys in front who always come vear too, days ago, dhisMorning we wddeal, in dhis Sagmint of Lecturian Angleash 161, w’all the daisiastrous effects, the foxnoxious bland of stimili, the infortunelessnesses of circusdances which weak to worsen the phistorystematical intrafricanical firmly structure of our distinct coresins: The Blafringro-Arumericans.