These folks are the Kings of the Earth! I thought, hearing the bird make an ugly noise. There was nothing like this at the college museum—or anywhere else that I had ever been. I recalled only a few cracked relics from slavery times: an iron pot, an ancient bell, a set of ankle-irons and links of chain, a primitive loom, a spinning wheel, a gourd for drinking, an ugly ebony African god that seemed to sneer (presented to the school by some traveling millionaire), a leather whip with copper brads, a branding iron with the double letter MM … Though I had seen them very seldom, they were vivid in my mind. They had not been pleasant and whenever I had visited the room I avoided the glass case in which they rested, preferring instead to look at photographs of the early days after the Civil War, the times close to those blind Barbee had described. And I had not looked even at these too often.
I tried to relax; the chair was beautiful but hard. Where had the man gone? Had he shown any antagonism when he saw me? I was annoyed that I had failed to see him first. One had to watch such details. Suddenly there came a harsh cry from the cage, and once more I saw a mad flashing as though the birds had burst into spontaneous flame, fluttering and beating their wings maliciously against the bamboo bars, only to settle down just as suddenly when the door opened and the blond man stood beckoning, his hand upon the knob. I went over, tense inside me. Had I been accepted or rejected?
There was a question in his eyes. “Come in, please,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, waiting to follow him.
“Please,” he said with a slight smile.
I moved ahead of him, sounding the tone of his words for a sign.
“I want to ask you a few questions,” he said, waving my letter at two chairs.
“Yes, sir?” I said.
“Tell me, what is it that you’re trying to accomplish?” he said.
“I want a job, sir, so that I can earn enough money to return to college in the fall.”
“To your old school?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see.” For a moment he studied me silently. “When do you expect to graduate?”
“Next year, sir. I’ve completed my junior classes …”
“Oh, you have? That’s very good. And how old are you?”
“Almost twenty, sir.”
“A junior at nineteen? You are a good student.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, beginning to enjoy the interview.
“Were you an athlete?” he asked.
“No, sir …”
“You have the build,” he said, looking me up and down. “You’d probably make an excellent runner, a sprinter.”
“I’ve never tried, sir.”
“And I suppose it’s silly even to ask what you think of your Alma Mater?” he said.
“I think it’s one of the best in the world,” I said, hearing my voice surge with deep feeling.
“I know, I know,” he said, with a swift displeasure that surprised me.
I became alert again as he mumbled something incomprehensible about “nostalgia for Harvard yard.”
“But what if you were offered an opportunity to finish your work at some other college?” he said, his eyes widening behind his glasses. His smile had returned.
“Another college?” I asked, my mind beginning to whirl.
“Why, yes, say some school in New England …”
I looked at him speechlessly. Did he mean Harvard? Was this good or bad? Where was it leading? “I don’t know, sir,” I said cautiously. “I’ve never thought about it. I’ve only a year more, and, well, I know everyone at my old school and they know me …”
I came to a confused halt, seeing him look at me with a sigh of resignation. What was on his mind? Perhaps I had been too frank about returning to the college, maybe he was against our having a higher education … But hell, he’s only a secretary … Or is he?
“I understand,” he said calmly. “It was presumptuous of me to even suggest another school. I guess one’s college is really a kind of mother and father … a sacred matter.”
“Yes, sir. That’s it,” I said in hurried agreement.
His eyes narrowed. “But now I must ask you an embarrassing question. Do you mind?”
“Why, no, sir,” I said nervously.
“I don’t like to ask this, but it’s quite necessary …” He leaned forward with a pained frown. “Tell me, did you read the letter which you brought to Mr. Emerson? This,” he said, taking the letter from the table.
“Why, no, sir! It wasn’t addressed to me, so naturally I wouldn’t think of opening it …”
“Of course not, I know you wouldn’t,” he said, fluttering his hand and sitting erect. “I’m sorry and you must dismiss it, like one of those annoying personal questions you find so often nowadays on supposedly impersonal forms.”
I didn’t believe him. “But was it opened, sir? Someone might have gone into my things …”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. Please forget the question … And tell me, please, what are your plans after graduation?”
“I’m not sure, sir, I’d like to be asked to remain at the college as a teacher, or as a member of the administrative staff. And … Well …”
“Yes? And what else?”
“Well—er, I guess I’d really like to become Dr. Bledsoe’s assistant …”
“Oh, I see,” he said, sitting back and forming his mouth into a thin-lipped circle. “You’re very ambitious.”
“I guess I am, sir. But I’m willing to work hard.”
“Ambition is a wonderful force,” he said, “but sometimes it can be blinding … On the other hand, it can make you successful—like my father …” A new edge came into his voice and he frowned and looked down at his hands, which were trembling. “The only trouble with ambition is that it sometimes blinds one to realities … Tell me, how many of these letters do you have?”
“I had about seven, sir,” I replied, confused by his new turn. “They’re—”
“Seven!” He was suddenly angry.
“Yes, sir, that was all he gave me …”
“And how many of these gentlemen have you succeeded in seeing, may I ask?”
A sinking feeling came over me. “I haven’t seen any of them personally, sir.”
“And this is your last letter?”
“Yes, sir, it is, but I expect to hear from the others … They said—”
“Of course you will, and from all seven. They’re all loyal Americans.”
There was unmistakable irony in his voice now, and I didn’t know what to say.
“Seven,” he repeated mysteriously. “Oh, don’t let me upset you,” he said with an elegant gesture of self-disgust. “I had a difficult session with my analyst last evening and the slightest thing is apt to set me off. Like an alarm clock without control— Say!” he said, slapping his palms against his thighs. “What on earth does that mean?” Suddenly he was in a state. One side of his face had begun to twitch and swell.
I watched him light a cigarette, thinking, What on earth is this all about?
“Some things are just too unjust for words,” he said, expelling a plume of smoke, “and too ambiguous for either speech or ideas. By the way, have you ever been to the Club Calamus?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it, sir,” I said.
“You haven’t? It’s very well known. Many of my Harlem friends go there. It’s a rendezvous for writers, artists and all kinds of celebrities. There’s nothing like it in the city, and by some strange twist it has a truly continental flavor.”
“I’ve never been to a night club, sir. I’ll have to go there to see what it’s like after I’ve started earning some money,” I said, hoping to bring the conversation back to the problem of jobs.
He looked at me with a jerk of his head, his face beginning to twitch again.
“I suppose I’ve been evading the issue again—as always. Look,” he burst out impulsively. “Do you believe that two people, two strangers who have never seen one anoth
er before can speak with utter frankness and sincerity?”
“Sir?”
“Oh, damn! What I mean is, do you believe it possible for us, the two of us, to throw off the mask of custom and manners that insulate man from man, and converse in naked honesty and frankness?”
“I don’t know what you mean exactly, sir,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“I …”
“Of course, of course. If I could only speak plainly! I’m confusing you. Such frankness just isn’t possible because all our motives are impure. Forget what I just said. I’ll try to put it this way—and remember this, please …”
My head spun. He was addressing me, leaning forward confidentially, as though he’d known me for years, and I remembered something my grandfather had said long ago: Don’t let no white man tell you his business, ’cause after he tells you he’s liable to git shame he tole it to you and then he’ll hate you. Fact is, he was hating you all the time …
“… I want to try to reveal a part of reality that is most important to you—but I warn you, it’s going to hurt. No, let me finish,” he said, touching my knee lightly and quickly removing his hand as I shifted my position.
“What I want to do is done very seldom, and, to be honest, it wouldn’t happen now if I hadn’t sustained a series of impossible frustrations. You see—well, I’m a thwarted … Oh, damn, there I go again, thinking only of myself … We’re both frustrated, understand? Both of us, and I want to help you …”
“You mean you’ll let me see Mr. Emerson?”
He frowned. “Please don’t seem so happy about it, and don’t leap to conclusions. I want to help, but there is a tyranny involved …”
“A tyranny?” My lungs tightened.
“Yes. That’s a way of putting it. Because to help you I must disillusion you …”
“Oh, I don’t think I mind, sir. Once I see Mr. Emerson, it’ll be up to me. All I want to do is speak to him.”
“Speak to him,” he said, getting quickly to his feet and mashing his cigarette into the tray with shaking fingers. “No one speaks to him. He does the speaking—” Suddenly he broke off. “On second thought, perhaps you’d better leave me your address and I’ll mail you Mr. Emerson’s reply in the morning. He’s really a very busy man.”
His whole manner had changed.
“But you said …” I stood up, completely confused. Was he having fun with me? “Couldn’t you let me talk to him for just five minutes?” I pleaded. “I’m sure I can convince him that I’m worthy of a job. And if there’s someone who has tampered with my letter, I’ll prove my identity … Dr. Bledsoe would—”
“Identity! My God! Who has any identity anymore anyway? It isn’t so perfectly simple. Look,” he said with an anguished gesture. “Will you trust me?”
“Why, yes, sir, I trust you.”
He leaned forward. “Look,” he said, his face working violently, “I was trying to tell you that I know many things about you—not you personally, but fellows like you. Not much, either, but still more than the average. With us it’s still Jim and Huck Finn. A number of my friends are jazz musicians, and I’ve been around. I know the conditions under which you live— Why go back, fellow? There is so much you could do here where there is more freedom. You won’t find what you’re looking for when you return anyway; because so much is involved that you can’t possibly know. Please don’t misunderstand me; I don’t say all this to impress you. Or to give myself some kind of sadistic catharsis. Truly, I don’t. But I do know this world you’re trying to contact—all its virtues and all its unspeakables— Ha, yes, unspeakables. I’m afraid my father considers me one of the unspeakables … I’m Huckleberry, you see …”
He laughed drily as I tried to make sense of his ramblings. Huckleberry? Why did he keep talking about that kid’s story? I was puzzled and annoyed that he could talk to me this way because he stood between me and a job, the campus …
“But I only want a job, sir,” I said. “I only want to make enough money to return to my studies.”
“Of course, but surely you suspect there is more to it than that. Aren’t you curious about what lies behind the face of things?”
“Yes, sir, but I’m mainly interested in a job.”
“Of course,” he said, “but life isn’t that simple …”
“But I’m not bothered about all the other things, whatever they are, sir. They’re not for me to interfere with and I’ll be satisfied to go back to college and remain there as long as they’ll allow me to.”
“But I want to help you do what is best,” he said. “What’s best, mind you. Do you wish to do what’s best for yourself?”
“Why, yes, sir. I suppose I do …”
“Then forget about returning to the college. Go somewhere else …”
“You mean leave?”
“Yes, forget it …”
“But you said that you would help me!”
“I did and I am—”
“But what about seeing Mr. Emerson?”
“Oh, God! Don’t you see that it’s best that you do not see him?”
Suddenly I could not breathe. Then I was standing, gripping my brief case. “What have you got against me?” I blurted. “What did I ever do to you? You never intended to let me see him. Even though I presented my letter of introduction. Why? Why? I’d never endanger your job—”
“No, no, no! Of course not,” he cried, getting to his feet. “You’ve misunderstood me. You mustn’t do that! God, there’s too much misunderstanding. Please don’t think I’m trying to prevent you from seeing my—from seeing Mr. Emerson out of prejudice …”
“Yes, sir, I do,” I said angrily. “I was sent here by a friend of his. You read the letter, but still you refuse to let me see him, and now you’re trying to get me to leave college. What kind of man are you, anyway? What have you got against me? You, a northern white man!”
He looked pained. “I’ve done it badly,” he said, “but you must believe that I am trying to advise you what is best for you.” He snatched off his glasses.
“But I know what’s best for me,” I said. “Or at least Dr. Bledsoe does, and if I can’t see Mr. Emerson today, just tell me when I can and I’ll be here …”
He bit his lips and shut his eyes, shaking his head from side to side as though fighting back a scream. “I’m sorry, really sorry that I started all of this,” he said, suddenly calm. “It was foolish of me to try to advise you, but please, you mustn’t believe that I’m against you … or your race. I’m your friend. Some of the finest people I know are Neg—Well, you see, Mr. Emerson is my father.”
“Your father!”
“My father, yes, though I would have preferred it otherwise. But he is, and I could arrange for you to see him. But to be utterly frank, I’m incapable of such cynicism. It would do you no good.”
“But I’d like to take my chances, Mr. Emerson, sir…. This is very important to me. My whole career depends upon it.”
“But you have no chance,” he said.
“But Dr. Bledsoe sent me here,” I said, growing more excited. “I must have a chance …”
“Dr. Bledsoe,” he said with distaste. “He’s like my … he ought to be horsewhipped! Here,” he said, sweeping up the letter and thrusting it crackling toward me. I took it, looking into his eyes that burned back at me.
“Go on, read it,” he cried excitedly. “Go on!”
“But I wasn’t asking for this,” I said.
“Read it!”
My dear Mr. Emerson:
The bearer of this letter is a former student of ours (I say former because he shall never, under any circumstances, be enrolled as a student here again) who has been expelled for a most serious defection from our strictest rules of deportment.
Due, however, to circumstances the nature of which I shall explain to you in person on the occasion of the next meeting of the board, it is to the best interests of the college that this young man have no knowledge of the finali
ty of his expulsion. For it is indeed his hope to return here to his classes in the fall. However, it is to the best interests of the great work which we are dedicated to perform, that he continue undisturbed in these vain hopes while remaining as far as possible from our midst.
This case represents, my dear Mr. Emerson, one of the rare, delicate instances in which one for whom we held great expectations has gone grievously astray, and who in his fall threatens to upset certain delicate relationships between certain interested individuals and the school. Thus, while the bearer is no longer a member of our scholastic family, it is highly important that his severance with the college be executed as painlessly as possible. I beg of you, sir, to help him continue in the direction of that promise which, like the horizon, recedes ever brightly and distantly beyond the hopeful traveler.
Respectfully, I am your humble servant,
A. Hebert Bledsoe
I raised my head. Twenty-five years seemed to have lapsed between his handing me the letter and my grasping its message. I could not believe it, tried to read it again. I could not believe it, yet I had a feeling that it all had happened before. I rubbed my eyes, and they felt sandy as though all the fluids had suddenly dried.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry.”
“What did I do? I always tried to do the right thing …”
“That you must tell me,” he said. “To what does he refer?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know …”
“But you must have done something.”
“I took a man for a drive, showed him into the Golden Day to help him when he became ill … I don’t know …”
I told him falteringly of the visit to Trueblood’s and the trip to the Golden Day and of my expulsion, watching his mobile face reflecting his reaction to each detail.
Invisible Man Page 19
