by Frank Coates
CHAPTER 50
September 1951 — Emerald in New York! ran the headlines in her head. She couldn’t believe she was there: it all seemed like a script straight out of Hollywood.
The Statue of Liberty, Times Square, the Met. She’d been in a whirl since arriving, leaving her mother exhausted by her increasingly frantic pace.
‘Emerald, no,’ Dana said. ‘I’ve had enough. You said the Empire State Building would be the last stop today.’
‘But Mother-r-r, there’s this smashing photographic exhibition I simply must see.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘And I still haven’t signed on for my workshop in photojournalism.’
‘Photojournalism! I still really don’t know what that is. Anyway, I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow.’
Emerald flushed. ‘Applications close today.’
Dana sighed. ‘Oh, Emerald. My feet are killing me.’
‘You said you wanted to visit NYU — well, that’s where I enrol, and the exhibition is in the same neighbourhood.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I need to rest before the opera. If you must go, you may go yourself. I’m going back to the hotel.’
Emerald tried to look disappointed.
‘You have taxi fare,’ Dana added. ‘Just give the driver the name of the hotel, the Algonquin, and —’
‘Mother!’
‘Yes, Emerald. You’re almost twenty. But this is New York City.’
‘Is it really?’
‘Don’t be brazen.’
Emerald kissed her mother. ‘Thank you, Mummy,’ she said, and spun on her heel, pleased to be on her own at last. They’d been in New York for a week and Emerald had scarcely had a moment to herself.
‘And don’t be too late,’ her mother called after her.
Emerald skipped down the stairs of the subway and proudly found her way to New York University without the need to ask for assistance.
By the time she’d completed her application for the course, it was too late to do justice to the exhibition in Washington Square, but as she was leaving, she found a small exhibition described as a retrospective in an adjoining room in the university.
It was an example of some early photography by Ira Ketterman — an alumnus and past benefactor of the university. The pictures were taken in Africa; and Emerald, her interest in Africa recently piqued, was drawn to investigate.
Even a beginner like Emerald could appreciate the photographer’s keen eye. His antelopes and zebras had real movement as they crossed the grasslands in clouds of swirling dust, and his birds appeared snap-frozen in flight. In his photos of African dancers, she could almost hear again the flute and drums of the African musicians at the pub in Henley. And Ira Ketterman had an empathetic eye for people’s emotions. His monochrome study of a handsome young black native was done with such tenderness it almost brought tears to her eyes. He had caught both the young man’s wistful innocence and his obvious fascination with the science he was witnessing.
She was suddenly aware of the lateness of the hour, and hurried back to the hotel, but the old photographs remained foremost in her mind during the long evening at the opera.
It was clear that her mother was not the least interested in photography, so a few days later, Emerald again tackled the streets of New York alone.
Washington Square Park was crowded with exhibits tied or clipped to makeshift boards.
Most of the photographers were students at NYU; they were pleased to talk — especially to a foreigner — about their work. What remained of the day slipped away, and she’d seen only half of the exhibits. She hurried along the lines to catch a glimpse of what remained as the students started packing up their work.
A young man with a shock of fair hair was bent over a box, packing his work. Emerald stopped. He had lost his moustache, but it was definitely Raph.
He was absorbed in his task and didn’t notice her standing, waiting for him to see her. Her heart thumped. What if he didn’t recognise her? What if he did, and wasn’t interested? Her face still flushed when she recalled throwing herself at him and being rejected.
Raph stood and flicked his hair — now longer that she remembered it — from his face. He glanced at her, held her eyes for an instant, and then resumed rummaging in the box.
Emerald wanted to just die, or to shrivel up, or to flee, but her mortification rooted her to the spot. Then she noticed his small smile and a moment later he stood.
‘Miss Emerald Eyes,’ he said, grinning now. ‘My, my. What are you doing in New York?’
‘I … I’m here with my … that is, I’m visiting. I mean, I’m here for the season.’
She could have bitten her tongue for mention of the social season.
‘Oh … the season,’ he said raising his eyebrows emphatically. But he smiled again. To her relief he passed up the chance to tease her. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said instead.
He moved towards her and lightly touched her arm. Then he kissed her cheek.
She was disappointed, but wasn’t sure what else she could have expected.
‘It’s good to see you too, Raph. How do you like New York?’
He shrugged. ‘Same old capitalist shit as home in England. Worse, in some ways.’ He appeared reflective, then shrugged again. ‘But what about you? When did you arrive? What are you doing?’
‘Oh, I’ve been here a week or so. All a little boring, don’t you think? My mother insists on doing the rounds of the tourist attractions.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘Ah, I’m glad you have a chaperone. New York is full of evil temptations.’
She smiled with him. ‘My mother is too busy touring the sights to worry about me. I’d rather get involved with the arts. Exhibitions like this one. But I missed seeing your work.’
He turned to the packed boxes. ‘You did. All packed away.’
He looked at her and she had the almost irresistible urge to pat her hair into place or adjust the collar of her blouse.
‘I have a buddy with a pick-up who’ll be here soon to help me take this away. If you like, I can show you my work later.’
‘I’d like that.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Tell you what … why don’t you join me on Thursday? Most of us are attending a rally.’ He indicated the students in the park. ‘We could make our point to the powers that be, then I’ll show you my work.’
‘A rally?’
‘Yeah. A protest against the new set of labour laws that this fucking government is about to inflict on their workers.’
Emerald knew he was putting her to some kind of test. She didn’t flinch at his language, but a public protest against the government was another thing.
‘Where is it?’
‘We meet there at the arch at two, then we march all the way down Broadway to Times Square.’
He was grinning, daring her to accept. She wasn’t going to let him win the bluff.
‘So, what you’re saying is … wear comfortable shoes.’
‘You’ll come?’
‘Sounds wonderful.’
‘Until Thursday, then.’ He kissed her on the cheek.
‘I’ll be there.’
The tiered lecture room was almost full. Emerald arrived just as the lecturer began to speak and found a seat near the top row.
‘Photojournalism,’ he began, ‘is a new art form and is distinguished from other forms of photography by the following attributes.’
As he began to scrawl his notes on the blackboard, Emerald looked around her classmates. Most were quite young, no more than her age, with a few grey heads scattered among them. Everyone was taking notes. Emerald pulled a sheet of paper from her handbag and began to copy from the board.
Timeliness, objectivity and newsworthiness, she scribbled.
She learned that photojournalism was not as new as she had thought. It had been recognised as a separate section of photography for a hundred years, but it wasn’t until printing processes improved and the enabling technolog
ies of the 35mm camera and flash photography arrived that photojournalism became such a part of news reporting.
Emerald was pleased she’d not skimped on her equipment. She’d bought a Ferrania Condor with a coated 50mm lens and built-in flash synchronisation in London for almost twenty pounds. It was money well spent if she was to sell her work, which was her ambition. The final section of the lecture on commercial opportunities was therefore of particular interest to her. She noted the names of the big magazines willing to pay for journalistic photography.
In his inspirational concluding remarks the lecturer described the qualities of a good photojournalist: ‘You must first and foremost be a reporter, able to sniff out a story and make an instant decision to snap the shot. This means you must always carry your equipment with you, though you may be out in bad weather, crushed in crowds or even exposed to physical danger. The true photojournalist is always on the lookout for a story.’
Emerald filed out of the lecture theatre with her classmates, filled with enthusiasm. She couldn’t wait to test her ability to find a story and capture it on film. It occurred to her that she had a perfect opportunity in the student demonstration the following day. What better way to test her skills?
She arrived at the Washington Square Arch just after two o’clock to find a mass of young people surrounding it. There were maybe five hundred or a thousand people there, all of them animated and noisy, many carrying placards. She had no idea how she would find Raph. Then she heard him. He stood on the plinth beside George Washington, holding on to the marble elbow, telling the crowd that they mustn’t be intimidated by the police presence.
‘We have every right to march,’ he bellowed.
A roar of approval went up.
‘And we will!’
He climbed down, and the next speaker took his place, imploring the crowd to show solidarity by marching to Times Square.
She met Raph at the foot of the arch.
‘Emerald,’ he said, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her firmly on the lips. ‘Isn’t this great?’
Breathless, she spluttered that it was.
‘We’ll show these bastards that they can’t stop the workers,’ he added. ‘What’s that for?’
‘I’m going to take some photographs,’ she said, proudly brandishing her Ferrania Condor.
‘What for?’
‘If I get something good, I’ll sell it.’
He looked confused.
‘To a newspaper or magazine,’ she added. ‘I’ve decided to become a photojournalist.’
He burst out laughing.
‘Are you kidding? To be a journalist of any kind you’ve got to have some experience of life. Real life, not a day at the Henley Regatta, or at Royal Ascot.’
‘Well, that’s what you say, mister big-time photographer.’ She put on a brave face, but his derision hurt. ‘Everyone has to make a start, and mine is today.’
He stopped laughing. Although she didn’t feel she’d convinced him of her sincerity, she was pleased she’d spoken out.
The crowd surged towards Fifth Avenue.
‘C’mon,’ he said, and dragged her by the hand.
By strength of numbers, the students brushed aside the thin line of police facing the arch. They had clearly underestimated the size of the rally.
The happy throng marched down Fifth Avenue and at 23rd Street were joined by a few hundred more who had gathered in Madison Square. These were older men carrying banners of the various trades unions. They were singing stirring songs about workers united and red revolution. It seemed to Emerald that once the marchers had defied the police confrontation back at Washington Square and nobody was arrested, it vindicated their cause. A euphoric camaraderie was in the air. Emerald wanted to hug everyone, even the crusty old wharf labourers coming in from Madison Square. She smiled at the imagined expression on her mother’s face if she could see her now. Then she remembered her camera and began to snap photos at random.
Someone in overalls thrust a pocket-sized bottle of whisky at Raph, who was shouting to the bemused pedestrians and making rude gestures to drivers who planted their hands on car horns to sound their disapproval of the disruption.
Raph befriended a young black man among the unionists, and was soon chatting excitedly with him, sharing the bottle. Emerald was on the other side of Raph, unable to hear much of the conversation as she snapped her pictures.
Raph turned to her. ‘Emerald, meet Jelani. Jelani, this is Emerald.’
He had a handsome face and a pleasant smile. His accent was neither American nor British. She asked him where he came from.
‘Kenya,’ he said above the noise of the crowd. ‘I am here on a study tour with the Longshoremen’s Union.’
He passed her the whisky and, in the spirit of solidarity, Emerald took a swig. She almost choked. The fumes threatened to burst from her mouth in a fireball, but she held her breath until the burning sensation passed and she could risk speaking again.
She caught snippets of his story in the din. He was on a study tour. He had arrived a week earlier. He was a member of a union in Nairobi. He conveyed all his information in the slightly awed voice of the newcomer to New York. He reminded Emerald of herself. It was an odd feeling, but she felt that she and this left-wing, black African unionist had something in common.
As they came to the corner of Broadway and Seventh Avenue, a solid wall of blue uniforms awaited them, spreading from sidewalk to sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder.
The rally stalled, shifted and changed shape as the battle-hardened union leaders at its head sized up the opposition.
The officer in charge read the Riot Act and ordered the crowd to disburse.
‘The fuck we will!’ shouted someone behind Emerald, and the crowd, roaring their defiance, pressed forwards.
Later, Emerald remembered the mêlée that immediately followed the defiant call from the unionist: the flurry of batons and the placards raised as weapons; a mounted policeman — appearing from nowhere — forcing his frightened animal into the crowd; the horse, cutting a swathe through everyone, towering above her. A section of the crowd fell, or were pushed down, but she remained among the protesters and joined in the shouted oaths and swearing. During all of this, she couldn’t remember taking photographs, but someone came from the other side of the police lines, shoved a business card into her hands and shouted that he might be interested in taking a look at what she had, and then was lost in the crowd.
Then she was running as fast as her shoes would allow, with Raph and Jelani beside her. They dodged and dashed down streets and alleys until they were all thoroughly spent and dropped to a doorstep, laughing.
Emerald, who was thrilled to have stood her ground despite her terror, now looked at the business card in her hand. It had the New York Daily News banner on it. That was one of the magazines her lecturer had mentioned! She was elated and simply wanted to hug and kiss her friends for sharing the most exciting time of her twenty years.
Raph handed her the whisky and she took a mouthful. Even it tasted better than it had before the confrontation. For the first time she actually felt grown up — though now the fading light reminded her of her mother’s warning not to be late home.
When they’d recovered their breath, Raph took them to a hamburger café where he and Emerald laughed at Jelani’s rapture in describing what he called the best nyama choma he’d ever eaten.
Raph made a great show of concealing the whisky under the table as he added a shot to their Cokes. Emerald held her handbag so that his hands were concealed and instead of feeling guilt over this rule-breaking, she was happy. The photographer was certainly the most thrilling person she’d ever met.
‘OK. Let’s go,’ Raph said after they’d eaten.
‘Where?’
‘I know a place with great music.’
It was getting late, as Emerald and Jelani followed Raph down a half-flight of stairs under a flashing sign that said Dooby’s Downstairs. Even before they opene
d the door she could feel rather than hear the drum beats.
The door swung open. The club was smoky and filled with a great deal of sound. On the small bandstand were a drummer, a saxophonist, two guitarists and a double bass. Most of the crowd were black, but one white couple were on the dance floor, making some great moves.
‘It’s African music,’ Jelani said above the din.
‘Rhythm and blues,’ Raph added. ‘Some people are calling it rock and roll.’
‘It’s fabulous,’ Emerald said.
Raph took her hand and Emerald joined him on the dance floor.
The sound was like nothing she’d heard before, but she loved the primitive feel of it. Raph was a marvellous dancer, sending her easily into a spin and a slide recovery — drawing her back, close to his body. She found the music easy to dance to, listening to the constant back beat of the drums. Each time he pulled her to him, her heart raced.
When she’d mastered the basic steps, she dragged Jelani to the dance floor with them. Although not as accomplished as Raph, Jelani had a natural rhythm and his body seemed to fuse with the beat of the drums.
‘Hey, I want my girl back,’ Raph said as Jelani copied the close-in steps he’d seen Raph do.
Raph swept her away into the crush of dancing partners, and kissed her — right in the centre of the crowded dance floor. When she opened her eyes he was grinning at her.
Nobody took a shred of notice.
Emerald loved New York! And she thought she might love this wild, blond-headed communist even more.
CHAPTER 51
Jelani awoke next morning, Saturday, with the memories of the previous day still vivid in his mind. The whole day had been one long adventure. Firstly, there was the march with the Longshoremen, then meeting his new friends, Raph and Emerald, and finally dancing to the music in the nightclub. There’d been nothing in his life to compare with it.
It brought comparisons between New York and Nairobi into sharp focus and, as he lay in bed staring at the fly-specked hotel room ceiling, his thoughts went to Beth. He could tolerate being apart for a week while he worked in Nairobi and she in Lari, but somehow the vast distances that now separated them made the week since they’d seen one another appear so much longer. He missed her.
