Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  “Amen!” Hickman said, “and amen again….”

  “And the same with men. For when they run out of time they become like balloons without air, lifeless and hard to imagine as they were when they soared and gave pleasure. Memory helps, as do pictures….”

  “Yes,” Hickman added, “and the words of those who knew them and remembered the clothes they wore and the houses they lived in, and the things they did do and didn’t….”

  “Aye,” Love said, “but the sound and the feel, the smell and the sweat of their living is gone now forever….”

  “Amen!”

  “… For now like the air of the balloon, the mind has left the body, and the rest, Hickman …”

  “Is memory?”

  “No, it’s what you call history. For men live in time as they live in air, and run out of air they run out of time. But remember: Whether pure or polluted, air is always air and time always time. So while men come and go, time remains as the earth and the earth and the stars remain. And whether you speak of it as time-present, time-past, or time-future, Time goes on being Time—Yao! For that is the eternal joke of Time on the presumptions of man!”

  “Now there, Mr. New,” Hickman said with a slap of his thigh, “your preaching is leaning in my direction!”

  “Just listen to what I said to the boy,” Love said. “I told him—these are my words: ‘For men exist as men only in time, and while they leave traces of their acts and beliefs behind them the meaning of what they did and did not do—Yao! That’s the mystery that gets left out of what the State folks call history! You say that you’re looking for peace of mind, but what the hell do you mean by peace? Is it anything more than a quiet spell in the endless struggle of living? An endless war that’s carried on in this country according to a strategy of self-serving rules, stacked decks, and lawyers instead of bombs, cannon, and rifles?’

  “I said …”

  “… You told him …”

  “‘… Hell, boy, today this country is supposed to be at peace, and yet you, a man who has a fair share of the best of it, you come to me, a dispossessed man of the dispossessed People, all agitated. You returned here that way. From the outside you look like a healthy, wealthy young white man. Yes, but behind that gentleman-of-distinction expression of yours your mind is as jittery as a wild captured badger. A handsome, fine-furred badger that tries to escape its cage by loping around the floor in endless circles. And when it gets frustrated and tired it does side flips and begins retracing its path by turning barrel rolls over the same futile circles. Then it foams at the mouth and turns to pacing back and forth like a young circus tiger—only with you there’s a difference, because while the badger and tiger know that their cage is outside their bodies, yours is in the mind that controls your body….’ ”

  “… And that’s how the corn pone crumbles and the eggs get scrambled!”

  “True, and although I didn’t like saying it, that’s how it is. But I told him, I said, ‘But it doesn’t have to be, not for you. Not for a man of your appearance. Not in this mirage of a country with its ever-shifting shapes and confusion of people. Because except for the whirling in your head, the noise of ghostly cicadas, you’re free to come and to go. You can fly here, fly there—and do it first class. You can walk where State Negroes like Janey are not allowed, say things which for them is too dangerous, buy in places in which neither their money nor mine has enough value. So as I say, you are free. But the real question is what is this freedom? What are its boundaries?”

  “Now that’s a good question, what is the answer?”

  “Hell, Hickman, it ain’t a thing in itself—as you damn well know—neither is it a simple, one-way process. Because freedom has a twin, and to make life more complex its twin is Siamese….”

  “And the name of this indivisible twin?”

  “It’s Slavery! What the hell else could it be?”

  “Talk to me!”

  “And as I told the boy, ‘The privilege of freedom comes at a price even for a man who’s no longer shackled by all the color confusion that haunts this country. Because if you accept the fact that you’re neither black nor white, Gentile nor Jew, Rebel-bred nor Yankee-born, you have the freedom to be truly free. Which is something much different from mining for the fool’s gold that’s supposed to be waiting at the cloud-hung end of the State folks’ rainbow. For you there’s the true freedom of choosing goals that are more human than most of them have the good sense to seek—Yao! And yet they laughed at those of the People who once used funeral hearses as vehicles for pleasure. They sneered because they couldn’t see that the laugh, the joke, was on themselves. So unstrap your saddle and step back and take a good look around you. Then you’ll see that the question of freedom is all up to you. You have neither to ride nor be ridden in this race of races, but you must make a choice. Continue racing in the way of the crazy State people and you’ll remain like the badger, turning barrel rolls and pacing in a cage of your own choosing. Take the risks of identity that go with true freedom and you can be your own man. Then when your value, your manhood, is measured by the whiteness of your skin you can laugh as the State Negroes laugh whenever they decide to stand back and measure themselves and their ways against the myopic standards of others. And if someone happens to suspect that you’re what you are because you once shared the life of States Negroes like Janey—which many white States folks do, even if they’re too blind and stupid to admit it—you can be proud of being a pure, mammy-made, Janey-made American! Aye, and the son of a daughter of the People who was a beautiful woman of stature!’

  “I said, ‘So now listen and hear me: You stand on the edge, you straddle the line which divides the States people and drives them loco. That is your time-shaped advantage, and you should be proud and accept it. Yes, but with all that precious gift which human fumbling and time has left you, you go on letting your search for the answers to unanswerable questions act like a water-soaked thong that keeps shrinking your head in the heat of your searching, shrinking and causing your ability to deal with reality to run wild in your head….’ ”

  Pausing, Love looked into the tree, then took a sip of beer.

  “That was good advice and strong medicine,” Hickman said. “In fact, so strong that you could make it as a black Baptist preacher. So how’d the boy take it?”

  “Without a word. He just sat there looking at me for a while, then he left without a word. But he’ll be back, and right now he’s probably somewhere downtown with me on his mind.”

  “So after he left, what did you do?”

  “I felt exhausted and sad—Hey! What the hell are you up to? Trying to be some kind of detective?”

  “No, my friend, I’m only trying to do something for Janey.”

  “As a black Sherlock Holmes and me as your Watson?”

  “No, as a minister, or as you say, a man of medicine.”

  “I know that, but what the hell else are you?”

  “All right, so I was once a bluesman.”

  “Hell, I already know that! So what else are you, and how come you’re so interested that you’ve been sitting here all this time listening to old Love run his mouth—Yao, and staying even when he takes potshots at your religion?”

  Hickman laughed.

  “And me thinking you were wearing out your vocal cords. So now I discover that you’re still full of devilment. So all right, since you’ve told me something about yourself, I’m a father—No! I’m a foster father who lost a beloved son.”

  “That’s better,” Love said, “much better. And what else are you?”

  Thinking, He never lets up, Hickman climbed out of the antlered chair and stood staring down into Love’s challenging eyes.

  “All right, if you insist, I’m a grown old man who’s as confused in his own way as that lost boy of Janey’s.”

  “Yes,” Love said, “and even a heathen like me can say amen to that! But at least you learned something from all my talking. So now get the hell out of here, be
cause as you States Negroes say I’m dry as a bone and beat to my socks. Then when you see that Janey, give her my heathenish blessings. And now that you’ve become my brother in medicine, when you know more about what the boy’s up to, come back and I’ll do the listening.”

  “I’ll be glad to share whatever I learn,” Hickman said. “And this I can tell you right now: One thing that I learned as a musician was how to listen. So when it comes to you I’ll listen, and carefully, to anything you have to say. Even if it’s again about that poor man and that melon. Because as one who preaches funerals and arbitrates family matters I know how terrible it was.”

  “Yao! And probably more pitiful than anything you’ve heard or experienced. But that wasn’t my reason for telling the boy about it.”

  “No, but on my way back to Georgia I’ll be haunted by what performing such a task must have been for the poor man’s father. It must have been terrible.”

  “For all of us, the Chief, his wife, and the tribe. It was a devastating end to a very strange story. First the Chief and his wife lost their papoose to a child-stealing bear, who lost him to a white States man from the East, and after returning to the tribe as a fine young man he fell into trouble and was lost to the spirits.

  “But I told the boy the Chief’s son’s story because I had seen the same feverish look in the sick son’s eyes that I saw in the eyes of the States folks who flocked here to settle. Like him they had forgotten their names, or were trying to forget them, and they were breaking their own laws and taboos as they took over the land. So by the time the goggle eyes came they were ripe for the confusion released by the camera. So now the past has spiraled back to the present, and what has to be has to be….”

  “What has to be?”

  But now, staring into the trees as though seeing a vision, Love did not answer.

  “What is it that has to be?” Hickman said, and hearing no answer he arose from his chair. Then, seeing a drop of blood gleaming as it dripped from Love’s nose, he reached for his handkerchief to wipe it away. But stopped by the thought He’s too tired to be disturbed, he denied his impulse and with a silent God be with you made his way through the quiet of the house, out into the green of the courtyard, and on into the noise of the street.

  Reaching the hotel, he picked up his key at the desk and joined a group of guests who were waiting for elevators. And among the passengers leaving the first car to descend he recognized the young white man who had been so attentive when hearing the old jazz fan address him by the name Big Lon. Then as the young man left the car and greeted him with a smile and a nod he turned to respond, but the young man was gone.

  Oh well, he thought as the car ascended, He’s probably some young fellow who’s interested in early jazz and thinks of those times as a golden age. So why not? Golden it wasn’t, but it sure was exciting.

  Back in his room he stripped to his shorts, and as he washed his hands and face his mind returned to his visit with Love.

  What an ornery little rascal, he thought. The man’s mind moves like an eccentric dancer and he plays with words like a mockingbird imitating the song of anything around it. Yes, and even when being serious he couldn’t help playing the dozens with my religion and giving Negroes as much hell as he gave white folks.

  But whether he’s a medicine man or not, he’s surely one hell of a talker! Hickman, what are you supposed to make of a little fellow who says his blood is a mixture of black, white, and Indian and claims he’s a shaman? That’s as confusing as an Afro-American claiming to be a Rabbi. Still, when you think about it it’s no more confusing than a jazz and blues man like you turning into a Baptist preacher. So keep in mind that this country is a place that’s so fluid, changeable, and mixed up that most of its confusion goes undefined and unnoticed. But thank God that even in this Babel of a country the blood of the Lamb comes in many colors and speaks in many tongues and accents…. A little black book-reading Ishmael whose hand is turned against State folks, that’s Love. Still, he has compassion for that boy and a real friendship for Janey—should you call her? Yes, I’d better….

  When Janey finally answered the phone her voice was guarded.

  “It’s all right, Janey,” he said, “it’s me, Alonzo.”

  “Thank God,” Janey said, “I hesitated to pick up the receiver because I thought it might be him again.”

  “Are you saying that he’s been calling you?”

  “No, but not long after you left I looked out and saw him standing across the street. Did you learn anything from Love?”

  “Yes, I think so. But it’ll take a while to figure out exactly what it was. He’s quite a talker.”

  “A liar is what you mean, the old heathen. But I warned you. Did that white man go to see him?”

  “Yes, he did, and Mr. New tried to help him…. But tell me, how can I get holdof liofus? Is he at home?”

  “No, he’s not! What you want with him?”

  “I just want to talk with him. Maybe he can help me understand some of the things Love said about your visitor. Where can I find him?”

  “I can tell you, Alonzo, but I don’t think you’d want to be seen in the place where he works….”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that no self-respecting preacher would want to be seen in that kind of den.”

  “What kind of den?”

  “They call it a nightclub, but night or day it’s always full of lowlifers and whores.”

  “Well, and as you never let me forget, I’ve worked in a few myself. What does Cliofus do in this den?”

  “You won’t believe it, Alonzo, but he has a job of saying filthy toasts for those drunkards and telling them stories! Yes, and he makes pretty good money doing it. But if I hadn’t raised him and took care of him since he was a baby I’d throw him out of my house for doing it.”

  “Did you ever hear him perform?”

  “ME? I should say not! No self-respecting woman would ever let herself be seen in a dive like that. Besides, I’ve been listening to Cliofus run his mouth for most of his life, and since he’s always suffered from some kind of talking sickness I’ve had to live with it. But even the idea that anybody would pay to hear him is a sure sign that we’re living in a brand-new Babylon!” “I won’t argue with that, but who does he work for?”

  “……”

  “Janey, are you there?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m here….”

  “Then why don’t you answer?”

  “Because I’m ashamed….”

  “Ashamed of what?”

  “To have to tell you that Cliofus works for Buster.”

  “And who’s Buster?”

  “You remember Buster, he’s another of my little men. I raised him, but now after all I did to point him in the right direction he’s operating that den of the Devil. And because he liked the stories Cliofus used to tell him and the others from the time they were little, Buster decided that they could make some money by entertaining the riffraff.”

  “Now, that’s most interesting.”

  “No, it isn’t, it’s terrible! Although I do have to say that it’s the first and only job Cliofus ever had.”

  “I can see your objections, even though they’re both grown and on their own. Still, considering the stories I used to hear in barbershops, the idea is interesting. But in my barhopping days there was too much noise for that kind of thing. What’s the name of this place?”

  “It’s called the Wind Cave, but I’m told that folks who go there regularly have a different name for it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Alonzo, you won’t believe this, but they call it Buster’s Funky London! Why are you laughing?”

  “Because hearing you say ‘funky’ was so unexpected that it shocked me.”

  “I bet it did after all your days of hanging around with such riffraff.”

  “Yes, but that was long ago. Anyway, Janey, I’d better hang up now and get some rest. Then I think I’d better have a talk with Cl
iofus about your unwelcome visitor. Meantime, keep an eye out for him and let me know what happens.”

  “And you be careful, you hear me?”

  “I hear you, and so long for now.”

  Stretching out on the bed with his eyes on the ceiling, Hickman tried to make himself comfortable, but now his mind returned to Love’s account of the ill-fated movie and its connection with Janey’s young visitor. Did Love know about the terrible thing she had done to the young man when he was a child and about to be removed from her care? Probably not, otherwise Love would have mentioned it, or maybe he didn’t out of his regard for their friendship…. And the young man—where was he now? Had he talked further with Cliofus, and did he know about Buster and the nightclub?

  When the sound began he was cautiously climbing a steep mountain trail toward a point which offered the broadest view of the landscape below him. Beginning pianissimo, it was like the

  [WINDCAVE]

  HUM OF AN INSECT, a drill or a buzzer, and as he continued to climb he ignored it. But now, just as the top of the trail came into view, the hum became a fortissimo roaring—whereupon he found himself spiraling feet first in a fall that seemed endless; and as he plunged downward he told himself to relax, to hang loose, hoping to lessen the impact when at last his body struck the earth, rock, sand, or vegetation to which it was falling. I’ll probably be smashed into pieces, he told himself, but suddenly the fall took a horizontal direction and he was flying backwards along the landscape with a bounding floor underneath him. Then he was teetering on the rear platform of an observation car attached to a speeding passenger train and dancing desperately to stay on his feet—yes! But now as he grabbed wildly to steady himself by grasping the brass safety rail the rail flew away and he realized that with the train traveling at breakneck speed his staying alive depended upon his entering the car. And then, if successful, he would figure out both the reason for his fall and backward plunge into the unknown. Both answers were urgent, but for the moment there was no head-heel-toe of time for anything other than turn-turn-turn to face the door face face the door which was both before and behind him. And quickly, because the platform was narrow and the train’s clickety-clack speeding so jolting that turning to face the door was like willing himself to move without moving. Yet turn he must, and as he bounced and twisted he was taken by a feeling that wrestling against the train’s forward propulsion was as futile as engaging in a grappling match with an adamant bear. And as he lurched from side to side in keeping his balance, that image of his situation was becoming ever more real and embarrassing. Nevertheless, it was a case of do or die, and now he fought against the train’s headlong motion by thrusting his right arm toward the door behind him in search for its handle.