The Stone Face

by William Gardner Smith

  He spoke softly, and his face had taken on a dreamy abstracted quality. “See,” he said, “them folks in the State Department and the Foreign Office think Castro is a nigger. They think Khrushchev is a nigger, ’cause he ain’t Anglo-Saxon. They think the Chinese and Japanese are niggers. They even think the French and Italians and Spaniards are niggers. They think everybody’s a nigger if he ain’t white gentile American or English or German or maybe Scandinavian or Canadian. So when they have a big international conference or something, and Khrushchev gets mad and pounds his fist on the table, they look at each other in complete and sincere amazement and say, ‘Now, what do you figure’s got into that nigger? Don’t he realize he’s talkin to white folks?’ That’s how come they look so baffled and hurt all the time. They just don’t understand.”

  Gertie bent forward, weeping with laughter. “Yah, yah, them people is all messed up. They sick puppies.”

  “Yeah, they’re all messed up, all right,” Babe concurred, getting up and beginning to clear the table. “That’s why I’m over here away from ’em. And it’s why I ain’t never gonna go back. Wild horses couldn’t drag me.”

  Simeon said, “And you, Benson? Are you going back?”

  “Yeah,” Benson said, “when they elect a black president.”

  Simeon helped Babe carry out the dishes. There was something he had wanted to say when everyone was talking, but in not wanting to break the mood he had held it back. But in the kitchen he blurted it out.

  “Babe, have you met any Algerians since you’ve been here?”

  Babe stiffened. He knew what Simeon was going to say. Then with a kind of defiance and without looking at Simeon he said casually, “Not many. Why?”

  “I met some. We talked, I went out to the Algerian neighborhood.” Simeon hesitated. He still did not want to disturb the mood. But he had to say it: “Seems to me that the Algerians are the niggers of France.”

  Babe flicked the tap impatiently; he was making another pot of coffee. It was obvious to Simeon that Babe had already thought a great deal about what Simeon was saying, and that he did not want to think about it any more.

  “It’s . . . different,” he said softly, looking at Simeon. There was an expression of entreaty on his face. “There’s a war on. The French and the Algerians are fighting; they’re killing each other. It’s not the same thing.”

  Simeon said: “What I saw up in the North of Paris wasn’t different, Babe, war or not. The ghetto, the cops, the contempt—the same thing. And it was like that before the war—for a century. It was that that caused the war.”

  Babe snatched up the coffee pot. He spoke aggressively. “Forget it, man. Algerians are white people. They feel like white people when they’re with Negroes, don’t make no mistake about it. A black man’s got enough trouble in the world without going about defending white people.”

  But he was not convincing, even to himself. He too, wanted to hold onto the new peace, the new contentment. Babe shifted his eyes from Simeon, and without saying any more, turned and went back to the living room. Simeon stayed in the kitchen alone for a minute, then followed him.

  IV

  “SURE YOU don’t mind?” Hossein asked.

  “Of course not. Why should I mind?” Simeon answered. But he felt uneasy as he unlocked the door of the Chateau Club. Simeon was now a member of the private night club that Babe had first taken him to, the club where the manager had thrown out the loud American tourists.

  Simeon had been out walking with the four Algerians, Ahmed and Hossein and two of their friends, Ben Youssef and Mohammed, and as they neared the Boulevard Saint-Germain had said, “I have to leave you, now. Work calls. Got to meet a French dancer at the Chateau Club, get some photographs for a magazine.”

  “Chateau Club? What’s that?” Hossein asked.

  “A little place with candles where they play records and people dance.”

  “Dancers are always late, it’s a law of the trade. What do you say? We’ll go by with you and keep you company until she comes.”

  “Great.”

  To his own astonishment, Simeon felt uneasy. Why was that? Most of the people who went to the Chateau were ridiculous snobs, but Simeon liked being a member simply to show that he could be one for once in his life; it was the kind of exclusive club that would never have admitted him in the United States. Why hadn’t he ever invited Ahmed and Hossein to the club before? Why had it always happened that he met them or had dinner with them only at the Tournon or at the Place de la Contrescarpe or in the Arab quarter, but had never even thought of inviting them to some of the de luxe restaurants and cafés? Was it that, considering the misery of the Algerians, he was ashamed to let them know about this frivolous side of himself? Or was it something worse?

  Jean-Claude, the club manager, glanced questioningly at Simeon as he entered with the Algerians. There was the usual smoke, loud music and couples dancing in candlelight. Did coolness fall on the room as Simeon and the others came in? Robert, a waiter who usually greeted Simeon with a smile, bowed stiffly and waited until Simeon said, “A table, please,” before leading them to a table in a far corner.

  Simeon noticed the waiter’s manner and felt he was back in Philadelphia. He glanced around the room and saw that the dancer was not there. Hossein had been right. The waiter stood erect and impersonal as a soldier, waiting for them to order. Coffee, the Algerians said. There was no coffee. Vichy mineral water, then. Simeon ordered gin and tonic.

  “Happy, that waiter,” Hossein said. He grinned, but he was nervous; so were Ben Youssef and Mohammed. From the door, Jean-Claude watched them warily. The Frenchmen and women at nearby tables turned to stare at them; there were whispers and laughs.

  Simeon felt his face burn. But why should he care what these imbeciles were whispering among themselves! Racist bastards! But he was afraid of something. Of losing something. Acceptance, perhaps. The word made him wince. Of feeling humiliation again. For one horrible instant he found himself withdrawing from the Algerians—the pariahs, the untouchables! He, for the frightening second, had rejected identification with them! Not me! Not me! Can’t you see, I’m different! the lowest part of himself had cried.

  He looked down with shame.

  “What’re they staring at,” he heard Hossein whisper angrily.

  “Let ’em stare!” Ahmed said.

  How could this be? Simeon thought. Escape—that was what he had wanted. Sitting here with the Algerians he was a nigger again to the eyes that stared. A nigger to the outside eyes—that was what his emotions had fled.

  The door opened and the dancer he had been waiting for came in. She spoke to Jean-Claude, who pointed to Simeon. She beckoned to Simeon, and pointed toward the bar.

  “There’s the dancer. I’ll be right back,” Simeon said.

  Ahmed said, “We were just keeping you company. We’ll take off, now.”

  “No, stay,” Simeon said, almost sharply.

  Ahmed hesitated. Hossein looked at Simeon with a smile. “Okay, we’ll wait for you.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  He joined the dancer at the bar. “Hello,” she said. “The light is better here. Strange company you keep.” She carried an envelope with the photographs.

  Simeon said, “What’s strange about them?”

  “Why, those were bicots.”

  She said it with the naïve candor of a white American saying, “Why, those are niggers, my dear, you couldn’t really . . .”

  Simeon felt like hitting her. “Those bicots are giving your pure Aryan army a hard time, aren’t they! Those are friends of mine. I don’t know you. Let’s stick to business.”

  She whistled softly. “Okay, okay, don’t chop my head off. Let’s get finished with the interview, shall we? By the way, I’ll have a Scotch.”

  When Simeon returned to the table about twenty minutes later, he found H
ossein flushed with anger, Ben Youssef and Mohammed frozen into pale masks. Ahmed seemed more natural, but very tense.

  “They’d do better just not to let us into the place!” Hossein hissed. “That would be honest at least. But, no! They bow hypocritically and let you in and serve you, and everybody stares and gets all icy and whispers. I hate ’em! I hate the French! With their slick manners and twisted hearts!”

  Ahmed tried to calm him. At a nearby table, people laughed. Hossein’s eyes shot up, defiant; he was certain that they were laughing at them. But a calm now settled over Simeon. The bad moment had passed. He had crossed the bridge, and felt at one with the Algerians. He felt strangely free—the wheel had turned full circle.

  Suddenly, in the quiet of the room, Ben Youssef began talking rapidly and loudly in Arabic. His words tumbled out, and Simeon sensed that he was speaking almost uncontrollably simply to break through the icy atmosphere. Perspiration streamed down his face, and as his voice rose almost hysterically the voices of the other people in the club died down and a hush came over the room. People stared. Ben Youssef talked on and on; something had snapped inside him and he could not stop himself. Mohammed looked at him wide-eyed, nodding stiffly now and again. Hossein and Ahmed seemed hypnotized as they watched Ben Youssef with strained expressions. Simeon’s muscles tightened and his hands trembled. He felt a terrible sorrow for Ben Youssef, wanted to calm him, to help him, to take him by the hand and lead him out, lead him to safety. But none of them could move.

  All tension suddenly exploded. Ben Youssef laughed loudly, his eyes bulging, perspiration standing out in beads on his forehead. The others laughed loudly, too, shouting agreement to what Ben Youssef was saying. Simeon was sure he was saying nothing, he was saying words. But he too found himself laughing.

  The room was silent, now, except for the music. No one danced, everybody stared at the four bicots and the nigger, thinking they had gone crazy. Ben Youssef’s face was eerie in the candlelight. Jean-Claude, the manager, came out from the barroom and stood in the doorway looking with distaste at the group.

  Then, a woman’s voice could be heard addressing itself to a companion: “Really, they let just anybody in the Chateau these days, it seems.”

  Ben Youssef leaped to his feet. He stood livid, his lip trembling, staring at the woman who had spoken. The woman, a beautiful blonde of about thirty, smiled faintly in amusement and glanced at her companion. Her escort smiled also, looking at the waiters and at Jean-Claude for reassurance.

  “You talking about us?” Ben Youssef said, stuttering in his heavily accented French.

  Simeon shared Ben Youssef’s fury, but was anxious that he do nothing rash—the police would ask no questions.

  The woman said smiling, “Cher Monsieur, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  She let out a shriek as Ben Youssef moved toward her, grinning. “Don’t yell. Don’t be scared. Ain’t gonna hurt you. Just wanta dance with you. How’s that? You dancing with a bicot, be nice for that perfumed body of yours, huh? C’mon. Stand up! We’re gonna dance!”

  The woman gasped as though she were going to faint. Her companion looked at Ben Youssef indignantly. “This young lady . . .” he began.

  “Now, you keep out of this,” Ben Youssef said, pointing a threatening finger at him. “All of you keep out of this. I’m in a mood to tear me a Frenchman to pieces tonight.” He grinned again. “This is between me and the lady, ain’t it Mademoiselle? Come on, now. Let’s dance.”

  He moved to take her hand, and she screamed. The manager, followed closely by the waiters, rushed over and took Ben Youssef by the shoulder. Ben Youssef whirled, striking Jean-Claude’s hand.

  “Take your dirty French hands off me!”

  “Get out of here! You and your friends!”

  “Put me out if you’re big enough!”

  “I’ll call the police.”

  “Call them! I’m ready for some police tonight!”

  Enraged, the manager turned toward Simeon. “You brought these people in here. Get them out. I’m not joking, I’ll call the police.”

  Simeon opened his mouth to say something, but Ahmed stood up and said, “Let’s go. To hell with them.”

  “I ain’t going nowhere,” Ben Youssef said. “I’m beginning to enjoy myself here.”

  Hossein took Ben Youssef by the arm. “It’s not worth it. We see enough cops every day.”

  Ben Youssef and Hossein argued in Arabic. Finally, Ben Youssef calmed down, and let Hossein and Ahmed lead him toward the door. There was a loud buzz of voices in the room as they left.

  Simeon threw the money for the drinks on the table. The manager picked it up and shoved it back into Simeon’s hand.

  “Never mind the money. Keep it. Just return your key. We don’t want you back here . . . you and your friends.”

  Simeon tossed the money and the key back on the table. “You couldn’t drag me back here,” he said.

  Outside, Ben Youssef was still furious and he argued with the others in Arabic. Ahmed tried to calm him.

  Hossein said to Simeon, “You regret losing your key?”

  “Oh, no!”

  “You sure? I knew what the Chateau was when I suggested we stop by with you. I was surprised when you agreed. Life gets complicated sometimes. I know how you felt. You don’t regret anything?”

  “You sonofabitch,” Simeon laughed. “Was that a test? Did I pass?”

  “You did okay,” Hossein said. He winked and put a hand on Simeon’s shoulder.

  V

  1

  THE WEATHER had suddenly turned much cooler; the sun had disappeared, and a thick gray haze hovered over the rooftops. Passing the Monaco Café, Simeon saw Clyde just inside the window, leaning on a table with seven cognac saucers in front of him. Joey the Drunk stood at the bar, staring sullenly toward the street. It was late afternoon and Maria had not yet returned from her acting class, so Simeon went to Le Village for a quiet drink while he read Le Monde. In one of the cushioned alcoves he saw Jinx, Clyde’s wife, sitting with her six-year-old daughter and a strange man.

  Simeon resigned himself to the fact that he would have to speak to them. That child was going to become alcoholic just from the fumes, and a nymphomaniac by proximity. Jinx saw him and called, “Hey, Simeon, how are you? Come on over and meet Jacques.”

  Simeon shrugged and walked over to Jinx’s table.

  “Hello.”

  “Have you seen Clyde? He been asking about me?” She was good-looking, Simeon thought, but her hysterical eyes were too close together; she shook that horse-tail of hair like a whip.

  “I just saw him at the Monaco. Didn’t talk to him.”

  “The drunken ass. He’ll probably be in a foul mood as usual and take another swing at me when I get home tonight. If I get home.” She smiled at Jacques, a Frenchman apparently versed in the odd ways of American women tourists. “Join us, Simeon. Have a drink.”

  “I have to run. I’m just finishing one at the bar.”

  “You’re always running when you see me.”

  2

  Simeon went to the Tournon, where he knew Maria would look for him. The café was noisy and convivial; he waved to Madame Alazard, the owner, and to the old men playing bridge and belote. In the rear he found Ahmed with Henri, and at an adjoining table Lou playing chess with his girl friend Betty. He ordered a beer.

  Henri was saying, “I just wanted you to know it. We’re not all torturers and colonialists. Lots of us are against this war, especially the students.”

  “I know,” Ahmed said. “I’m a student myself, I know. But you’re not doing much.”

  “We have demonstrations . . .”

  “That’s not enough. You should refuse to serve in the Army.”

  “That would be . . . difficult.”

  “Everything’s difficult.”

  Lou
put in, “And of course, I suppose there’s always the possibility of working with the FLN.”

  Ahmed smiled. “I wouldn’t have dared to suggest it.”

  Simeon thought of Jinx. It always depressed him, seeing her or Clyde or some of the other foreigners here. They epitomized how empty the lives of the expatriates could be.

  Simeon thought of the recent scene at the Chateau Club. What was he doing here in Paris? What was he doing that made him any more worthwhile than Jinx?

  3

  But, God knew, he loved Paris. He loved simple things like being up all night, and in the morning going down to the Vert Galant, that green tip of the Île de la Cité that jutted into the Seine, and waving to the pilots of the barges.

  He liked the faces of the ordinary French people—not the shopkeepers, not the politicians, not the intellectuals, not the officials or the police, but the bus drivers, the street cleaners, the news vendors, the workers at Les Halles, the trainmen, the bricklayers and carpenters and factory workers. He read into their eyes dim memories of the French Revolution, the Commune, the Resistance. These things were not forgotten, they were there still in the French people and through them in Simeon. These same eyes expressed humor and the sheer joy of life. These people were idealistic enough to believe in the future, but cynical enough to be wary of politicians and promised words on paper. Paris was all right.

  He loved the “characters.” Like the Paris joker who dragged an empty leash around Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and when you asked him “What are you doing?” replied, “I’m looking for the Invisible Man.” “Why?” “I’ve found his dog.”

  Or Joey the Drunk, who had lived in a Red workers’ district of Paris at the time of the “Americans-Go-Home” campaign and the “Ridgeway Riots,” when Americans were insulted on the streets and American cars were spat on or worse. Joey had waked one morning to find Yankee Go Home painted in huge letters on his sidewalk. So he had gone out immediately and bought ten pounds of candy and an equal amount of spareribs, then walked through the neighborhood giving candy to every child he saw and a barbecued sparerib to each adult. That had worked. Nobody had suggested that he go home again.