The Blacker the Berry

by Wallace Thurman

  Her partner was congenial. He introduced himself, but she did not hear his name, for at that moment, Alva and his partner glided close by. Emma Lou actually shoved the supple, slender boy she was dancing with in Alva’s direction. She mustn’t lose him this time. She must speak. They veered close to one another. They almost collided. Alva looked into her face. She smiled and spoke. He acknowledged her salute, but stared at her, frankly perplexed, and there was no recognition in his face as he moved away, bending his head close to that of his partner, the better to hear something she was asking him.

  The slender brown boy clung to Emma Lou’s arm, treated her to a soda, and, at her request, piloted her around the promenade. She saw Alva sitting in a box in the balcony, and suggested to her companion that they parade around the balcony for a while. He assented. He was lonesome, too. First summer in New York. Just graduated from Virginia Union University. Going to Columbia School of Law next year. Nice boy, but no appeal. Too—supple.

  They passed by Alva’s box. He wasn’t there. Two other couples and the girl he had been dancing with were. Emma Lou and her companion walked the length of the balcony, then re-traced their steps just in time to see Alva coming around the corner carrying a cup of water. She watched the rhythmic swing of his legs, like symmetrical pendulums, perfectly shaped; and she admired once more the intriguing lines of his body and pleasing foreignness of his face. As they met, she smiled at him. He was certain he did not know her but he stopped and was polite, feeling that he must find out who she was and where he had met her.

  “How do you do?” Emma Lou held out her hand. He shifted the cup of water from his right hand to his left. “I’m glad to see you again.” They shook hands. His clasp was warm, his palm soft and sweaty. The supple lad stepped to one side. “I—I,” Emma Lou was speaking now, “have often wondered if we would meet again.” Alva wanted to laugh. He could not imagine who this girl with the purple-powdered skin was. Where had he seen her? She must be mistaking him for some one else. Well, he was game. He spoke sincerely:

  “And I, too, have wanted to see you.”

  Emma Lou couldn’t blush, but she almost blubbered with joy.

  “Perhaps we’ll have a dance together.”

  “My God,” thought Alva, “she’s a quick worker.”

  “Oh, certainly, where can I find you?”

  “Downstairs on the promenade, near the center boxes.”

  “The one after this?” This seemed to be the easiest way out. He could easily dodge her later.

  “Yes,” and she moved away, the supple lad clinging to her arm again.

  “Who’s the ‘spade,’ Alva?” Geraldine had seen him stop to talk to her.

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Aw, sure you know who she is. You danced with her at Small’s.” Braxton hadn’t forgotten.

  “Well, I never. Is that it?” Laughter all around as he told about their first meeting. But he didn’t dodge her, for Geraldine and Braxton riled him with their pertinacious badinage. He felt that they were making more fun of him than of her, and to show them just how little he minded their kidding he stalked off to find her. She was waiting, the slim, brown stripling swaying beside her, importuning her not to wait longer. He didn’t want to lose her. She didn’t want to lose Alva, and was glad when they danced off together.

  “Who’s your boy friend?” Alva had fortified himself with gin. His breath smelled familiar.

  “Just an acquaintance.” She couldn’t let him know that she had come here unescorted. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

  “Of course, I did; how could I forget you?” Smooth tongue, phrases with a double meaning.

  “I didn’t forget you.” Emma Lou was being coy. “I have often looked for you.”

  Looked for him where? My God, what an impression he must have made! He wondered what he had said to her before. Plunge in boy, plunge! The blacker the berry—he chuckled to himself.

  Orchestra playing “Blue Skies,” as an especial favor to her. Alva telling her his name and giving her his card, and asking her to ’phone him some day. Alva close to her and being nice, his arms tightening about her. She would call him tomorrow. Ecstasy ended too soon. The music stopped. He thanked her for the dance and left her standing on the promenade by the side of the waiting slender stripling. She danced with him twice more, then let him take her home.

  At ten the next morning Emma Lou called Alva. Braxton came to the telephone.

  “Alva’s gone to work; who is it?” People should have more sense than to call that early in the morning. He never got up until noon. Emma Lou was being apologetic.

  “Could you tell me what time he will be in?”

  “’Bout six-thirty. Who shall I say called? This is his roommate.”

  “Just . . . Oh . . . I’ll call him later. Thank you.”

  Braxton swore. “Why in the hell does Alva give so many damn women his ’phone number?”

  Six-thirty-five. His roommate had said about six-thirty. She called again. He came to the ’phone. She thought his voice was more harsh than usual.

  “Oh, I’m all right, only tired.”

  “Did you work hard?”

  “I always work hard.”

  “I . . . I . . . just thought I’d call.”

  “Glad you did, call me again some time. Good-bye”—said too quickly. No chance to say “When will I see you again?”

  She went home, got into the bed, and cried herself to sleep.

  Arline returned two days ahead of schedule. Things settled back into routine. The brown stripling had taken Emma Lou out twice, but upon her refusal to submit herself to him, had gone away in a huff, and had not returned. She surmised that it was the first time he had made such a request of any one. He did it so ineptly. Work. Home. Walks. Theaters downtown during the afternoon, and thoughts of Alva. Finally, she just had to call him again. He came to the ’phone:

  “Hello. Who? Emma Lou? Where have you been? I’ve been wondering where you were?”

  She was shy, afraid she might be too bold. But Alva had had his usual three glasses of before-dinner gin. He helped her out.

  “When can I see you, Sugar?”

  Sugar! He had called her “sugar.” She told him where she worked. He was to meet her after the theater that very night.

  “How many nights a week you gonna have that little inkspitter up here?”

  “Listen here, Brax, you have who you want up here, don’t you?”

  “That ain’t it. I just don’t like to see you tied up with a broad like that.”

  “Why not? She’s just as good as the rest, and you know what they say, ‘The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice.’”

  “The only thing a black woman is good for is to make money for a brown-skin papa.”

  “I guess I don’t know that.”

  “Well,” Braxton was satisfied now, “if that’s the case . . .”

  He had faith in Alva’s wisdom.

  Part 4

  Rent Party

  Saturday evening. Alva had urged her to hurry uptown from work. He was going to take her on a party with some friends of his. This was the first time he had ever asked her to go to any sort of social affair with him. She had never met any of his friends save Braxton, who scarcely spoke to her, and never before had Alva suggested taking her to any sort of social gathering either public or semi-public. He often took her to various motion picture theaters, both downtown and in Harlem, and at least three nights a week he would call for her at the theater and escort her to Harlem. On these occasions they often went to Chinese restaurants or to ice cream parlors before going home. But usually they would go to City College Park, find an empty bench in a dark corner where they could sit and spoon before retiring either to her room or to Alva’s.

  Emma Lou had, long before this, suggested going to a dance or to a party, but Alva had always countered that he never attended such affairs during the summer months, that he stayed away from them for precisely the same reason that h
e stayed away from work, namely, because it was too hot. Dancing, said he, was a matter of calisthenics, and calisthenics were work. Therefore it, like any sort of physical exercise, was taboo during hot weather.

  Alva sensed that sooner or later Emma Lou would become aware of his real reason for not taking her out among his friends. He realized that one as color-conscious as she appeared to be would, at some not so distant date, jump to what for him would be uncomfortable conclusions. He did not wish to risk losing her before the end of summer, but neither could he risk taking her out among his friends, for he knew too well that he would be derided for his unseemly preference for “dark meat,” and told publicly without regard for her feelings, that “black cats must go.”

  Furthermore he always took Geraldine to parties and dances. Geraldine with her olive-colored skin and straight black hair. Geraldine, who of all the people he pretended to love, really inspired him emotionally as well as physically, the one person he conquested without thought of monetary gain. Yet he had to do something with Emma Lou, and release from the quandary presented itself from most unexpected quarters.

  Quite accidentally, as things of the sort happen in Harlem with its complex but interdependable social structure, he had become acquainted with a young Negro writer, who had asked him to escort a group of young writers and artists to a house-rent party. Though they had heard much of this phenomenon, none had been on the inside of one, and because of their rather polished manners and exteriors, were afraid that they might not be admitted. Proletarian Negroes are as suspicious of their more sophisticated brethren as they are of white men, and resent as keenly their intrusions into their social world. Alva had consented to act as cicerone, and, realizing that these people would be more or less free from the color prejudice exhibited by his other friends, had decided to take Emma Lou along, too. He was also aware of her intellectual pretensions, and felt that she would be especially pleased to meet recognized talents and outstanding personalities. She did not have to know that these were not his regular companions, and from then on she would have no reason to feel that he was ashamed to have her meet his friends.

  Emma Lou could hardly attend to Arline’s change of complexion and clothes between acts and scenes, so anxious was she to get to Alva’s house and to the promised party. Her happiness was complete. She was certain now that Alva loved her, certain that he was not ashamed or even aware of her dusky complexion. She had felt from the first that he was superior to such inane truck, now she knew it. Alva loved her for herself alone, and loved her so much that he didn’t mind her being a coal scuttle blond.

  Sensing something unusual, Arline told Emma that she would remove her own makeup after the performance, and let her have time to get dressed for the party. This she proceeded to do all through the evening, spending much time in front of the mirror at Arline’s dressing table, manicuring her nails, marcelling her hair, and applying various creams and cosmetics to her face in order to make her despised darkness less obvious. Finally, she put on one of Arline’s less pretentious afternoon frocks, and set out for Alva’s house.

  As she approached his room door, she heard much talk and laughter, moving her to halt and speculate whether or not she should go in. Even her unusual and high-tensioned jubilance was not powerful enough to overcome immediately her shyness and fears. Suppose these friends of Alva’s would not take kindly to her? Suppose they were like Braxton, who invariably curled his lip when he saw her, and seldom spoke even as much as a word of greeting? Suppose they were like the people who used to attend her mother’s and grandmother’s teas, club meetings, and receptions, dismissing her with—“It beats me how this child of yours looks so unlike the rest of you. . . . Are you sure it isn’t adopted.” Or suppose they were like the college youth she had known in Southern California? No, that couldn’t be. Alva would never invite her where she would not be welcome. These were his friends. And so was Braxton, but Alva said he was peculiar. There was no danger. Alva had invited her. She was here. Anyway she wasn’t so black. Hadn’t she artificially lightened her skin about four or five shades until she was almost brown? Certainly it was all right. She needn’t be a foolish ninny all her life. Thus, reassured, she knocked on the door, and felt herself trembling with excitement and internal uncertainty as Alva let her in, took her hat and coat, and proceeded to introduce her to the people in the room.

  “Miss Morgan, meet Mr. Tony Crews. You’ve probably seen his book of poems. He’s the little jazz boy, you know.”

  “Emma Lou bashfully touched the extended hand of the curly-headed poet. She had not seen or read his book, but she had often noticed his name in the newspapers and magazines. He was all that she had expected him to be except that he had pimples on his face. These didn’t fit in with her mental picture.

  “Miss Morgan, this is Cora Thurston. Maybe I should’a introduced you ladies first.”

  “I’m no lady, and I hope you’re not either, Miss Morgan.” She smiled, shook Emma Lou’s hand, then turned away to continue her interrupted conversation with Tony Crews.

  “Miss Morgan, meet . . . ,” he paused, and addressed a tall, dark yellow youth stretched out on the floor, “What name you going by now?”

  The boy looked up and smiled.

  “Why, Paul, of course.”

  “All right then, Miss Morgan, this is Mr. Paul, he changes his name every season.”

  Emma Lou sought to observe this person more closely, and was shocked to see that his shirt was open at the neck and that he was sadly in need of a haircut and shave.

  “Miss Morgan, meet Mr. Walter.” A small slender dark youth with an infectious smile and small features. His face was familiar. Where had she seen him before?

  “Now that you’ve met every one, sit down on the bed there beside Truman and have a drink. Go on with your talk folks,” he urged as he went over to the dresser to fill a glass with a milk-colored liquid. Cora Thurston spoke up in answer to Alva’s adjuration:

  “Guess there ain’t much more to say. Makes me mad to discuss it anyhow.”

  “No need of getting mad at people like that,” said Tony Crews simply and softly. “I think one should laugh at such stupidity.”

  “And ridicule it, too,” came from the luxurious person sprawled over the floor, for he did impress Emma Lou as being luxurious, despite the fact that his suit was unpressed, and that he wore neither socks nor necktie. She noticed the many graceful gestures he made with his hands, but wondered why he kept twisting his lips to one side when he talked. Perhaps he was trying to mask the size of his mouth.

  Truman was speaking now, “Ridicule will do no good, nor mere laughing at them. I admit those weapons are about the only ones an intelligent person would use, but one must also admit that they are rather futile.”

  “Why futile?” Paul queried indolently.

  “They are futile,” Truman continued, “because, well, those people cannot help being like they are—their environment has made them that way.”

  Miss Thurston muttered something. It sounded like “hooey,” then held out an empty glass. “Give me some more firewater, Alva.” Alva hastened across the room and re-filled her glass. Emma Lou wondered what they were talking about. Again Cora broke the silence, “You can’t tell me they can’t help it. They kick about white people, then commit the same crime.”

  There was a knock on the door, interrupting something Tony Crews was about to say. Alva went to the door.

  “Hello, Ray.” A tall, blond, fair-skinned youth entered. Emma Lou gasped, and was more bewildered than ever. All of this silly talk and drinking, and now—here was a white man!

  “Hy, everybody, Jusas Chraust, I hope you saved me some liquor.” Tony Crews held out his empty glass and said quietly, “We’ve had about umpteen already, so I doubt if there’s any more left.”

  You can’t kid me, Bo. I know Alva would save me a dram or two.” Having taken off his hat and coat he squatted down on the floor beside Paul.

  Truman turned to Emma Lou. “Oh, R
ay, meet Miss Morgan. Mr. Jorgenson, Miss Morgan.”

  “Glad to know you; pardon my not getting up, won’t you?” Emma Lou didn’t know what to say, and couldn’t think of anything appropriate, but since he was smiling, she tried to smile, too, and nodded her head.

  “What’s the big powwow?” he asked. “All of you look so serious. Haven’t you had enough liquor, or are you just trying to settle the ills of the universe?”

  “Neither,” said Paul. “They’re just damning our ‘pink niggers.’”

  Emma Lou was aghast. Such extraordinary people—saying “nigger” in front of a white man! Didn’t they have any race pride or proper bringing up? Didn’t they have any common sense?

  “What’ve they done now?” Ray asked, reaching out to accept the glass Alva was handing him.

  “No more than they’ve always done,” Tony Crews answered. “Cora here just felt like being indignant, because she heard of a forthcoming wedding in Brooklyn to which the prospective bride and groom have announced they will not invite any dark people.”

  “Seriously now,” Truman began. Ray interrupted him.

  “Who in the hell wants to be serious?”

  “As I was saying,” Truman continued, “you can’t blame light Negroes for being prejudiced against dark ones. All of you know that white is the symbol of everything pure and good, whether that everything be concrete or abstract. Ivory Soap is advertised as being ninety-nine and some fraction per cent pure, and Ivory Soap is white. Moreover, virtue and virginity are always represented as being clothed in white garments. Then, too, the God we, or rather most Negroes worship is a patriarchal white man, seated on a white throne, in a spotless white Heaven, radiant with white streets and white-apparelled angels eating white honey and drinking white milk.”

  “Listen to the boy rave. Give him another drink,” Ray shouted, but Truman ignored him and went on, becoming more and more animated.