The Last Days of Louisiana Red

by Ishmael Reed

  CHAPTER 13

  Chorus is seated in an outdoor café.

  “‘The Chorus has gone too far,’ they said. ‘He has upstaged our pretty actors.’

  “Cheap makeup peels off their faces. They stumble and forget their lines; ‘Please cue me,’ some of they say. To put it in the language of old American slavery days, the Chorus, me, was a fugitive slave who wanted his aesthetic Canada, but the Claimant and Sambo wanted to bring me back to the Master.”

  Imagine that. “The people downstairs” wanted to can his strophes, his delightful twists and turns. “The people downstairs.”

  “One woman led the pack. She had an ’tigone on her. ’Tigone, the beginning of my difficulties, hogging all my good lines. Couldn’t be cool, that wench.

  “Like, the elders of Thebes and Creon didn’t give a damn if she went out into the woods to fuck, drink and prance about a huge goat. Creon and the elders were interested in the spirit of the law and not its letter. They weren’t finicky. Each to his own God, as they use to say in the Congo.

  “No, she had to brag about her malady and boost it.

  “‘Go marry Hades,’ Creon had said. ‘You are his bride.’

  “He could see Hades grinning behind her like she was ghost-photographed because she, like Core, had tasted of Hades’ fruit and had been touched by this loa. The burial of her brother was just a cover-up. All those speeches, ‘the wisdom of man vs. the wisdom of God.’

  “Do you suppose that Zeus really gave a hang whether Polynices was buried? Zeus was too busy chasing tail to be bothered with such trifles. No, this woman wanted to die and she was going about it in a roundabout way—all that blather. This woman was demanding. Sophocles edited out many of my good lines because of this woman and her big mouth.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Inside one of the apartments of the Yellings’ house sit Minnie and Sister. It is decorated in the psychedelic style of the sixties: attractively decorated pillows for seats, oddly shaped chairs and an old table picked up from a flea market. There are posters on the wall. One reads, “Visit Bulgaria,” another, “Free Anything,” under which is drawn the picture of a rattlesnake preparing to strike. Minnie, however skinny, has matured into a good-looking woman: A little mama; worldly, sophisticated and often impatient with her ignorant followers who believe anything she tells them. Sister is a “wee plump,” modest legs, butt and breasts. She is solid and in the old days would have been called a red hot. Sister is wrapped up so in long skirts, jewelry and a white turban that much of her original self is hidden. Minnie, this time out, is in denims, sandals, and wears an unassuming sweater. She doesn’t wear just one thing. Her fashions change as much as her mind. Sister doesn’t belong to Minnie’s cult, though Minnie has been working on her over the years.

  “I saw our brother this morning, driving that old Oldsmobile of his down Shattuck. He didn’t even honk his horn.”

  “He’s probably mad at you because you and them Moochers tried to close down his Solid Gumbo Works.”

  “Well, what were we suppose to do? He’s so aloof, so jive. And that LaBas. Where did they get him? From the east, huh. Talking about ‘our profits are intangible and so we don’t have to keep any books,’ and then he had the nerve to point to his forehead, ‘The books are in here.’”

  “He must know something, though. Your Moochers couldn’t get past his guard, even when they tried.”

  “We’ll get him sooner or later. Nothing can stop my Moochers. Next time the sacrifices will be more terrible, bloodier.”

  “Why is there always the need for blood, Minnie? Why do you always see ‘many casualties’ as being victorious?”

  “We Moochers understand nothing but blood. Blood is truth. Blood is life. Drink blood, drink it. Blood. Blood.” (With this, a distant gaze)

  “I … I … understand, I think, Minnie, but it’s still …”

  “O Sister, you’re so dense. You know, I was always the one in the family who was good for theory. Our father was the poet. You and Wolf were the ones who didn’t fit.”

  “Minnie, let’s not go through that again. I sympathize with your aims as far as I can understand them, but why are you so hard on Papa LaBas and Wolf? People say that he prevented the Business from going under with Dad.” (Minnie nervously mashes out her cigarette in an ashtray and swings around.)

  “Now look here, Sister, don’t you dare say such things even if you mean them. LaBas and our kïnd will be locked in interminable struggle against the fascist insect! It’s inevitable.”

  “See? There you go.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Minnie talk (bites into a fruit). It sounds the same whoever says it. Who says everything has to be that way?”

  “My slogans.”

  “Your what?”

  “My slogans (distantly). They tell me. My slogans know everything. With my slogans I can change the look of the future any time I wish.”

  “Aw, Minnie, that’s sick. How can you change something that’s only about to be?”

  “We have our tested ways. Tried and true; now with my slogans we’re able to match wits with the best of them. All this, due to our slogans. My slogans be praised.”

  (Sweet lovable Nanny enters the room.)

  “I jus hears you chirren carrin on, so I knows I jus had to bring yawl some good ol cream of wheat. Piping hot. Now dig in, girls.” She rests the service on the table.

  “O Nanny, how sweet of you.” (Minnie goes over; kneels and hugs this lovable old creature by the legs.) “What would I have done all these years without your counsel.”

  “Now, dear (comforting Minnie), my souls ache when I hears you worrin your brains so. You knows your brains will bust if you keep worrin yo sweet heart about these things. These is white folks’ matters you’s worrin so about.”

  “We’re not arguing over anything deep, Nanny. She just needs to get out more. Party some. They’re beginning to call her, well… cold. Her own Minnies say her speeches put them to sleep.”

  “That’s not true,” Minnie shouts, knocking the cream of wheat bowl to the floor.

  “Chile, you so nervous. Look what you’z done done with my flo. Lawz be.”

  “I’m sorry, Nanny … Sister loves to tease me.”

  “I thought you were going on a date. What’s wrong with you teasin this chile!”

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Sister says, making that derisive defiant gesture standing on one leg and fixing an earring. (She exits into the bathroom.)

  (Minnie is lying on a sofa, weeping. Nanny goes over and comforts her.)

  “Now, now, baby doll. Don’t cry. Yo Nanny won’t like that. Yo Nanny’s got a strong chile. Come to my heavy black bosom.” Minnie really bawls then.

  (Sister comes out of the bathroom, pins some baroque-looking earrings to her ears, picks up her pocketbook.)

  “Well, I have to be going; this Nigerian brother is taking me out on a date.”

  “Where you going this time of night?” Nanny asks, frowning fiercely.

  “We thought we’d go to eat at the Rainbow Sign and then down to Solomon Grundy’s to hear Art Fletcher. He plays a soft piano, and you can sit about the fireplace. People can hear what each other say. Across the way you can see the skyline of San Francisco.”

  “Well, don’t be coming in here all time of the nite like you grown. You ain’t grown yet. Got a long way to go if you ask me. Yo Daddy thought he was so smart and look what he got. Mr. Bigshot. Where is he? What happened to him? He dead, that’s what. And your brother Wolf, who got some sense, put you in my charge and so I’m gon see about you. I raised you.”

  “You old mangy dog; you never liked us—me, Dad, Street and Wolf. It was always Minnie. Minnie this. Minnie that. Always taking her side. You hated the rest of the family and you know it, so don’t you be telling me how much you loved us and how you raised me.”

  (Minnie leaps from Nanny’s lap to her feet.)

  “How can you defend him, Sister? He didn’t care wha
t happened to us; he was always down at that factory making Gumbo. If it wasn’t for Nanny here, we would have perished.”

  “That’s true. That’s so true. The man wasn’t nothin,” Nanny says.

  “If it wasn’t for Nanny, we would be in the bay.”

  “Well, she was paid enough. Always poking into Dad’s Business.”

  “Sister, you apologize.”

  “Apologize for what? I use to see her poking into his papers.”

  “I was only looking for change to pay the paper boy,” Nanny said.

  (Sister examines her watch)

  “Look, I have to go. We’ll argue later. There’s always later.” (Sister exits.)

  “Don’t you mind her, chile. Would you like some beer? I feels like having my nightly quart. Share a can with me? Then I’ll tell you some stories like I use to.” (Nanny rises as Minnie lifts her head)

  “Will you, Nanny?”

  “Yes, we’ll pretend that you’re still the little child. And I’ll read you my Louisiana Red stories.”

  Minnie was glad seeing Nanny’s faithful old big behind going out of the door. That would be fun. She hadn’t heard those stories for quite a while. She knew them by heart; in fact it was those stories that prepared her for leadership of the Moochers: the Louisiana Red stories. All about the wonderful Marie of New Orleans and that diabolical fiend Doc John. As for Sister:

  What does she know? The mind of a little bird. She allows her life to be controlled without knowing the source, but my Minnies and I know what’s going on. Our chapters are spreading. Sisters and Brothers are going into every part of the nation carrying the good word. Our name is on everyone’s tongue, and after that most recent shoot-out in which our brothers fled into the arms of glorious Hades, our popularity has increased manifold. Only LaBas stands in my way and that reactionary will be dealt with in due course. (pause)

  What they have down there must be very special to have so many people to cater to. But he will fail. It’s history’s law; he will be engulfed by his contradictions and swept away like the swimmer in strong current. The current of history. What would I do without Nanny? My only friend. I’m glad she stayed on at Wolf’s request. Every other Thursday. Where does she go on Thursdays? This has been her only secret for years.

  She stepped out of her dirty jeans. She wasn’t wearing any panties. She removed her blue-collar shirt. She wore no bra either. She took off her sneakers last. She had a fine body in the sense that a panther moving with those fine limbs has a fine body, and like the panther this was the kind of young woman’s body that could eat you up, if you know what I mean. (She had a panther’s reach and its grip, that is if you invaded her bush. She’d snap at you, squeeze you and hold you tight.) She stretched out on the sofa and, her teeth protruding, eyes closed, she began unconsciously to writhe. But she stopped that. She was embarrassed because Nanny was standing in the doorway with the quart of beer. Nanny smiled.

  “Ready for the stories, Minnie?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Chorus: Now, about this Antigone. According to writing found written on Egyptian papyri, there’s a later episode of the myth. In this version, Creon, due to the counsel of Teiresias, was able to save Antigone. (pause; lights a cigar, inhales and resumes) As a result he lost favor with the right wing of his government. Reprieve was interpreted as a justification for her action; the girl became emboldened. Creon was close to her secret ambition when he said, “I am no man, she is the man, if this victory shall rest with her and bring no penalty.” Creon, a member of the old school, was indulging in some petty dyke-baiting when he said that. To be a man was easy; chump change. Antigone was after bigger game. She wanted to be a sphinx: head and breasts of a woman; bird’s wings; lion’s feet and a snake’s ass. A hissing, barking, distorted eye-balling bitch is what she was out for. This version goes on to say that contrary to the strong-willed law-and-order man we read about in the other story, Creon was swayed by popular opinion and occasionally went about anonymously collecting information from the people—a practice future tyrants would imitate. When Creon saw how incensed the population was towards him, he relented and freed Antigone. Antigone was exonerated for ritualistically burying Polynices, that is, sprinkling “a handful of dust” over the corpse, as was the old religion’s practice. Creon gave the corpse a state funeral, but so disfigured was the body from the mawling, clawing animals, the corpse wasn’t shown.

  This fragment is later confirmed by a picture on a vase. Here we see Antigone, standing with a child. Haemon stands next to them, but he looks blurred. Some say that this is because some wild female member of the cult which sprang up after Antigone’s example had come along and rubbed him out of the picture.

  After his father died, heartbroken, Haemon discovered that the old geezer was right all the time. Antigone was a being of perfidy, spite and deviousness, given to lying even when it wasn’t absolutely necessary. She used her good looks to get ahead. Ismene, always half-heartedly giving in to Antigone’s every request, was getting wiser too. When she finally caught Antigone in the secret act, she quietly retired to her bedroom, drinking whiskey all day, sequestered from her countrymen.

  When the Athenians conquered the Thebans, double agent Antigone made a deal with them. You see, the Athenians were so rational, so civilized they had to have a reason for everything, including barbarity. They sent Antigone on tour. She teamed up with her nanny, a confidante and rough-looking woman from the old days; formerly Antigone’s nurse, but now making a reputation from her “readings.” In these “readings” Nanny depicted the Theban males as weak and simpering while Antigone would play the guitar. Or sometimes they would exchange roles. Nanny would jug it out while Antigone told a plaintive tale of the “lost woman” abandoned by her man. Whenever a man was seen as a hero in their work, Nanny adorned him with the woman’s garb.

  In exile Haemon kept returning to Creon’s argument. “I am no man if she is the man.” His father had accused him of being “the woman’s champion.”

  He had believed her. Now he knew he had been her trick, and she had turned him out. She told him that she no longer craved the woods of Thebes, mysterious, and the scene of diabolical rites like the Santa Cruz woods; of mutilated victims. She promised him she no longer desired to meet Hades, her lover, who wore a rank-smelling coat made of goatskins. Haemon had loved her so he couldn’t see straight, and so he paid; he paid hard.

  “I like not an evil wife for you, son,” his father had said.

  Antigone’s faith was sweeping the countryside. Winning converts. She faced many encores. Their son was handed over to allies of hers.

  Meanwhile, Haemon sharpened his axe in Bohemia. He was beginning to like what he was and what he was doing; enjoying it for the first time in his life. Although it was quiet, although only a handful turned out to hear him, even though his checks were questioned and the restaurants handed his kind the bill immediately after putting down the dinner, it was quiet; you could see the ocean if you looked hard enough. Occasionally he missed the hubbub of Thebes. He traveled among statesmen, scribes, merchants, as well as supped in mansions referred to by the hostesses as “our little cottage.”

  One day the word came from Thebes that Antigone had gotten what she was after. She was high priestess, which was as good as Sphinx. The Theban males were rounded up and marched naked through the streets as, in the background, homes could be seen burning. Others kept themselves warm around a primitive fire. In the amphitheatre, the woman who had been bucking for Sphinx had her name spelled out with flares by her shrieking followers. Her running buddy, Nanny, read a poem or two to warm them up, but when Antigone came on there was no controlling them as this professional shrew screamed, cursed and, in rage, shook her fists.

  One night, Haemon sneaked into the surrounding suburbs of Thebes. He sat on a horse overlooking the city. Much had changed. First, Haemon thought, he would see his son; then he would bring Antigone down.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE MOOCHERS HAVE A
CRISIS

  The committee meeting was to be held at the Gross Christian Church, San Francisco’s truly avant-garde center of worship. The first thing you came upon was the entrance, over which could be seen a sign spelling out “PEACE” in the manner of the garish neon signs one saw at the bottomless topless clubs on Broadway. Rev. Rookie’s church was a reconverted niteclub. Inside he stands behind one of the long elegant bars which has been restored to its original furnishings. On the walls are black light psychedelic posters of Harry Belafonte, Sammy Davis, Jr. (the name of Jefferson Davis’ body servant, incidentally), and Quincy Jones. Whenever “Q” came to the Circle Star Theatre, Rev. Rookie would be right there, in the front row, whooping it up, yelling such colorful expletives as “right on,” and “get down,” which he would say twice, “get down, get down.” Another one of his expressions was “can you dig it?” Quite effective when used sparingly, which Rev. Rookie didn’t. Cats were circling the room. Moochers love cats, perhaps because you have to be crafty and dexterous and phony-finicky to be a Moocher, winning your territory inch by inch. Rev. Rookie had a motley congregation and really didn’t care about their life styles. He had twisted old John Wesley’s philosophy so that he had forgotten the theology he started out with. Rev. Rookie was real ecumenical. Gushing with it. I mean, he ecumenicaled all over himself, but he wasn’t one of these obvious old-fashioned preachers. No, when he spoke of God, he didn’t come right out and mention his Hebrew name. God, for him, was always a “force,” or a “principle.”

  The Christians looked the other way from their maverick minister in San Francisco; after all, he was packing them in, wasn’t he? Why, Rev. Rookie would get up in his mojo jumpsuit and just carry on so. He employed $100,000 worth of audio-visual equipment with which to “project” himself, plus a rhumba band (he couldn’t preach); it was the tackiest Jesus you’d ever want to see. Rev. Rookie wasn’t no fool, though. He had won a place for himself in the Moocher high command along with Maxwell Kasavubu, the Lit. teacher from New York; Cinnamon Easterhood, hi-yellow editor of the Moocher Monthly, their official magazine; and Big Sally, the poverty worker. The crisis meeting was being held to see what was to be done with Papa LaBas, the interloper from the east.