by Ishmael Reed
Before entering the gate, she paused and turned to Quickskill, who was sitting in his sedan. “When are you leaving for Canada, Quickskill?”
“As soon as the check arrives from Beulahland Review. That’ll pay for transportation. They set up a reading for me, too. The Anti-Slavery Society of Western New York. They said they could get someone with a yacht to take me across the Niagara River into Canada.”
“Take me with you, Raven! Please take me with you!”
“But—”
“This country is violent, just like my Columbia professors said. They said it had no salvation. They said they didn’t expect most of us to live out our lives in this cacophonous rat trap. Ezra Pound was right. ‘A half-savage country.’ That’s what it is, a half-savage country. Every time someone in E.P.’s circle spoke American he was fined a dollar.”
“He hardly ever spent time in this ‘half-savage country,’ ” Quickskill observed. “His mind was always someplace else. That was his problem, his mind was away somewhere in a feudal tower. Eliot, too. The Fisher King. That’s Arthurian. How can anybody capture the spirit of this ‘half-savage country’ if they don’t stay here? Poetry is knowing. When I wrote ‘Flight to Canada’ it was poetry, but it was poetry based upon something I knew. I don’t even see how you can call them Union poets. They hated America. Eliot hated St. Louis. How can someone hate St. Louis? How the fuck can someone hate St. Louis? I mean, W. C. Handy; the Jefferson Arc. They were Royalists.”
“Quickskill, let’s stop arguing. Take me with you to Canada. I won’t do the evening of Oceanic poetry with Captain Kidd. I’ll never perform on the stage again. Not here. This … this unholy savage ground. Assassins and mobs. Gong-banging. It’s a rowdy roundhouse. I need to be somewhere refined. Why, they speak French in Quebec. I’ll be like Blondin.”
“Who is this Blondin? Another avant-garde racket? You and your friends have turned the avant-garde into a racket.”
“Oh, you never care about what I’m interested in. My world. You’re never interested in that. All you talk about is slavery. Kansas, Nebraska, Dred Scott, Manumit. Dumb words like that. Manumit. The chain around your ankle; the cowhide on your back; the bloodhound teethmarks on your ass. I’m sick of it. You and your stupid slavery. You and your stupid slavery can go hang. Go to Canada. See if I care. I hope it’s a real bad bummer.”
He’d often forget how young she was. “Quaw Quaw …”
She was heading up the path toward the pirate’s castle and would not heed his call.
“Quaw Quaw.”
She kept walking, her buttocks moving from left to right, her hair on the sides of her face like hairy blinders. Her arms were folded. She was looking down.
“Quaw Quaw Tralaralara.”
She turned. She had her hands on her hips.
“Meet me at the dock tomorrow. The steamer leaves at ten.”
She jumped up and down like a schoolgirl playing volley ball. She turned around and ran up the path, her arms flying in front of her. Quickskill started up the motor. The car moved back down the mountain toward Emancipation’s center.
He said that he wouldn’t give any more, but when she put it that way, when she started pouting … He once called her an emotional anarchist bomb. She was a love terrorist. You didn’t know when she was going off. Maybe that’s why she was a dancer. He said he’d never give into her again, but when she started pouting and when she rolled those beautiful dark eyes at him, he gave and he gave and he gave and gave. Charm, the physicists say, is real.
Man is in the last stage of his evolution. Women will be here.
16
“… AND ALSO, ROBIN, DON’T forget to order a few more cartons of Crisco. We seem to be always running out.”
Uncle Robin is mounted on Swille’s personal beautifully gold-harnessed horse, Beauvoir, rumored to have sired both Lee’s horse Traveller and Davis’ Tartar. It was doing a fancy Spanish trot in place. Uncle Robin wears a silk top hat, riding jacket, white silk ascot, long black boots, and holds a whip which thickens out into a point like the end of a blacksnake’s tail.
“And be careful with that whip, Robin. It’s my pride and joy.”
“Yessir, Massa Swille.”
After sending Robin, followed by the two wagons, to the city for supplies, Swille looks out over his land, six times as big as Monaco. A flock of mockingbirds flies overhead. The lilacs, bordering the path down which Robin’s caravan was now leaving, sway slightly; the drawbridge descends.
He turned and opened the door of his house, said to be the very door on Arthur’s house in Camelot. The Prime Minister who had traded it as collateral on a personal loan was forced to resign when the deal was discovered by the London Times. Attempts to recover it were futile. Swille threatened to make England giggle into its tea. Swille wanted London Bridge but was overbid by a Texan who later sold it to the Arabs as the Brooklyn Bridge.
He climbed the spiraling staircase on the sensuous plush rugs and entered the second story of the house. He came to his wife’s room, put his ear to the door. Silence.
Swille entered his own room. It was time for a “Siesta” he noted by looking at his watch. He walked over to his closet and opened it. “Ah, there they are. Don’t they shine? Aren’t they wonderful? My lovelies, my darlings, my pets.” He takes one of the whips to his bosom and rubs it. “My cowskin one! A kiss for you! My bullwhip! A caress for you! My chains. My beautiful chains. If Gladstone could only see these. My paddles.”
His collection was better than Gladstone’s. Gladstone had invited him to his English country house for a “spanker” and to see his exotic whips and chains, but when he told Gladstone, Lord of the Exchequer, about the collections in the South, Gladstone caused a “sensation” by making a pro-Confederate speech on the floor of Parliament. He urged England to recognize the Confederacy.
Swille removed his jacket, picked up a copy of The Southern Planter which had a special edition on the new “fettering” devices. They were all right, but they couldn’t compare with his. His had been based upon those described in Henry’s History, 1805 edition, Volume VII. He had had them shipped over from a deserted English castle. To make sure they were effective, he had Jim, the black stud, try them on him personally. He always tried out the fettering equipment personally so’s to determine whether he’d gotten his money’s worth. He loved the sound of the screams coming from various parts of the plantation, day and night. Eddie Poe had gone bonkers over his equipment and used some of it in his short stories. He put the book down, walked over to the bed and lay down. He picked up the phone next to the bed.
“Mammy, would you bring me some ‘Siesta,’ perhaps some of those Tennysonian poppies which were shipped over from the Epicurean Club last week?”
The Epicurean Club was going to recommend his barony at their next meeting. Baron Swille. Or how about Sir Baron Swille? That’s too cluttered. Maybe the Marquis d’Swille.
Barracuda entered the room carrying a silver tray in the center of which was a logo of the House of Swille: a belligerent Eagle with whips in its talons. She wore a purple velvet dress with silver hoops, a pongee apron with Belgian lace, and emerald earrings. Lying on the platter was an apothecary bottle full of an emerald-green quivering liquid. Next to this was a hypodermic needle and a syringe. He rolled up his sleeve. Mammy Barracuda put the tray down on the table and prepared the injection. She shot it into Swille’s arm. He convulsed slightly. Then he began to babble. “Quite good, quite good, Mammy,” he said, wetting his lips.
“Anything else, Arthur?”
“No, Mammy, just tell them to warm up the chopper for my trip. I’ll be leaving as soon as my ‘Siesta’ dissipates.”
“All right, Massa Swille.” Mammy Barracuda left the room.
He couldn’t miss the lecture at the Magnolia Club tonight. Some huge blond brute was speaking. He bent his arm, covered the needle hole with a patch, rolled down his sleeve.
His mind was swimming. I’ll fix these Confederates come busti
ng up to my place. Let Lincoln and Davis fight it out like the backwoodsmen they are. Why, that Davis, putting on airs. The Kentucky cabin he was born in had only three more rooms than Abe’s. Can’t even control his generals. If they’d chased the Yankees after Bull Run like he said, they’d won the war. No, they had to sit around having tea. Let Davis and Lincoln kill each other off, and then during the confusion I’ll declare myself King, and, as for Queen, Vivian.
Vivian, my disconsolate damsel, if only you … my fair pale sister. Your virgin knees and golden hair in your sepulcher by the sea. Let me creep into your mausoleum, baby. My insatiable Vivian by the sea, remember how we used to go for walks down to the levee and wait for the Annabel Lee. You were only fourteen years old, yet ours is a romance of the days that were. You, having difficulty making up your mind whether to “pass” from dismay or despair, me feverishly penning letters tainted with lily oil from my apartment on the Bois de Boulogne. And that night before you died, you were just right. What would I do without our great love, a love as old as Ikhnaton, the royal love, the royal love … the royal.
Swille is walking in the clouds in a great city. Floating toward a castle. He comes to a door with Islamic-type designs on it. Can this be? The door opens, and there before him is a great round table at which is seated a brilliant company. Can this be real? Ethiopian minstrels wearing silver collars, silk and embroidery are playing their instruments. And there Vivian sweeps out toward him and puts her hand in his. She is wearing the negligee she “passed” in, and she’s singing their favorite song. Fairy bells. Fairy bells. And the King … King Arthur says, “Come forth, my children. Baron and Baroness Swille.” And they begin to walk as the knights shout, raising their swords and lifting their crystal goblets, “Baron Swille. Baroness Swille.”
Barracuda enters the room. She rouses him.
“Barracuda, what on earth’s the matter? I’m having my ‘Siesta.’ I …”
“Your ‘Siesta’ gon have to wait. It’s your wife again, Arthur. She looks real Emancipated. Dark circles under the eyes. Peek’d. She say she not going to talk unless she fed intravenous. She say she on strike. All she do now is lay in bed, watch television, read movie books and eat candy. She drinks an awful lot, too, Mr. Swille. She be listening to that Beecher Hour show.”
“Well, Mammy, in that case, you know what to do.”
“That I do,” Barracuda says, rubbing her hands together, “that I do.”
17
BARRACUDA ENTERS THE MISTRESS’ room. Surveys the scene. Puts her hands on her hips. The Mistress flutters her eyes. Turns her head toward the door where Barracuda is standing, tapping her foot.
“Oh, Barracuda, there you are, my dusky companion, my comrade in Sisterhood, my Ethiopian suffragette.”
“Oooomph,” Barracuda says. “Don’t choo be sistering me, you lazy bourgeoise skunk.”
“Barracuda,” the Mistress says, raising up, “what’s come over you?”
“What’s come ovah me? What’s come ovah you, you she-thing? Got a good man. A good man. A powerful good man. And here you is—you won’t arrange flowers when his guests come. You won’t take care of the menu. You won’t do nothing that a belle is raised to do.”
“But, Barracuda, Ms. Stowe says …”
“I don’t care what that old crazy fambly say. They ain’t doin nothin but causing a mess. Now it’s about time you straighten up.”
Barracuda walks over to the bed, takes a box of candy from next to where Ms. Swille is resting, throws it to the floor.
“Barracuda!”
Barracuda ignores her Mistress’ pleas and knocks over the whiskey bottle on the stand next to the bed, then throws back the covers.
“Barracuda, I’ll catch the flu. I’m always catching the flu.”
“Get out dat bed!”
“Why … what? What’s come over you, Barracuda?”
Barracuda goes to the window and raises it. “This room needs to air out. Oooooomph. Whew!” Barracuda pinches her nose. “What kind of wimmen is you?”
“Why, I’m on strike, Barracuda. I refuse to budge from this bed till my husband treats me better than he treats the coloreds around here.”
“Now, I’m gon tell you one mo time. Git out dat bed!”
“Barracuda! This has gone far enough.” The Mistress brings back her frail alabaster arm as if to strike Barracuda. Barracuda grabs it and presses it against the bed. “Barracuda! Barracuda! You’re hurting me. Oooooo.”
Barracuda grabs her by the hair and yanks her to the floor.
“Barracuda, Barracuda, what on earth are you doing to my delicate fragile body. Barracuda!”
Barracuda gives her a kind of football-punt kick to her naked hip, causing an immediate red welt.
“Barracuda, now that’s enough, you … you impertinent, black Raggedy Ann, you.”
Barracuda pulls her razor, bends down and puts it to Ms. Swille’s lily-white neck. “You see that, don’t you? You know what that is now? Now do what I say.”
“Anything you say, Barracuda,” Ms. Swille says, sobbing softly.
“BANGALANG. BANGALLLLAAAANNNNG.
YOUUUUUU. WHOOOOOO. BANGALANG.” Barracuda, one black foot on Ms. Swille’s chest, calls for her assistant.
Bangalang rushes into the room, her pickaninny curls rising up, her hands thrown out at the red palms, her eyes growing big in their sockets at the sight.
“Don’t just stand there, girl; go draw some bath water.”
Bangalang rushes into the bathroom and begins to draw the water.
“Now get up.”
“Barracuda. Barracuuuudaaaaa.”
The Missus of the household moans, holding on to Barracuda’s skirts. Barracuda knees her in the mouth. She falls back, blood spurting from the wound.
“Now get up, I say!”
She is lying in the middle of the floor, her blondish-streaked orange-grey hair spread out before her, moaning.
“I say get up! Where my poker?” Barracuda goes to the fireplace.
“All right, Barracuda. All right.” Ms. Swille slowly rises to her feet.
Barracuda begins to shove her toward the bathroom, where Bangalang has drawn the water. “Now move, you old mothefukin she-dog. You scarecrow. You douche-bag! You flea-sack drawers! You no-tit mother of a bloodhound. You primary chancre! Get on in there, like Barracuda say.” She keeps shoving her. “Look like shit. On strike. I got your strike, you underbelly of a fifteen-pound gopher rat run ober by a car. Sleep with a dog, he let you. You goat-smelling virago, you gnawing piranha, worrying that man like that.” She shoves her into the bathroom and the woman slips and falls because Bangalang has caused the tub to overflow. “What da matta … Fool!”
“You tole me to turn it on; you didn’t say anything about turning it off,” Bangalang says in her Topsy voice.
“Where my … ?”
But before Barracuda could find an appropriate weapon, Bangalang, the little pickaninny, has dashed from under her skirts and out of the room. Ms. Swille lies in the water on the floor, unconscious. Barracuda picks her up as though she were a child and throws her into the tub. She lies there face down, until she begins to gurgle and bubble. Barracuda grabs her by the hair and turns her over. She rolls up her sleeves. She gets an old hard brush rich with pine soap. Then she starts scrubbing away.
18
LATER. THE ROOM HAS been cleaned. The cat litter and the cats have been removed. There are new curtains up. The sheets have been changed, and there is a pleasant light in the room instead of the dreary one that had been there for months. Barracuda has changed from her clothes upon which Ms. Swille’s blood had spattered. Bangalang is on one side, combing Ms. Swille’s hair; Barracuda is on the other. They are using long golden combs. Ms. Swille is propped up in the bed. She has a Band-Aid on her skin, here and there. Her skin is a raw red from the scalding hot water. She is drinking a tall glass of milk between sobs.
“Barracuda hates to do what she had to do with her darlin, but her darlin was
letting her darlin self go. Barracuda no like that. Barracuda no like. Come from a proud fambly. Good fambly. Remember when you used to help fix waffles for your Daddy and Mr. Jefferson Davis? ‘Can I help, Mammy Barracuda?’ you used to ax. Bless yo little soul. You’d even carry some out back for Mr. Davis’ body servant, Sammy Davis. Round here wearing Levi negligees. No wonder Bossman Swille took to having a separate bedroom. You can’t blame the man for wanting to be away from you, the condition you was in.
“It all started that time you came home from Radcliffe. That Yankee school. I told your Daddy that that school wasn’t doing nothing but bothering your head, but he wouldn’t listen. Then you come home. People glad to see you. Then how you act. How you act! Call them a bunch of antebellum anal retentive assholes. Then we found you reading that book by that old simple Stowe fambly. Old crazy fambly. That wild Harriet one. And her adulteratin brother Henry, ain’t got a bit of sense, and her suffragette sister Isabelle—she crazy too. Jesus tired of them. Jesus tired. That’s why her son got wounded in the war and the other one drownded. That’s Jesus gettin back at them for they lies. And the way she bad-mouth old Simon Legree. He a good man. He always say, ‘Now, anything you need, just ask for it, Mammy Barracuda. Just speak up, you can have it.’ Lorrrrrd.”
Mammy Barracuda is preening and plaiting the Mistress’ hair, looking googly-eyed toward the ceiling. She pauses a minute. “You try to raise them and look what they done done. Marry a rich man like that. Arthur Swille III. Anybody else would be proud. Proud. Like a fairy queen in one of them Princess books. Worrying him so. Now I want you to get your basket of violets together, do you hear me?”
