“What’s he got? Leprosy?” Jason was impatient. He looked at his watch.
Mr. Griswold did not smile. “No. He … he’s a Negro, Mr. Garrity. I felt I couldn’t hire him without your approval.”
Jason vividly remembered some of the old signs in Belleville, and there were still some: “No Irish. No Catholics. No Foreign-Born.” His gorge rose. “Send the man in.”
Mr. Griswold, after an astonished stare, scuttled out. A moment later a tall young Negro, slender and stiff of demeanor, entered. He was very black, very distinguished-looking, with fine features and a haughty glance. He was dressed like a rich gentleman in black silky broadcloth, and with a diamond pin in his tie. His hair was thick and smooth. There was a diamond ring on his finger. He stood in silence before Jason’s desk, and the two young men studied each other for a few moments. Then Jason said, “Don’t you have an ass, and knees? Sit down!”
The young Negro hesitated, then sat down, crossing long legs. His feet wore polished boots. “Your name?” asked Jason. The other ceremoniously reached into his pocket and brought out a card case. He slowly removed a thick cream-colored card and presented it to Jason. It read: “Edmund Patterson. Chef Suprême. Cordon Bleu.” His eyes challenged Jason, large lustrous black eyes with lashes as long as a woman’s. The engraving on the card was in Old English script.
“I understand you’ve worked in New York and Philadelphia, Mr. Patterson.”
“Yes. For a number of years.” His voice was mellifluous and tinged with an English accent. “Before that, in Johannesburg, South Africa, where I was registered in a gourmet cooking school.”
“I see,” said Jason, who did not. He was becoming irritated at the other’s manner. “You were born in South Africa?”
“Yes.” The man’s hauteur increased. “I belong to the Bantu tribe. But … I am a Zulu.”
Jason was more at sea than ever. “Zulu?”
“We Zulu men are the best chefs in the world. We are not like the Bantus.”
Jason leaned back in his chair and found himself broadly smiling. But the other man simply stared at him with a slight affront.
“You were a chef in Johannesburg. What, may I ask, did they pay you there?”
“Four thousand gold rand a year. Equal to dollars.”
Jason whistled. “That’s a lot of money. And … in New York and Philadelphia?”
“About the same … sir.”
“We pay our head chef—I mean, cook—two thousand a year, Mr. Patterson.”
The young Negro’s face held instant disdain. “Possibly not a good chef. Or a chef at all.”
“We’re not a stylish town in Belleville, Mr. Patterson. How did you get here?”
“I saw your advertisement in the New York Times. I like New York, sir, but my wife, Sue Ann, doesn’t. I met her four years ago, when I was attending a convention in New York. She’s a fine dressmaker, and employed four women. She was born in New York. We have two children. Sue Ann wants to live in a small town. For the sake of our children. She visited once, here, and likes it. What am I to do?” he asked with sudden desperation and in masculine confidence. “Sue Ann has a very strong will, and she is afraid to bring up children in New York. A bad influence, she says. Sue Ann—she can be very assertive at times, like all Zulu women. Yes, she is Zulu too. I wanted to return to Johannesburg, where men like myself are respected for their accomplishments. But Sue Ann is an American, and refused to leave.” He sighed. “I was much appreciated at Delmonico’s. I was offered much more money if I would remain there.”
“Women can be difficult,” said Jason, trying not to smile again.
Mr. Patterson sighed. “Yes. Can’t they? I should have put my foot down. I did try. But Sue Ann put two feet down.”
Jason looked through his window reflectively. “America is a very prejudiced country, Mr. Patterson.”
“No more than elsewhere, I assume, sir. I worked one year in London. I don’t understand prejudice.”
Jason looked at him with concealed amusement. “You’ve said you aren’t like the … the Bantus.”
“Indeed not! Very ignorant people. We Zulus have a proscription against intermarriage with them. We have our own apartheid.”
Jason struggled with his amusement. “I’m afraid you are a very prejudiced man, Mr. Patterson.”
“There is such a thing as not intermingling with your inferiors, sir.”
Mankind, thought Jason, is congenitally stupid. He said, “And what makes a man inferior to other men?”
“It’s a matter of intelligence, sir.”
“Well, on that I agree. You speak like an educated man.”
“I’m a graduate of a university for the Zulus in Pretoria.” The musical voice was rich with pride. “I speak English, French, and Afrikaans.”
Negroes, reflected Jason, did not attend universities in America, at least not good ones. “You won’t find life easy in Belleville, Mr. Patterson. We have only about half a dozen Negro families here.”
“I am a Zulu!”
Jason waved his hand. “That is a distinction white Americans won’t understand.”
“I’m willing to try. If I may ask the salary?”
“Two thousand a year.”
“Impossible. I am willing to start for three thousand, for one year, and then an increase.”
He brought forth references from the Savoy Hotel in London, from Delmonico’s in New York, and another from Philadelphia, one of the best restaurants. Each was laudatory and expressed regrets that Mr. Patterson was leaving. Jason studied them. He said, “You won’t find good accommodations here.”
“I will build my own house. I have catered, too, in the best establishments in Johannesburg and New York. My own house, in South Africa, was a very nice one.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“Nothing is easy, sir.” He added, “But you, perhaps, sir, would not understand that.”
Jason suddenly lost his temper. He leaned forward in his chair, and his eyes were bright with anger. “And how would you know that, then? I am Irish. My people suffered through a famine. We are under English rule, and the English treated us like dogs with fleas because of our race and religion. When we rebelled, our women and children were beaten on the streets by English soldiers! And raped. My grandfather’s little sister was hanged because she tried to defend her faith—a little girl, Mr. Patterson! My people died of hunger in the cities and on the roads and in the country. No one helped us. We suffered for centuries …” Jason’s breath came heavy and fast and his face was engorged with rage. Mr. Patterson listened with astonishment.
“It’s a long and terrible story,” said Jason. “Too long to tell you now. Those of us who could get on ships came to America. Most of us weren’t admitted, for we were suffering from consumption and famine fever. We were left to die—men, women, and children—on the docks of New York. We who survived lived in caves, in the winters, in Central Park. No one would employ us, or if we were employed, we were paid very little—so little that we starved again. We thought we had come to a free country! Free, hell! Can’t you read? Almost all factories in America—still—have signs on them: ‘No Irish. No Catholics. No Foreign-Born.’ We’re pariahs, outcasts, and we are still despised. For many years no one would rent to us. We lived in hovels. What do you know about this, you with your fine university, your education, your large salary, your grand clothes. I tell you, the slaves in the South were better treated than we Irish. And better than the Jews and the Hungarians and the Poles—all white men. And the hate still exists. What do you know?”
He threw himself back into his chair, and his face was swollen with anger. “Not too many years ago a fine old man, an Italian, was murdered in this town, a poor old man who had a shop near where I lived. Only a few weeks ago a poor Jewish shopkeeper was attacked—right here. My grandfather died protecting him. Only a few weeks ago. And you say I wouldn’t understand! Let me tell you this: I am a man. You are a man. We have to deal with human evil al
l our lives, without whimpering. Or, we aren’t men at all.”
The young Zulu’s face had changed, become shocked, moved. He said in a low voice, “Forgive me. I didn’t know.”
“It’s time you did,” said Jason, and coughed. “Here in America, in Belleville, we lived in a hovel, my grandfather, my father, my mother, my brother and sister, and I. My old grandfather worked until the day he died. My mother died of consumption. There was no money to cure her, to feed her. We had to fight … Well, never mind. But unless we are born fortunate, all of us, we are going to suffer from our dear fellowman. Learn that once and for all, Mr. Patterson.”
After a moment he said in a drained voice, “You’ve got to get over your own prejudices, Mr. Patterson, as do we all.” Then he said, “Unlike you, I never attended a university. I’ve worked hard since I was a young child. Do you know that until a very few years ago children in America were forced to work in factories and mills, even mines, when they were as young as five and six? Tens of thousands died of injuries, of starvation or disease. No one cared! Oh, my God. What do you know?”
The young Zulu swallowed convulsively. In a humble voice he said, “I didn’t know anything. I’m sorry, sir. Would you like a glass of water?”
Suddenly Jason wanted to laugh, but without mirth and only with bitterness. “No. But I should like some whiskey. Have a glass with me.” He got up, and discovered he was trembling. He went to a cabinet and brought out two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. He filled the glasses and lifted his. “To humanity, and may God’s wrath visit it!”
“Amen,” said Mr. Patterson, and drank. Jason said, “Wait here,” and left the room. He went to the kitchen. The evening meal was in preparation and the huge kitchen was full of steam, delicious odors, and hurrying men. Jason lifted his voice and shouted, “Everybody stop! I have something to say!”
It was rare for the manager of the hotel to enter the kitchen, and all the men stared. Jason said, “I’ll make this short. I have just hired a chef, a real chef, to take charge of all the meals here. He is a Zulu, a black man, an African, and he has worked in the best restaurants in the world, in South Africa, London, New York, and Philadelphia. He has class, as you’d say, and education. You’d call him a nigger. I call him a superior man.
“Now, if any of you’d like to quit, say so now. You won’t get work at the salaries you get here. In fact, you won’t find jobs at all if I can help it, and I can. Understand that right now. If you make Mr. Patterson’s life miserable, you’ll answer to me. You will be working under Mr. Patterson.
“Well? Are you going to quit?”
There was a deep sweltering silence in the room, and all the men stared at each other, dumbfounded.
Then one man stepped forward, a Hungarian. “Mr. Garrity,” he said, “you don’t need shout at us. We got good jobs here, yes? We like this place. I do pastry. We treated right here, by everybody. We work with this … this black man. Yes.” He turned to the others.
There was another silence. Then some said sullenly, and some with smiles, “Yes. Yes.”
Then all were laughing and shaking their heads as they went back to work. Their attitude now was that Mr. Garrity had been absurd.
Jason returned to his office. He said to the Zulu chef, “It’s all right. You can start tomorrow, if you want to. But there’s one thing you have to know, Mr. Patterson. Every man in that kitchen thinks he is better than any other man there, and far superior in every way. That’s human nature. If you look for slights, you’ll get them. But for God’s sake, don’t insult them, either!”
18
Jason went to the little Holy Cross cemetery on his way home, in the last brightness of the May day. He stood at Bernard’s grave, which was still raw, though little tufts of wild grass were already sprouting on it. The mound had not settled yet. When it did, there would be a large marble cross on it. The cemetery had that strange eerie silence only graveyards have, as if filled with watching eyes and sentient presences. Where was Bernard now, if anywhere? It was as if he had never lived, that ferocious and gallant old man. Jason said aloud, “Da?” Was this all that was left of a heroic life, of any human life—a mound of brown wet earth? For what was a man born? For what did he endure living? For what did he die? The earth was one vast tomb, and there were no answers from it. Let priests expound, explain. They were shouting in a universal darkness, deluded, perhaps even afraid.
Jason got into his automobile and went home. He had but one life to live and he would live it as best he could. Still, he thought, I am blessed in many ways, with my dear wife and my children and my fortune. I could have nothing. He tried to lighten his mood, and forced himself to think of his new Zulu chef and finally could smile. No matter a man’s race or color or religion, he was one with the rest of his wretched fellows, and they all had one terrible adversary—God. And each other, of course, sad to say.
The house was very quiet except for the sounds in the kitchen and the voices of servants. Jason went upstairs to his wife’s room. He found her, as he did so often, fast asleep on her bed. She had removed only her slippers. Her fine hair had fallen over her face. Her arms were flung out as if pleading. How thin the poor girl was! She ate almost nothing. She looked lost, sprawled on her bed in her brown dress. One topaz earring lay beside her, and Jason picked it up and put it on her dresser. He then stood and gazed at her tenderly, his darling, his fragile wife. She was so ineffable, so easily hurt. He still could not believe that this delicate creature had married him, with all her daintiness and feminine emotions. His smile was almost humble.
She had no strength, he reflected, no endurance, or she would not be so tired this often, so enervated after a mere lunch with friends. Everything, it seemed, exhausted her. The fine hair puffed up and down with her irregular breathing. She would have her regular migraine tonight. Patricia moaned; then, as if feeling Jason’s eyes on her, she started awake. She sat up, swaying, looked at her husband, and pushed back her hair. “Oh, good heavens,” she murmured. “I’ve missed tea, and I haven’t eaten all day.” She clutched her temples. “Oh, what a headache I have! And I’m sick to my stomach.”
Jason went into her bathroom, and, as usual, mixed her a dose of Bromo-Seltzer. She drank it greedily, licking the last drops from her dry lips. She averted her eyes from him, and her mouth became sullen. “Shall I ring for tea for you, dearest?” asked Jason.
Patricia shuddered. “No.” She smoothed her wrinkled dress and yawned abruptly.
“You should have stayed in bed, as you promised,” he said.
“I didn’t promise. How tiresome you are, Jason. You expect me to spend my whole life in this awful house and go nowhere. Not that there is anywhere interesting to go in this town.” She found one of the rats which bolstered up her hair in the latest Irene Castle fashion; it was under her elbow. She pushed it under a slight buttock, and her sallow cheek flushed with vexation.
“Why don’t you stay in bed tonight?” asked Jason. “You can have a tray up here. I’ll call Joan and say we won’t be there for dinner.”
Patricia gave him a glance that was purely vicious. “Oh, you would like to imprison me here all the time, wouldn’t you! Never seeing anyone but you and my father and my children. What fun! What time is it? Seven! Oh, do go away and let me get ready. Joan is expecting us in half an hour.”
She and Jason had dinner with Lionel and Joan once a week, and that occasion, combined with Joan’s and Lionel’s weekly visit, was almost all Patricia lived for with real happiness. All the days between meant nothing to her. To sit in the presence of Lionel—and to watch him “suffer” too—was to know hours of meaning and painful joy.
“Are you sure you are well enough to go?” asked Jason with anxiety, noting the drawn pallor of her face. “We were out late last night with Daniel and Molly.”
“Oh, how I did enjoy that!” Patricia cried, and slapped the pillow near her vindictively. “Daniel and Molly! I can’t stand either of them! Daniel’s sly and Molly is stupid.
They have no conversation. And Molly watches me all the time. Like a thief. And then she looks at you like a cow, all big eyes. Everyone knows she was in love with you. It makes me laugh.”
“Molly? In love with me? Patricia, that’s ridiculous. We’ve never even liked each other.” Jason laughed. He was amazed at the very thought.
“Well, she was, and probably still is. In a way, I’m sorry for my cousin, marrying such a vulgar unattractive thing as Molly. He could have had the best in Philadelphia. I could never understand it. Oh, do go away, Jason! I’ve got to change and freshen up.” Her voice was shrill, and she shrank when Jason lovingly touched her brow.
Jason went away, to see his children. He found Patrick romping with them. Nicholas was swinging from one of his arms in a monkey like fashion, and shrieking, Sebastian was standing nearby, smiling, and Nicole was holding his free hand, smiling at him like a fatuous mother. Patrick was fatter and pinker and balder than ever. He resembled a giant Kewpie doll, paunchy and joyously smiling. His little bright blue eyes shone happily as he played with the children. They sparkled even more on seeing Jason, whom he loved dearly as a son, for all Jason’s “John Knox” convictions. To a jovial Irishman like Patrick, the “black Irish” were formidable, and could be daunting, especially to those of a more flexible bent.
Nicole ran to Jason, and before she held up her short arms to him, she scrutinized him in her usual fashion, seeking his mood. She felt that something had disturbed him today, had aroused his anger, which could be awesome at times. He picked her up and she gave him a kiss, murmuring into his neck. The murmur was as consoling as the hand-pat she had given Sebastian this morning. Nicholas, yelping as customary, rushed to his father, bouncing up and down, demanding to be picked up too. Jason set Nicole down and took his wriggling son up; Nicholas squirmed in his arms. Though it was cool now in the nursery, the child was sweating vigorously, his hair damp, his mouth uttering panting incoherences. Sebastian approached but stood at least two feet away, and the man and the child smiled at each other in silence, the warm understanding flowing between them without words. Jason had the sudden thought that if he told Sebastian of his encounter with the new Zulu chef, Sebastian, even at his age, would comprehend entirely, and with sympathy.
Answer as a Man Page 30
