by Claude McKay
But Bunchetta gave no inkling whether she knew about the party or not. And said: “I’ll guess you’re going to the theatre, or a dinner party.”
“Too late for any theatre,” said Seraphine. “May I telephone?”
They teased each other like children with tinted candies, each one hiding its candy in its fist and insisting it had the prettiest tint. Seraphine telephoned her father’s chauffeur to come and get her at the famous 409 Edgecombe Avenue,1 where Bunchetta was resident. The uniformed doorman neglected his post and followed Seraphine to the car to open the door for her. He stared at the Ethiopian device painted on the side and gave a nod to the chauffeur, which conveyed something like the grip of the two persons belonging to the same secret order.
The party was taking place not in Park Avenue, but off it in the Sixties, close enough to be called a Park Avenue party. The hostess was Mrs. Lela Witern. She was the young and generous-minded wife of an aged philanthropist. He had recently had a severe paralytic stroke and could speak only with great difficulty, slowly and almost inaudibly. But his mind was still actively interested in people and causes. And when Mrs. Witern gave affairs she had a practice of having her husband in the room until most of the guests were assembled. Then she introduced each one to her husband with a few words about each accomplishment or interest. It was a rather wearing and sometimes embarrassing process, as Mr. Witern also made strenuous efforts to say something sympathetic or pleasing. After making the introductions Mrs. Witern excused herself and led her husband back slowly and affectionately to his bedroom. They were married in 1933 and had had three years of wedded life. Before his second marriage Mr. Witern’s philanthropic interests were conservative and devoted primarily to schools and organized charity. But young Mrs. Witern had influenced him to consider modern artistic people and things and social activities of a more radical nature.
It was not particularly a White Friends of Ethiopia party in the sense that Sunday’s meeting was a Hands to Ethiopia demonstration. Mrs. Witern was not one of the “Friends” but only a sympathizer. The idea of the party was suggested to her by another sympathizer named Maxim Tasan.
• • •
Alamaya was fidgety. He knew nothing about the ways of New York parties but thought he should get to Mrs. Witern’s between nine and ten. But at ten o’clock Seraphine telephoned again and he enquired if it was not late. “Oh no,” she said. “You’re not the guest of honor and it’s better to be a little late. New York specializes in late parties. But I won’t be long. See you!” She was then on her way to Bunchetta’s. It was after eleven when she got to the Santa Cruz. And then she had to fool around and examine his rooms and spill a few pretty phrases.
It was nearly twelve o’clock when they arrived at the party. The place was crowded. Newton Castle was near the door as if waiting for the prince’s coming and hurried him over to Mrs. Witern. “You were not very early, Lij Alamaya, and so my husband had to retire without the privilege of meeting you.”
Alamaya apologised and said he had heard that most New York parties began at midnight.
“That depends on the set you belong to,” Mrs. Witern said, laughing. It was a bohemian gathering and many persons had come with friends that Mrs. Witern did not even know. Some sat around in groups while many were on their feet enjoying drinks and tidbits at the buffet. Mrs. Witern introduced Alamaya to some important persons: the college professor A. Banner Makepeace, who was the only member present of the White Friends of Ethiopia committee; Mrs. Willoughby, who was specially interested in the Young China Society; and her Chinese friend Mr. Ming. There was also another professor, Joseph Bancleft, who was honorary president of the World Democratic League. He essayed a few words to Alamaya about the crisis of world democracy, but it was impossible to make serious conversation in that atmosphere with so many persons pressing around them to shake hands with Lij Alamaya of Ethiopia now that they knew he was there. So Dr. Bancleft said that he would telephone Alamaya and make an appointment for dinner with Professor Makepeace, who also was a member of the World Democratic League.
“Why, there is Bunchy,” cried Seraphine. “That cat, she trumped my ace!” And she left Alamaya, surprised at her remark, to go over near the buffet where Bunchetta was drinking with Delta Castle and a group among whom were some of the first refugees from Nazi Germany. Bunchetta giggled as she saw Seraphine coming towards her.
Newton Castle steered Alamaya to the other side of the large room where, near a smaller buffet with drinks and food, there stood Maxim Tasan, whom Castle specially wanted Alamaya to meet. With Tasan was a brown girl, Gloria Kendall, and an Englishman named Aubrey Pickett. “This isn’t a bad corner you picked out for yourselves,” said Castle. He made the introductions, but he had not met Aubrey Pickett, and Tasan introduced him.
“I see, already you are keeping C.P.T.,” said Pickett to Alamaya. “Well, it wouldn’t be strange for an African.”
Pickett had taken a single cruise de luxe of Africa, making one stop at Zanzibar and another at Dakar. And perhaps from enchantment, perhaps from disillusion, he liked to imagine that he was an authority on African things. Alamaya asked what was C.P.T. “C.P.T.? Why, you have acted as if you were acquainted with it, Lij Alamaya, after keeping us all waiting for hours for your appearance. Won’t you explain for me what C.P.T. is, Miss Kendall?”
But neither Gloria Kendall nor Newton Castle knew. “Really? Fancy living in Harlem and not knowing what C.P.T. is.” And with an amused expression as if he were imparting some special knowledge of Aframerican similarity to Africa: “C.P.T. is Colored People’s Time, of course, because as they say, ‘Colored people are always late.’”
Alamaya was surprised and nettled by the stress Pickett put on “colored.” He had always thought of himself as an Ethiopian, an African, but he had not been long enough in America to think in terms of being “colored.” Coldly and deliberately he said: “Perhaps colored people are never early, because they can afford to be late. They have nothing in the world to hurry about. But you English have everything. Yet you were late in Asia in 1931, you were late in Africa in 1935 and perhaps you will soon be late in Europe and in Britain itself.”
Tasan’s eyes turned sharply on Alamaya as if they were searching for the key to his character, then a look of approval came into his face and he nodded his head as if he wanted to say: “Fine, fine.”
“I am afraid you are anti-English, Lij Alamaya,” said Pickett.
“On the contrary, I am not. I am only pro-Ethiopian. Fascist Italy is the enemy of Ethiopia. Do you expect me to praise Britain and France for prohibiting the sale and transportation of arms to enable us to fight our enemy?”
“There are larger considerations,” said Pickett. “I think all decent Englishmen sympathise with Ethiopia, but Britain cannot be policeman for the world.”
“But even if it’s against Great Britain’s will, her vast empire puts her in the position of policeman of the world,” said Tasan.
Aubrey Pickett regretted his little banter and its development into a serious argument. He had no inclination to discuss politics in such a place, for he felt that it was not in good taste. He was saved from his predicament by Seraphine and Bunchetta joining them, with German refugees, a Dr. Schmidt, a Professor Jacob Fischer, their wives and a young artist named Willy Rittner. The refugees wanted to meet Alamaya and were introduced.
Said Seraphine: “We were talking about you, Tekla, and Ethiopia and everything. Professor Fischer is an anthropologist and he says the Ethiopians are not really an African people in the sense that Aframericans are, that they are a Semitic people like the Arabs.”
“Ethiopians don’t think so. We call ourselves a black African nation,” Alamaya replied coldly in a tone indicating he did not want to pursue the subject.
“And I insisted I could pass for a typical Ethiopian girl, couldn’t I, Lij Alamaya?” Bunchetta asked in a gurgling treaclish accent.
&n
bsp; “No, you couldn’t, Bunchy,” said Seraphine. “You want to be everything, you are passing as a Balinese in the Village—”
“I am not,” said Bunchetta, “but the artists think I resemble one.”
“That’s all the same, what difference does it make? You tell us, Tekla, what a typical Ethiopian girl is like.”
“Oh, there are various types, just like in Harlem,” said Alamaya, “but Miss Kendall could be a typical Ethiopian girl.”
Gloria Kendall, who had had so little to say and remained almost unnoticed, was now the center of attention. The compliment was unexpected and she smiled modestly. Her face was attractive, round and sweet-like, and the same color of a nice cup of rich warm cocoa. Seraphine had merely nodded to Gloria when they were introduced and was not even interested to know who the girl was. The compliment was quite as unexpected to her and she blurted: “Dammit! Well, it’s neither you nor me, Bunchy.”
The general laughter was a welcome antidote. Mrs. Witern and Professor Makepeace approached. Mrs. Witern was of the same height as Seraphine, but thinner and her complexion was ruddy. She signaled to the attendant at the buffet to fill up the half-empty glasses. “You must call him when you need something or just get it if he isn’t around,” she said. Professor Makepeace took a swallow of the sherry he had in his hand.
“We’re getting along all right,” said Maxim Tasan.
“You do have a comfortable corner,” said Mrs. Witern. “I didn’t expect such a crowd, but I think it’s a nice party.”
“Splendid!” Professor Makepeace agreed. “Lij Alamaya, haven’t you an Ethiopian souvenir, any little trifle to show us?” Alamaya said he had nothing on him. “But,” he added, “I have only the Emperor’s letter of commendation.” All were eager to see it. And Professor Makepeace said that nothing could be more interesting. Alamaya handed him the envelope. The letter was written on a square of thick white paper. Attached to it by a red ribbon was a plain gold circlet about the size of a fifty-cent piece. The circlet was curiously rounded. The letter stated that Lij Tekla Alamaya was the personal representative of the Emperor of Ethiopia and recommended him to the good graces of all officials of embassies and consulates and the friends of Ethiopia abroad. Alamaya translated it. Many persons collected around to see it and the letter was passed from hand to hand.
Seraphine of all the persons in the party was the most remarkable to the Germans. She was so fair, despite her Papuan physiognomy, so Nordic something. And so they contrived to keep her constantly in their company and put many questions to her about Harlem: Must be a vastly interesting place. Were there many more persons like her—white of complexion, of course? Did they feel differently from the rest of New York? She was very flattered by their attentions, considering herself a greater social success than Delta Castle and Bunchetta Facey. In her high spirits, she drank excessively, even to the extent of mixing whiskey with gin.
Maxim Tasan and Newton Castle had moved with Alamaya away from the others in what appeared to be a cabal. Seraphine and the Germans with the Englishman went from the spacious reception room, passing down the long corridor to the dining room. There were drinks there too and eatables. Mrs. Witern was prodigal in her arrangements to please her guests.
The young artist, Willy Rittner, said he would like the pleasure of painting Seraphine. She said that her picture had already been beautifully enlarged in colors by an art firm downtown, but that was when she was in high school and she would like another. The artist thanked Seraphine and handed her a large glass of Scotch and a little soda.
“Tell us how the Harlem people live,” said Mrs. Fischer. “It is so strange to a stranger. Thousands of you up there and living downtown one never would realize it. You see a few porters in the railway station or a maid when you go out to dinner, but otherwise a colored person is as rare as a red Indian.”
“You won’t feel that way when you visit Harlem,” said Seraphine.
Mrs. Schmidt drew closer to her on the couch. “But isn’t there popular resentment against such prejudice? Cut off from the fuller life of the city? You have heard of what is happening to the Jews in Germany. Now when an educated cultured colored person, just as well-bred as any white person—like you—”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Seraphine. “This is a funny country and some colored persons get along. For example Mother is a member of the Board of Colored Charities. And last May she was invited by the Matrons of the Temple to luncheon. That’s an old club and the members wanted to know about charitable work among colored people. And Mother said that after the luncheon one of the ladies told her it was the first time a colored person was ever entertained there and not a Jew had ever got in there.”
“Oh there!” cried Mrs. Fischer, her glass of liquor having fallen from her hand and broken on the floor.
“That affair of the Matrons having your mother to luncheon was soon after the Harlem Riots,” said a downtowner.2
“Yes, two months after, I believe,” said Seraphine. “As I say, there are breaks and compensations and sometimes I wonder what the darkies are always fussing about. Mother and I go wherever we want in New York. We have dined at the Waldorf and I’ve danced at the Jardin du Ciel of the Plaza Alhambra3 and visited the Seminole Cabaret, which is the most exclusive in New York. But it costs a lot of money to go to such ritzy places. And how many Harlemites have money? Ha-ha!”
Seraphine threw herself back on the couch in a giggling fit. She was addicted to laughing spells when inebriated. Artist Willy Rittner hissed: “The silly hussy.” And there was dead silence. The Germans could not understand this girl who was so closely associated with the envoy of Ethiopia, a country struggling against Fascism. She seemed to know nothing; giddy, empty-headed.
Mrs. Fischer walked out of the room followed by her husband. Pair by pair and one by one the others left. And Seraphine was alone. She looked up and saw that she was alone. And she lay back and giggled again until her body was limber. At last she pulled herself together and said: “Gee, I wonder if I made a damn fool out of myself again.” And she laughed at what she said. She kicked her feet out and got up, swayed a little. She straightened up and started down the corridor. She felt dizzy again and leaned against the panel of a door. She heard voices inside and was startled by her own name, “Peixota.” She listened. It was Alamaya speaking:
“Peixota won’t stand for the ousting of Dorsey Flagg. He likes him. Flagg is one of the few college men—perhaps the only one—who respects Peixota. We are trying to avoid any more dissension. If Mr. Castle starts trouble with Mr. Flagg and forces him out, Peixota will resign.”
“Then let him resign, we can get plenty more to take his place. We don’t want any Trotskyite on that committee.”
“But the colored people want Mr. Flagg, they elected him. What do they know about your Trotskyite-Stalinite controversy? What do they care? It is my poor suffering country they are thinking about; they want to help Ethiopia.”
“Lij Alamaya,” said Maxim Tasan, “your country is a part of the world. You’re a very young man, but you are a diplomat. Tonight when you reminded that bright Englishman about the English acting late in Asia and Africa, you said a profound thing. But you are not profound when you think that the Stalinite-Trotskyite issue has nothing to do with colored people. This issue involves all the peoples of the world. Trotsky is one of the cleverest men on earth and he is one of the most powerful and dangerous agents of Fascism. We have imperative orders to fight against Trotskyism and its agents and sympathizers everywhere—to show them no mercy, fight them with every weapon, fair or foul. Soviet Russia is the only great nation that is fighting Fascism today. In all the other countries the Fascists are permitted to organize their forces, except in Soviet Russia. Ethiopia is a victim of Fascist aggression. We couldn’t give you our support, if you were working with Fascists.”
Seraphine passed along into the big room. What she heard had
a sobering effect on her. Although she was wholly lacking in political intelligence, her curiosity was aroused. Who was this Maxim Tasan and why was he mixed up with Lij Alamaya and the Hands to Ethiopia committee?
The radio was on and a few couples were shuffling around, without much animation. There was much more space, for many of the guests had left. Those who remained were of two kinds, persons who enjoy making conversation and reluctantly break away from a convivial gathering and those who will stay until the last drink is drunk. The Germans were gone except the artist Willy Rittner, who was sitting in conversation with Bunchetta. A muscular man with the swing of a boxer was walking about the room, accompanied by a fragile kind of mollipilose youth, who was earnestly talking. The man was an esteemed writer of action tales, not the popular Westerns, but tales of social significance, of brutal and bloody incidents involving the cultured classes in the struggle for existence. The youth was praising the master in accents of adoration. Sometimes the writer glared at him, but said nothing. His glass was empty and he went to the buffet (still dogged by the young man), found a bottle that was not empty, poured a large drink and swallowed it at one gulp. Suddenly he turned round and, with a terrific swing, hit the poor young admirer in the mouth. The lad fell with a thud. A girl screamed and a crowd collected around him. He was lifted to his feet. His teeth were loose and the blood dripped from his mouth upon his shirt.
The writer had walked leisurely away. “Come to the bathroom and clean yourself up,” Mrs. Witern said to the young man. She gave him a handkerchief and he held it to his mouth.
Another man remarked: “At first I thought it was one of the proletarians who had gone off his nut, but it was a highbrow.”
“Yes, and I was congratulating myself that it was such a nice party,” said Mrs. Witern.
