Color Purple Collection

by Alice Walker

  “Poor woman!

  “But to tell you the truth, Suwelo, I was not sorry to go. For I was a lion. To whom harmony, above everything, is sacred. I could see that, merged, man and woman were in for an eternity of strife, and I wanted no part of it. I knew that, even if man had let us remain beside woman’s fire he would be throwing his weight around constantly, and woman being woman, every so often would send pots and pans flying over our heads; this would go on forever. An unbearable thought; as a lion, I could not bear loud noises, abrupt changes in behavior, voices raised in anger. Evilness. No lion could tolerate such things. It is our nature to be nonviolent, to be peaceful, to be calm. And ever to be fair in our dealings; and I knew this would be impossible in the present case, since the animals, except for the barbarous dogs, clearly preferred woman, and would always have been attempting to defend her. Lions felt that, no matter the circumstance, one must be dignified. In consorting with man, as he had become, woman was bound to lose her dignity, her integrity. It was a tragedy. But it was a fate lions were not prepared to share.

  “In subsequent periods lions moved farther and farther away from humans, in search of peace. There were tribes with whom we kept connections, in that we taught, and they learned from us. What did they learn? They learned that rather than go to war with one’s own kind it was better to pack up and remove oneself from the site of contention. That as long as there is space in which to move there is a possibility of having uncontested peace. There are tribes living today in South Africa who have never come to blows with each other for a thousand years. It is because of what they learned from the lions.

  “For thousands of years our personalities were known by all and appreciated. In a way, we were the beloved ‘uncles’ and ‘aunts’—interesting visitors, indulgent playmates, superb listeners, and thoughtful teachers—of the human tribe, which, fortunately, could never figure out, not for a long, long time, anyhow, any reason why we should be viewed as completely different from them and separate from them. Only gradually did we fade into myth—all that was known of us previously, that is. The last people on earth who had any real comprehension of our essence are themselves faded into myth, but at least before they faded completely they erected the sphinx... . There are also”—Miss Lissie chuckled—“those accounts one hears of the free-roaming lions that frequently startled visitors to Haile Selassie’s palace in Ethiopia. It never occurred to anyone of his ancient lineage that lions should be anything but free. Dreadlocked Rastas who made it inside the courtyard were sometimes so frightened on meeting one of these lions—their ancient totem, strolling about like they were—that their locks literally stood on end.

  “I realize, too, that there are more ... intermediate stories,” continued Miss Lissie, “that is to say, between the ancient and the current ones; such as ‘Androcles and the Lion’ and ‘Daniel in the Lion’s Den,’ but already in those stories you can see that no one understood what was happening from the lion’s point of view. It would have been unthinkable for the lion who had the thorn removed from his paw by Androcles to hurt the friend who removed it; it would never have crossed his mind to hurt him, period, whether he removed the damn thing or not. Likewise with Daniel. Even though the Romans were into torturing lions, so brutalizing them that in their hunger and rage they attacked the hapless Christians, to the frenzied cheers of the crowds, whenever they had the least chance to reflect, to remember who they were, they did nothing that could remotely be termed violent. Even though they were all hungry, starved almost to fainting by the Romans, Daniel had a perfectly safe and comfy night’s sleep, with his head resting against one of their sides. They would also have objected to the rank odor of Daniel’s toxicity.

  “Now,” said Miss Lissie, whose voice was again becoming tired, “there were but two things on earth Hal truly feared. He feared white people, especially white men, and he feared cats. The fear of the white man was less irrational than the fear of cats, but they were both very real fears to Hal. You could make him back up twenty miles simply by asking him to hold a cat. And he arranged his life so that if he ever saw a white man, it was by accident, and also very separate from his personal life, an unheralded and unwelcome event. So how could I tell him all of who I was? By now Hal is like my son to me, and I couldn’t bear it if he hated me. For such fear as Hal’s is hatred.

  “And so, I never told him. How could I say it? Yo, Hal, I was a white man; more than once; they’re probably still in there somewhere. Yo, Hal, I was also, once upon a time, a very large cat.”

  Miss Lissie chuckled. Then laughed and laughed. Suwelo did too. Her laughter was the last sound on that side of the tape.

  “But if you love someone, you want to share yourself, or, in my case,” said Miss Lissie—and Suwelo imagined her wiping her eyes, still smiling—“you want to share yourselves. But I was afraid. When Henry Laytrum brought the pictures that showed me faded almost to a ghost, pictures that lightened my hair and washed out my eyes, I tore them up; I said he’d used defective film. When he took other pictures in which I looked feline, really like Dorothy’s companion in The Wizard of Oz, I tore them up too. Maybe there’s always a part of the self that we hide, deny, deliberately destroy.

  “But oh, how we love the person who affirms even that hateful part of us. And it was for affirming these split-off parts of my memory that I loved your uncle Rafe. Rafe, unlike Hal, was afraid of no one. He thought white people the most pathetic people who ever lived. Ruling over other people, he said, automatically cuts you off from life. And to try to rule over colored people, who, anybody could see, were life itself! He was more puzzled than annoyed when otherwise intelligent-looking and acting white people called him ‘boy’ or ‘nigger.’ He was always hoping for a little better from them than he ever got. But that was because he could easily see some of himself in them, though, when looking back at him, white people apparently saw ... But he often wondered just what it was that they saw. What they let themselves see. Were they blind to his very being, as he himself was blind to the being of a fly? To him, their constant imperative to ‘civilize’ us was in fact a need to blind and deaden us to their own extent.

  “I told Rafe everything; and he took me north, to Canada, in the summers, to be around white people; and he took me to more zoos than I have the heart to mention. This was part and parcel of his making love to me, you see, taking me to those places of which I was, myself, most afraid. You cannot imagine the feeling I had the first time I sat down to dinner in a restaurant that was filled with white people, white people who only stared at us and whispered among themselves, but did not, as they would have done in the South, rush to throw us out of the building, or perhaps beat us up or even lynch us.

  “I remember that Rafe ordered meat. Some kind of duck, I think. And when it came, he saw the look on my face. I could never eat meat among white people; of that I was sure; my stomach heaved at the thought of it. Rafe and I ate mashed potatoes and salad, and he said to me, in that deep, caressing, sweet Negro voice of his: ‘Well, Lissie, have a good look.’

  “And I could see how they’d closed themselves off, these descendants, there at the ‘top of the heap,’ and how isolated they were. They were completely without wildness, and they had forgotten how to laugh. They had also forgotten, I was to discover on our many trips, how to dance and sing. They haunted black people’s dance halls and churches, trying to ‘pick up’ what they’d closed off in themselves. It was pitiful. One of the people I most appreciated in the sixties, by the way, was Janis Joplin. She knew Bessie Smith was her momma, and she sang her guts out trying to tear open that closed door between them.

  “In a way, I preferred the zoos. Though I hated them with all my heart, naturally. But at the zoo, at least there were no illusions about who was free and who was not. The lions were always in cages too small for them. And it had never occurred to anyone that, cut off from life year upon year, as they were, with nothing whatever to do, the least that could be done was to build them a fire. It was heartbre
aking—to watch them pace, to smell the sour staleness of their coats and of their cells, to hear the hysteria in their roar, to watch them devour a perfectly healthy animal that had been raised for ‘meat’ and killed on an assembly line by machine. It was horrible. It was a fate the most imaginative and cynical preancient lion could not have imagined. And now, as a presence in the modern world, I am thankful for this.

  “The most abominable thing to see was their faces. Slack, dull, unintelligent, unthoughtful. Stupefied from boredom, gross from the degradation of dependency. To every zoo—colored could go even to the one in Baltimore, after a long struggle; but only on maid’s day off, Thursday—I carried a large mirror. Anyone else would have thought this strange, but not Rafe. He helped me carry it and hold it up outside the cages. A restless lion would amble up to the bars and have a look at himself. This was usually the first and only look at himself he’d ever had. I held my breath.

  “Would there be a flicker of recognition? Even of interest? Did the lion inside the body of the lion see itself? Though I myself had the body of a woman, I could still see my lion inside. Would they see that? Would they see the old nobility, the old impatience with inferiors? The old grace?

  “One or two of them saw something. But it only made them sad. They slunk back to a corner of their cages and put their heads down between their paws. Of course I wanted to leap through the bars to comfort them. I wanted to destroy the bars.

  “Rafe carried me back home, a pitiful wreck, after these excursions, and put me to bed. He and Hal and Lulu would come in to kiss me good night; and when Rafe was turning to go, I would grasp his hand—such a good, steady, clean brown hand it was. He would sit down on the bed without a word and take off his shoes.

  “Your uncle Rafe was an incomparable lover, Suwelo. And I have missed him so much, I have sometimes longed to meet up with him again, which I know is not likely; there is little need for him to come back. He loved the total me. None of my selves was hidden from him, and he feared none of them. Sometimes, when I would get ‘on my high horse,’ as he called it, when I was ordering everybody around and complaining that nobody knew anything or could do anything right but me, he’d grin and say, ‘You sure are showing your white tonight!’ And I’d feel how ridiculous I was being, and laugh.

  “Or, sometimes at a party, I’d realize the other people were a bunch of lowlifes, and I’d leave. Just stroll out the door. Rafe would come after me and look at me prowling along the sidewalk aching for distance, and peace, and calm; disgust at the party’s members still on my face, and he’d say, ‘Baby, the lion in winter’s got nothing on you!’

  “And of course he knew and appreciated all the other selves, and could call them by name, too.

  “So, loving Rafe and being loved by Rafe was the experience of many a lifetime. And very different from being loved by Hal, even when our passion for each other was at its height, Hal loved me like a sister/mystic/warrior/woman/mother. Which was nice. But that was only part of who I was. Rafe, on the other hand, knowing me to contain everybody and everything, loved me wholeheartedly, as a goddess. Which I was.”

  “WHEN I SAW SUWELO on the back steps of Arveyda’s house, I did not know who he was,” Carlotta cheerfully related to Fanny one day after they had become friends. “I was coming up from the guest house, where I live, which is down the path and across a ravine from the main house. Arveyda and the children live in the main house; the studio is on the bottom floor; so I am in and out of their space constantly. However, they must ask permission to enter mine. There is a little bridge over the ravine, just before you get to my little house, and at that bridge, before you cross over a culvert that channels a rushing waterfall during the rainy season, is the first gate. It has several little bells that must be rung. If nothing happens after the ringing of these little bells—no rocks are thrown at you, or shoes—the visitor, usually Arveyda or one of my children, may proceed to the next gate. This one has chimes. It is usually locked. If it isn’t, the visitor strikes the chimes and comes through the gate and up my steps. There are still more bells and chimes at my door. I will come only in response to these bells and chimes, not to calls, words of any sort, or knocks on the door itself.

  “So I am coming up to work in the studio, since I am now a musician, a bell chimist. What is a bell chimist, everyone always asks. But there is a strange man at the back of the house, quizzically knocking. I stop just at the wall of the house where the daphne bushes are in full bloom and the odor is so sweet, and I notice the purple clematis is about to riot over one corner of the carport, which is up the cliff, hanging above my head. I stop because when I am thinking about my music I cannot bear to be disturbed—not by Arveyda or by the children, and certainly not by a wandering insurance salesman. Which is what this man looks like—of course, a wandering insurance salesman in Berkeley. He’s casually dressed in brown corduroy jeans and a lovely burgundy sweater. Wearing an earring and some kind of pendant on a chain.

  “Just as I’m about to duck out of sight, he looks in my direction and spots me.

  “Gracious God, I think, and shrug inwardly. My little notes of music that I have been hoarding in my soul all night and morning disappear.

  “‘Hell-o,’ I say, frowning. ‘What can I do for you?’

  “The man is startled. His eyes—nice, big, open, and friendly eyes—open wider.

  “Am I such a shock, I wonder. Is it my hair, cut nearly to my skull and standing out like a concentration-camp victim’s? Or is it my tight black running suit and teal Reeboks? Who cares? This is Berkeley, after all.

  “But he is still staring, and his jaw is still dropped.

  “Then I first really look at him. To see him. When I’m working or thinking of work, or regretting work that has just been assassinated, I don’t look at people to see them. I look at them just enough to deal with them and get them out of my life. But I suddenly look at this tallish, gaunt figure, with closely cropped hair. Oh, no, I think. It can’t be!

  “But it is.

  “‘Suwelo?’ I offer, as if to a ghost.

  “‘Carlotta?’ he says, making a funny whirring motion over his own shorn head to indicate my missing locks.

  “After this, we don’t know what to do. He is even more at sea than I am.

  “What the hell, I think.

  “‘We’re here,’ I say, ‘let’s go in.’

  “‘Is this your house?’ he asks. He can’t believe it, if it is. ‘I went over to your old place and no one around there knew anything. Just that you’d moved.’

  “‘Yes, I moved,’ I say. ‘The children wanted to live with their father.’

  “I push open the door. The smell of baking bread hits us at once.

  “‘Baby, is that you?’ Arveyda’s homey voice calls from the kitchen.

  “‘Yeah, it’s me,’ I call back.

  “He comes up from the kitchen to see for himself. He is wearing his Brahms apron and his Satchmo Armstrong chef’s hat. He is covered with flour and seems perfectly content. He glances at Suwelo before bending down to kiss me. He kisses me always as if he’s tasting something yummy.

  “My mood improves with this kiss, and I actually smile.

  “‘Arveyda, meet Suwelo,’ I say. ‘And vice versa.’

  “Cedrico, seeming taller than he was the day before yesterday, darts through the room and across our path, a monster piece of freshly baked bread in his hand, a glob of it in his mouth. Why he hasn’t choked to death before today is beyond me. Angelita is close behind, looking like a miniature harlot, which is how all little girls her age look these days.

  “‘Here, here, wait a minute,’ says Arveyda, dragged off in spite of himself, following the ominous sounds of scraping chairs and clanging utensils that instantly emerge from the kitchen.

  “I glance up at Suwelo, thinking what a disgrace my no-mannered children are, and I see that his jaw has dropped even lower.

  “‘Is that ... ? Isn’t that ... ?’

  “‘Yes,’ I say.
‘That’s that.’

  “I usher him into the living room, where he sits heavily in a chair. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he says. ‘You were married to Arveyda.’

  “‘I’m still married to Arveyda,’ I say. ‘But that bond is no longer the primary basis of our relationship.’

  “Suwelo looks at me quizzically. Didn’t he used to have bushy eyebrows? I think. Didn’t he used to wear glasses?

  “‘We work together now.’

  “He raises an eyebrow. A thin one.

  “‘As musicians.’

  “‘Oh,’ he says.

  “‘When I saw you at the door, I was on my way down to the studio to work.’

  “‘I’m sorry if I diverted you,’ he says.

  “‘Want to come see?’ I ask. For though I have been temporarily diverted, I still need a peek at my companions, my babies, my instruments. Just to be sure they are there. Mine. And, no matter how long it takes, waiting for me.

  “‘What a lovely smell,’ Suwelo comments, sniffing, as we go down the stairs.

  “‘Arveyda bakes every Saturday,’ I say. ‘At least every Saturday we’re not on the road. It relaxes him.’

  “‘Umm,’ says Suwelo. ‘How much bread does he bake?’

  “‘There’s no set amount,’ I say, as we pass the nice big picture of James Baldwin, where he looks like an angel who loves fresh bread, smiling down on all who enter the hall. ‘He just gets up in the morning, puts on his Miles Davis, Roberta Flack, Bob Marley, or Aretha Franklin tapes, and starts in. He can bake all morning or he can bake most of the weekend. He always bakes just enough.’

  “‘But,’ says Suwelo, looking with skepticism at my skinniness, ‘four people can’t eat so much bread!’

  “‘More than four people live on the streets of Berkeley,’ I say. ‘There is never the slightest problema.’

  “Now we are in the studio: the big room with the smaller glass room inside it that I love better than any room in the world. I love all the instruments, the lights, the booths. I especially love my own instruments, which I lead Suwelo over to see.