by Harlan Ruud
Jonathan, I learn, is thirty-one years old. He is wealthy; he does not discuss the source. He was born and raised in Boston. He now lives in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, but he travels extensively and is seldom there. He collects rare jazz, blues, and soul records. He is, indeed, a registered Democrat.
'And Maggie,' he says, smiling at her, 'I met in Paris three years ago. She was working as a model and studying French.'
'I didn't know you were a model,' I say to Maggie.
In fact, I realize, I know even less about her than I do about him. Curiously, I do not want to know more.
'Well,' she says, shrugging. 'I wouldn't say I was a model. I did a couple runway shows and some print work, but that's about it. Seemed like the only black models who were getting any work were the ones who had Caucasian features and – and yellow skin.'
'White women with a tan,' I suggest.
'Amen,' she replies, taking a drag of her cigarette.
'Yeah,' Jonathan adds, shaking his head. 'As a man of African descent, I find it especially frustrating that –'
'Oh, stop saying that,' Maggie suddenly, furiously, interrupts, setting her cigarette in the ashtray and looking up at the dark red ceiling.
'Stop saying what?' Jonathan asks, as if confused.
'That you're a man of African descent,' she replies, looking at me and shaking her head. 'You've said that before and, really, it's pathetic, Jonathan.'
I look at him, studying his features.
'You're black?' I ask.
'No,' Maggie says. 'He is not black. He's Jewish. That's all. Just a plain old Jew.'
'My great-grandmother,' he says, 'was about as –'
'Oh, just stop it,' Maggie again interrupts, nearly screaming. 'I am so sick of that story.'
Jonathan looks at her.
'What story?' he asks.
'How your great-great-grandmother was a slave named Tulip who lived to be a hundred and five,' she replies, angrily, 'with eleven children, all boys.'
'But it's true,' he says.
Though adamant, his is also, I can see, embarrassed, blushing.
'Well,' I say, 'I guess, technically, every last human being is of African descent. We all come from Africa, right?'
'Technically, yes,' Maggie replies. 'But Jonathan's not being technical. He's not saying his ancestors were –'
'Don't speak for me, Maggie,' Jonathan interrupts. 'Alright? I can speak for myself.'
'He hates being Jewish,' Maggie says, looking at me. 'He hates being rich and bored and – and he thinks black people are having more fun than white people.'
Jonathan looks at her silent.
'You want to be black, I tell him, then go to Rwanda. Or go talk to Abner Louima. Then you can see how fun being black is in the real world.'
'I didn't say I was black, Maggie. I said I –'
'Oh, shut up,' she snaps. 'You are such a –'
I expect her to continue, but she surprises me by suddenly pushing back her chair and standing. Pulling her scarf up over her hair with the dramatic flair of an old movie actress, she takes her cigarette from the ashtray, inhales, and raises her head to look at Jonathan.
'Fuck you,' she says.
She snuffs out the cigarette in the ashtray.
'Good day,' she says, glaring at both of us. 'Brothers!'
I watch as she steps away from the table, turns, and walks – or rather, sashays – out of the small, shadowed restaurant.
The two of us turn and look at one another.
'She's crazy,' Jonathan says, still blushing.
I am silent for a moment, then say:
'Good.'
'Spontaneous combustion: the process of catching fire as a result of heat generated by internal chemical action.'
I move my index feature to the next entry:
'Spontaneous generation: the theory, now discredited, that living organisms can originate in nonliving matter independent of other living matter: abiogenesis.'
I flip to the beginning of the dictionary, page three, and move my finger down the left-hand column.
'Abiogenesis,' I whisper. 'Greek origin. Abio. Lifeless. Plus genesis. Spontaneous generation.'
I look away, thinking, then look back at the opened book before me. Sliding my finger directly parallel from page three to page two, I stop at the right-hand column.
'Abednego: one of three captives who came out of the fiery furnace unharmed. Daniel 3:12-27.'
I set down the dictionary, looking at the shadowed reference books on my desk. Shifting the lampshade, I lean forward and, finding the Bible, take it and open it. Flipping through the thin, gilded pages, I stop suddenly and look behind me.
In the doorway to my bedroom, shirtless, is my father.
'What are you doing in the dark, boy?' he asks.
His voice is soft and deep, as if tired.
'Homework,' I lie, pointing to the books in front of me.
He remains where he is, staring at me, then says:
'You don't want to wreck your eyes, Ulysses. Is that lamp enough light to be reading by?'
Just leave me alone, I want to say.
'Yes, sir,' I answer.
'Well, alright then,' he says, after a moment's silence. 'I guess I'll see you in the morning.'
'Okay. Goodnight, Dad.'
'He does not move: he remains in the doorway, staring.
'Is everything okay, Dad?'
'Just do your homework, boy,' he says, turning slowly and walking down the darkened hallway. I hear his bedroom door open, then close.
'Old man,' I whisper, turning back to the opened Bible.
I flip to the book of Daniel and quickly read chapter three.
'Shadrach, Meschach, Abednego,' I say, when done, setting the Bible atop the dictionary.
I look again through my doorway and down the darkened hallway.
There are people, I think, who can spontaneously combust, who have spontaneously combusted; this fascinates me. What, I wonder, would such an even look like? A spark from the eye or ear, perhaps a puff of smoke, and then – fire?
I turn to the desk, adjusting the lampshade until a perfect circle of yellow light is formed on its surface. In the center of this circle, I place my left hand, palm down; looking at it, I whisper:
'Burn.'
Later that night as I am doing push-ups in my hotel room, there is a knock at the door. Irritated at the interruption, I continue my exercises and yell:
'What?'
'Hey, Ulysses,' I hear Jonathan reply. 'It's me, Jonathan. You busy?'
'Yes,' I reply, 'I am.'
Silence.
'Well,' he eventually says, 'when you're done with whatever – whatever it is you're doing, why don't you –'
I quickly stand and open the door.
'Oh, hey,' Jonathan says, looking first at my bare chest, then at my face.
'Don't worry,' I say, catching my breath. 'I wasn't jacking off; I was just doing push-ups.'
He laughs.
'Anyway,' he says, 'Maggie sent me over to ask if you wanted to go to a party.'
'A party?' I ask, turning and walking back to the bed.
I take a towel and wipe the back of my neck and under my arms.
'Yeah,' he says. 'I guess James Brown is having a party at his place tonight. Maggie met him today after – after she left the restaurant.'
'James Brown, huh?' I say, turning around and looking at Jonathan. 'I didn't know he had a place in Tangier.'
'Neither did I, but I guess he does,' Jonathan replies. 'Somewhere over by the Kasbah.'
'Well,' I say, 'I couldn't exactly miss a party at the Godfather's, now could I?'
I wipe my chest, then toss the towel back on the bed.
'I hear you, brother,' Jonathan says.
I look at him. 'Well, you tell Maggie to come and get me when she's ready,' I say.
'She's ready now,' he replies.
'Now?'
'That's right.'
'Well, give me a few min
utes; I'll meet you guys in the lobby.'
'Okay, then,' he says, reaching forward and shutting the door.
Not having time to go downstairs and shower, I wash up in the small sink, rub a little patchouli and coconut oil under my arms, then slip on a clean black shirt and cotton trousers. I put on my yellow babouches, check myself out in the small, cracked mirror above the sink, and then leave the room.
By the time we get to the party, having smoked a joint along the way, the three of us are stoned or, as Maggie says, fucking fucked up. Either way, I am indeed high.
It is a huge apartment, modern, completely white – white walls, white rugs, white furniture and ceiling, white baby grand piano. Huge French doors lead onto a stone terrace, painted white, with a view that stretches, to the east, across the twinkling lights of Tangier and, to the west, out onto the Mediterranean Sea.
In the center of the main room, several couples dance, glasses in their hands. Elsewhere, countless men and women are sitting, standing, talking, laughing; of all these people, Maggie and I included, only five or six are not of European descent.
'Pretty vanilla crowd for James Brown, no?' I whisper to Maggie, who is smoking a cigarette and looking apathetically around the room.
'James brown,' she replies, looking at me. 'Is James Brown here?'
'It's his party, isn't it?' I ask.
'I don't know,' she replies. 'Where'd you hear that?'
I search the room for Jonathan but, unable to locate him, I look at Maggie and say:
'Jonathan said that you met James Brown today and he invited you to a party.'
She looks at me, no longer smiling.
'That asshole,' she says, taking a drag of her cigarette. 'He is such a fucking liar; just wait 'til I see him.'
I shake my head and laugh softly.
'You two are crazy,' I remark.
She looks up at me, frowning.
'Well,' she responds, 'if that isn't the snowflake calling the snowball white.'
She turns and abruptly walks through the mill of people and out onto the terrace. I watch, wondering what has happened, and briefly entertain the notion of following her. Instead, I look around the room and wonder, Well, whose party is this, then?
In the kitchen, mixing drinks, is a bartender named Habib. I ask him for grapefruit juice, no ice. He passes me my drink, and I wander, glass in hand, from room to room.
My mind, like a top, spins and spins, then slows until it finally stops. Just as quickly, it begins again to spin and spin, then slow, then stop. The process is endless, and not unpleasant.
I meet an Egyptian woman, now living in Paris, named Marci. She is short, olive-skinned, and voluptuous, with a flat, homely face and wild, curly brown hair. She is, she says, an African dancer.
'These Moroccan men,' she opines, 'they're pigs. I can barely get down the street without being called a prostitute, or at least treated like one.'
I look at her huge, sagging breasts, barely concealed beneath a flimsy, red tank top, and say:
'Maybe if you didn't dress like one.'
She looks up at me, eyes narrowed, whispering in Arabic, then quickly walks away.
I take a gulp of the grapefruit juice and look around. The crowd, it seems, is getting larger, noisier. People are laughing, drinking, talking, dancing; the music, I think, is much too loud.
The overhead lights have been dimmed, I notice, and huge, red candles have been lit. The room is now a shimmering haze of shadow, smoke, and tiny glimmers of candle fire. Once again, I wonder, whose party is this?
Still I spin.
I meet two American students, Janice and Khadijah, who are in Morocco for a three-month university exchange program.
Khadijah is fat, of Arabian descent, with the beautiful face and eager, hopeful manner typical of fat girls. Janice is blonde, healthy, and harmlessly rebellious; she rolls her own cigarettes and, so she says, loves an African-American boy majoring in corporate law.
'Who I feel sorry for,' she explains, plucking a piece of tobacco from her bottom lip, 'are the women who clean our hotel room. Have you seen how they work? God. They don't even have mops; they get down on their knees and use a rag!'
'I know,' Khadijah agrees, smiling sadly. 'I asked one of them how much she was paid, and she wouldn't tell me. I told her I'd give her five American dollars if she told me – but she wouldn't.'
Still, I spin.
Across the room, I see Jonathan talking with a tall, bald-headed white man; they are laughing. I look out onto the terrace, expecting to see Maggie, but I am drawn only to the sky's hazy, blue darkness.
I meet a thin, blond Austrian man named Wolfgang who tells me is dying of leukemia. He has, he explains, three months to live. Intrigued, I question him further until he interrupts me:
'Please, I don't want to talk about it.'
Finishing my juice, I return to the kitchen for a second, thanking Habib, and make my way to the terrace. In one corner, talking softly, are Janice and Khadijah; they see me, smile, and quickly return to the party.
In the western corner, alone, stands Maggie; she leans against the stone balcony and looks out into the darkness. A light, warm breeze flutters the hem of her long, purple, blue-spangle-trimmed skirt. She is smoking a cigarette.
'Hey, stranger,' I say.
She turns, looks at me, and smiles.
'How you doing, big boy?' she asks, turning away to look again into the dark blue sky.
'I'm alright,' I reply, standing next to her. 'How are you? Still fucking fucked up?'
'Maybe just a bit,' she replies, giggling.
She leans over the balcony, looking below at the huge stone wall that separates the rocky shore and the tide from the Medina's narrow, crumbling streets.
'Have you seen Jonathan?' I ask.
'For a minute,' she replies, looking up, 'but I told him to fuck off. Fucking cocksucker.'
I smile but say nothing.
'Did you know,' she asks, 'that men who get fucked up the ass will be condemned in the next life to wash their faces with the urine of Jews, forever?'
I look at her. 'No, I didn't know that.'
'Well,' she says, taking a long, slow drag of her cigarette, 'I was talking with some guy earlier – a Jew, of course – and that's what he said. Why he would tell me such a thing, I don't know. But it's the law, he said. Islamic law.'
'Oh, really?' I say. 'I've never heard any such thing. It sounds more like a fantasy to me.'
She lowers her head suddenly, rubbing her eyes with her fists like a tired child, then looks up, red-eyed, and asks:
'Have you ever been to Spain?'
'No,' I reply. 'But I kind of like the music.'
She giggles.
'You so crazy,' she says.
'Hey, didn't you just get mad at me for calling you and Jonathan crazy?'
'Dogs get mad,' she replies, winking at me. 'Humans get angry. Besides, I wasn't angry; I just wanted to come out here on the terrace.'
'Okay. Whatever.'
'You're so sensitive,' she says, smiling. 'I feel like I have to –'
'You're a beautiful woman,' I interrupt, stepping toward her. 'Do you know what?'
'Yes,' she replies, stepping away from me. 'I do know that.'
'Where are you going?' I ask.
'Where are you going?' she replies. 'You weren't going to kiss me, were you?'
I smile and say:
'I was thinking about it.'
'Well,' she replies, 'I'd rather have your cock in my mouth.'
I look at her, saying nothing.
'Just kidding,' she says, abruptly laughing.
She stops, looks at me, and then laughs again.
'Oh, boy, if you could see your face.'
'Very funny,' I say.
'I'm sorry, sweetie,' she replies, putting her hand on my shoulder. 'Come here and kiss me, then.'
She pulls me toward her.
'Well,' I say, 'now that you've completely destroyed the mood.'
&nbs
p; I set my glass on the stone ledge and, raising my hand to her chin, I kiss her; she tastes like butterscotch.
Looking into her brown eyes, I ask:
'What have you been drinking? You taste sweet?'
'Piss,' she replies, pulling away from me. 'I've been drinking piss.'
I watch as she takes a cigarette from her purse and lights it.
'You know, Maggie,' I say, suddenly irritated, 'these little jokes of yours can –'
'Sorry,' she interrupts, taking a drag of her cigarette. 'It's just – well, I hate all that stuff – it's gross.'
'Gross? Well, thank you very much.'
'Oh, calm down,' she says. 'It's not you. I just – I don't know – I just feel like laughing or – or throwing up when I hear men say things like that.'
'Like what?' I ask.
'You taste so sweet. I mean, give me a break. What is this, a Terry McMillan novel?'
'I don't think I should have to defend myself,' I reply. 'But you do taste sweet. Like butterscotch. It wasn't a line, Maggie.'
'Oh, please. It's all a line.'
'Hey,' I say, shrugging, 'I just wanted to kiss you. That's all. I haven't played you even once since last night; so what all this bullshit is about, I don't know. Damn, it's not like I tried to shove your head in my lap.'
'Now you're mad,' she says, frowning childishly.
'Dogs get mad,' I reply. 'Remember? And humans get –'
'Exactly,' she interrupts, smiling.
I shake my head, wondering, who is this woman?
'C'mon,' she says, taking my arm. 'Let's go back into the party. I need to find Jonathan and beat him up; you're too tough for me, brotherman.'
The mare turns her head, slowly, looking up at my father as he kneels next to her.
'It's okay, girl,' he whispers, gently stroking her sweaty, black flank.
She looks at him and then looks away. She bows her head and nibbles gingerly at the damp straw that covers the stall's floor.
'You don't care about nothing,' he whispers. 'Hey, girl?'
Continuing to stroke her, he turns and looks back into the warm, dusty darkness of the barn. Next to the stall's opened gate sits the dog, watching, its ears raised as if in alarm. My father looks at the mongrel, past it, his expression blank, set. A fat, black horsefly buzzes lazily about his face, and he absentmindedly swaps it away.
