‘I honestly can’t believe this attitude is still going on in Macon . . . I am genuinely shocked by what you’ve told me. Coincidentally, I’ve just been elected as chairman of the city’s Anti-Racial Discrimination Board and I will certainly do something about this as soon as I can, on Monday morning. In the meantime, I would recommended that on your return to Atlanta, you write a letter to the Mayor of Macon at City Hall on university note paper, with an open copy of it to the Chief of Police, both at the same address, as well as mailing a copy to him. That way I can table the letter at the next meeting of the ARDB.’
Dr Cohen realised how upset Lucienne must be, although she hid it well. He guided them through his garden to an outhouse in order to show them his collection of written material about the part that Macon had played as the main armory for the Confederate forces during the American Civil War, and how the Union forces had laid a successful siege to Fort Macon in 1882. But he was particularly keen to show them both his sizeable collection of writings about the Civil Rights Movement, and how it had been less than ten years since African Americans had to enter a cinema by a separate door; drink from different water fountains; use separate toilets; and were segregated on city buses, in schools and in the majority of public places. Even park benches had notices on them denoting ‘Whites Only’.
‘At the height of the demonstrations in Macon against the passing of the Civil Rights Act in 1964,’ he explained, ‘I wrote a lead article for the Macon Telegraph voicing my strong support for the Democrats’ intention to have the act passed by Congress. As a result of the article, my house was targeted by members of the local Ku Klux Klan. They painted a swastika in red paint on the most prominent part of my garden wall and wrote “The Home of a Nigger Lover” in large letters. They’re a nasty bunch of fellas.’
‘Were they ever caught?’ asked an outraged Mathew. It was vile to think of such a decent and deeply humanitarian man being sought out for this sort of abuse.
‘No, they’re probably people I see all over town – storekeepers, bank tellers, mechanics – but they hide behind those white robes and become invisible. Over sixty-five per cent of the population of Macon are African Americans, but members of the KKK are still promoting their extremist, reactionary, far-right policies – the owner of the Lakeside Inn is probably an active Klan member. In spite of it being almost ten years since the Civil Rights Act was passed, the Mormon Sect are still not admitting African Americans to their priesthood. I should think it will take at least three generations, through education, tolerance and enhanced integration between the races, to breed out this narrow-minded bigotry.’
Mathew expanded on his own views on segregation and how, during his early days at Scaife University in Tupelo, he had joined the city’s Civil Rights Movement and participated in a protest march. ‘It surprised me how much criticism I received from some of the more hard-line fellow students for being so directly involved with the movement. I thought they would think the same way as I did,’ Mathew explained. ‘I had an ancestor, Robert Milligan, who was elected as MP for Bradford in 1851 – he was a dedicated disciple of William Wilberforce. During his six-year tenure as a member of Parliament, his main mission was to do as much as possible to promote the emancipation of slaves in the West Indies; a raison d’être that my family have always been immensely proud about.’
During the course of the morning, the doctor had taken a liking to Mathew and Lucienne and had been pleased by the way they had showed such enthusiasm about his collection, as well as to the background that had led up to the passing of the Civil Rights Act. As he was very embarrassed about their reception at the hotel and wished to minimise any further discrimination directed at these friends of Professor Osman Hill, he invited them to return to his home at 6.30 that evening for pre-dinner drinks, prior to taking them as his guests to a popular, informal Brazilian restaurant in downtown Macon. He told them that the restaurant’s owner was an Afro-Brazilian immigrant from Salvador in the state of Bahia, and was not only his friend but also served as a valuable member of the city’s ARDB.
After leaving the doctor’s home, they drove along Riverside Drive to the banks of Lake Tobesofkee, and after enjoying a snack at a lakeside drive-in kiosk they walked hand-in-hand along the lake’s attractive tranquil shoreline. On their return to the Lakeside Inn Mrs Jarman gave them their room keys, regarding them with a surly expression.
‘You know, we’ve just spent the most fascinating morning with Dr Murray Cohen.’ Mathew couldn’t resist taking the opportunity; he knew whatever he said to Mrs Jarman would be reported back to her husband and he relished the idea of increasing Jarman’s uneasiness about having them in the hotel. He delivered his coup de grâce. ‘I don’t know whether you’re familiar with him, he’s chairman of Macon’s Anti-Racial Discrimination Board. He’s been telling us about the problems that Macon is still facing with the implementation of the Civil Rights Act. As we’re both keen to learn as much as possible about these ongoing problems, we’ve accepted an invitation from Dr Cohen to dine with him at a restaurant owned by a recent immigrant from Brazil, of African descent, so we won’t be requiring dinner at the hotel this evening. Good day to you.’
Mrs Jarman stared after them, open-mouthed, as they turned and left the reception area.
The relaxed atmosphere at the candlelit Brazilian restaurant in downtown Macon could not have been more of a contrast to the previous evening. The cocktails the doctor had mixed and served to them on the flower-bedecked veranda of his home had greatly helped Mathew and Lucienne to momentarily forget the constraints and uneasiness they had experienced. The convivial ambiance of Padua Santos’s Bahia Bistro reminded them both of their first meal together in Bukavu at Bistro Zanzibar; such was the friendliness of the clientele and of the patron himself. When the three of them entered the restaurant, it was evident by the way Dr Cohen was received what a high profile and popular citizen of Macon he was. Also, as they had walked past the crowded tables, Mathew could not help but notice the amount of admiring glances that Lucienne was receiving; he quickly recalled the possessiveness he felt when Patrice Daman had paid her so much attention on their first meeting.
Mathew and Lucienne had a delicious black bean soup, a specialty of Bahia, and a king-size steak washed down by copious glasses of some most agreeable Californian wine, while learning more from the encyclopedic knowledge of their host about the history of Macon, the county seat of Georgia’s Bibb County. There was little that could have made the evening more fascinating, informative or enjoyable for them. Although during the course of the meal, as the wine started to flow, Dr Cohen could not help seeing from the way his two guests sometimes interacted that their relationship went much deeper than just the professional involvement that his friend Osman Hill had purported it to be. Although he was aware that throughout the meal Mathew and Lucienne had attempted to keep their sentiments to themselves, by the end of the evening it had become increasingly evident to him that they were romantically entangled. This had been backed up by the subjects they had touched on during dinner, such as asking what the views of the citizens of Macon were with regards to mixed marriages. He had no doubt that Cupid’s bow had scored a direct hit.
‘Dr Cohen, thank you so much for a wonderful evening – meeting you has made this weekend so enjoyable,’ said Lucienne.
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Mathew. ‘It couldn’t have had a worse start but today has been unforgettable. Do get in touch if you ever visit Atlanta.’
‘I will certainly do that, and do send my very best wishes to old Osman Hill. But don’t forget – send me a copy of your letter to the mayor so I can take some action on that. Safe journey!’
So just after midnight, Mathew drove the hire car slowly back to their hotel as the relaxed mood of the evening started to dwindle with the very thought of having to face Jed Jarman.
‘Honestly Mathew, I don’t know how Jarman thinks he can put anyone in that room.’ Lucienne’s resilience was beginning to crack. ‘The basin
and shower are filthy, the lavatory seat is broken, the sheets are soiled and the furniture is dusty, I don’t believe it’s been cleaned or even checked on for days. The worst thing was there was scratching from behind the skirting boards, mice or rats, I don’t know, and at one point I heard a noise next to my bed, turned the light on and saw an enormous rat – I’ve always hated rats, they are vile creatures – then it ran across the room and hid under a wardrobe.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I knew it was dreadful, but I didn’t realise just how bad it was. I can’t bear you having to suffer such an awful mess while I have a perfectly good room . . . There must be something we can do.’ Just before arriving at the hotel, Mathew drove the car into a small lay-by by the side of the lake. They discussed the potential of sleeping in the car for the night but Mathew came up with an alternative plan and in spite of the possible dangers involved, they agreed that on their return to the hotel they would put it into operation. The more Mathew thought about his scheme, the more it appealed to him; whenever he had embarked on some type of challenging escapade throughout his life, he was always stimulated by the atmosphere of uncertainty and the spirit of adventure.
A dim ray of light shone from beneath the office door to the rear of the darkened reception desk. Mathew rang the bell on the counter for attention and it seemed to take several minutes before the sullen-looking Jarman emerged from his office and scowled at Lucienne, as he passed the two bedroom keys over to Mathew. ‘I need both your rooms vacated by 9 a.m.’ he told Mathew, in his rather gruff Southern drawl, totally ignoring Lucienne. ‘I have members of my local fraternity clocking into the hotel early for one of their monthly meetings.’ He then added in a sarcastic manner, ‘And I’ll have to have your room cleaned thoroughly before giving it to one of the fraternity.’
Mathew could not help assuming that the fraternity referred to was in all probability the Ku Klux Klan, and although he had read the notice on the back of his bedroom door stating that guests were not required to vacate their rooms until 11 o’clock on the morning on their departure, he decided that it would not be prudent to pick an argument with Jarman at such a late hour. His breath reeked of whisky and he appeared to be spoiling for a fight. So as Mathew and Lucienne started to go up the staircase, no doubt to Jarman’s frustration, Mathew maintained his gentlemanly good manners by courteously bidding him goodnight.
As Mathew had done on the previous evening, he accompanied Lucienne along the winding corridor, past the ‘Whites Only’ bathroom to her room at the far end of the building. On switching on the bedroom light, and while Lucienne quickly gathered up her nightdress and dressing gown, a family of mice fled to the security of a hole in the skirting board. Lucienne removed her shoes and slipped her feet into the canyon-like openings of Mathew’s heavy leather brogues. Then, in quite a loud voice Mathew bade Lucienne good night, saying that he looked forward to seeing her at breakfast later on in the morning. Mathew entered Lucienne’s bedroom and closed the door, while Lucienne walked back along the corridor treading as heavily as possible in Mathew’s footwear, so that if Jarman had been listening at the foot of the stairs he would have considered that Mathew had returned to his room.
Just after 2 a.m. when no lights could be seen in other parts of the hotel, Mathew put his animal-tracking expertise into effect, creeping along the corridor almost as silently as a leopard avoiding a confrontation with a hunter. On reaching his bedroom, he gently turned the knob of the unlocked door and went inside. A three-quarter moon shone its lazy beams through the half-open curtains and cast a shadow on Lucienne’s slumbering figure. Locks of her curly dark hair were spread in a seemingly coquettish fashion over the pillows, which contrasted magnificently with the whiteness of the linen sheets that enveloped her shapely form. After quietly locking the bedroom door, Mathew went into the bathroom, changed into his pyjamas and donned the hotel’s white towelling dressing gown from behind the bathroom door. He sat down in the high-backed armchair by the window and, after having been stimulated by the exercise of deception and the degree of excitement that he had just experienced, he contemplated the pros and cons of the situation he now found himself in.
Mathew had considered that his feelings for Lucienne and Antonia had been balanced quite evenly, but now he was almost overcome by his desire to join Lucienne’s slumbering form. At the last moment, his stoic reserve had suddenly checked his intention. He reminded himself how dishonourable it would be if he were to take advantage of this desirable dream of a person who was now lying so comfortably within the folds of his sheets.
While still trying to make up his mind what the most gentlemanly thing was for him to do in such an enticing situation, he recognised that the majority of his university friends would take full advantage of such a heaven-sent opportunity; alone in a bedroom in the middle of the night with such an attractive woman. But, while still in the process of going over all of the events that had occurred during the last twenty-four hours (the excitement of the evening; the effect of Dr Cohen’s cocktails and the amount of wine he had consumed at Bistro Bahia; Jarman’s aggressive nature; the thought of Lucienne’s body – which was very much at the forefront of his mind) his tiredness got the better of him, he slumped into the hard upholstery of the armchair and fell into a deep sleep.
The loud cracks of a thunderstorm overhead woke Lucienne from her slumbers, and when she propped her head up on a snow-white pillow she saw the seemingly lifeless form of Mathew doubled-up in the armchair by the window. She threw one of her pillows at him in order to return him to full consciousness and, as he unsteadily gathered himself up from the chair, she slightly folded back the sheet covering the top of her body and spread open her arms as if in invitation for Mathew to join her. He dropped his dressing gown to the floor and crawled onto the bed beside her, and after wrapping his arms around her was to experience the joy and sensation of holding her naked body against his. Whereupon he gently kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, her cheeks, before their lips met for a lasting kiss. Lucienne’s eyes started to moisten with tears, such was her happiness in being in the security of Mathew’s firm embrace, and while the heavens raged with resplendent flashes of sheet lightning, quickly followed by loud explosions of thunder above them, it was not long before they made love and experienced such ecstasy for the second time in their lives. And, as the storm moved to the mountains on the north side of Lake Tobesofkee, they were soon to fall asleep in what Lucienne felt was the blissful sanctuary of Mathew’s embrace.
Just after eight-thirty on the Sunday morning, the phone rang in Mathew’s room and he heard Jarman’s brusque voice asking the whereabouts of his ‘black girlfriend’. Jarman went on to say how his wife had tried to phone her room on three occasions but, as there had been no reply, she had sent a maid with a pass key up to see whether she was all right, only to find the bedroom empty. As they had not been at the table he had allocated for them in the corner of the dining room to have breakfast, he had demanded to know the whereabouts of his companion. Mathew, who had only just got out of his bed, was immediately taken aback by Jarman’s aggressive tone but was able to compose himself and calmly told him that due to the deplorable conditions of the rodent-infested, dirty room he had provided her with, he had decided it to have been more appropriate for her to have shared his bedroom with him. He told the now irate-sounding Jarman that as they had only just got up, they would not be down for breakfast for another half hour but that this would be well in time for the hotel’s advertised deadline for breakfast of 10 a.m. Such a philosophical and calm response had resulted with an explosion of expletives from Jarman, which Mathew had responded to by replacing the receiver, winking at Lucienne and going to take a shower.
When they went down the stairs into the hotel lobby and started to walk along the passage, they found the red-faced and angry-looking Jarman was blocking the door to the breakfast room. ‘The kitchen is closed,’ he told them gruffly. ‘I want you both to leave the hotel within the next half an hou
r, otherwise I will call the sheriff’s office and have you thrown out.’ In order to underline his spurious degree of authority, he pointed to the notice ‘Rights of Admission Reserved’.
‘Don’t you worry, I’ll be reporting the appalling conditions of Lucienne’s room to the city’s Tourism Advisory Council, as well as writing to the mayor with regards to your inexcusably racist attitude toward us, completely contrary to the Civil Rights Act of 1964. . . I’ll also open-copy both letters to Dr Cohen and to the city’s Chief of Police.’ As they started to return to their rooms to pick up their belongings, they saw Jarman pick up the phone on the reception desk.
‘Operator? This is Jed Jarman at the Lakeside Inn. Put me through to the sheriff’s office immediately, we have an emergency here and I need assistance. Right away, d’you hear?’
Once they were back in his bedroom, Mathew gave Lucienne a hug, grabbed the phone and asked the operator to put him through to Dr Cohen’s number. She had never seen him looking so furious. As soon as the dialling tone had started to purr, the line suddenly became dead. He had been cut off. Mathew immediately left Lucienne in the room and stormed downstairs to the reception desk, where the now very worried-looking Mrs Jarman was sitting.
‘I want you to put me through to this number immediately,’ he demanded. Before she could do anything, Jarman appeared, grabbed Mathew’s arm and almost frog-marched him back to the foot of the stairs. ‘I want you off these premises before the police arrive and help me throw you out!’ Mathew had not experienced such an aggressive physical contact since being a ‘fag’ during his first year at Wellington College. His immediate response was to deliver a sharp slap to Jarman’s left cheek.
Someone Wishes to Speak to You Page 10
