Tell Me How Long the Train's Been Gone

by James Baldwin

  He was very, very good at his job, and I think that I probably would have made some sign if I had been able to move my head. I simply stared at him, hypnotized, dumb; and now really frightened, more terribly, more profoundly, than I had been before.

  When he realized that I was not going to answer, he said, “Leo, like I said before, mistakes will happen. All of us are human, and we all make mistakes. That’s why we invented erasers.” He was watching me closely behind the veil of cigar smoke; but he was bluff and hearty and he continued to smile. “I hate to say it, Leo, but you know as well as I do that people in show business, they tend to be, well, kind of lax—lax in their morals. That’s the reason my brother finally just had to get out. He couldn’t stand the life.” He looked at me with great sympathy. “I’m not saying this for you, you look like a fine, upstanding boy. I bet your mother’s proud of you. Where does your mother live, Leo?”

  “In Johannesburg,” I said. “She’s a missionary.”

  He did not know what to say to this, and my face did not help him. I could see him struggling to find a map somewhere, but it was difficult to ask me for one. “Oh. Well, then, I’m sure she wouldn’t want you mixed up in bad company. And, Leo, I’m sorry to say this, but a lot of your friends are mighty bad company for a fine-looking boy like you. Mighty bad company. That’s how this mistake was made. We wasn’t looking for you—we wasn’t expecting to find no colored people in that house. Of course not. You can see that. No. We’ve been getting complaints about—oh, certain parties, and it’s our job to investigate all complaints and we do our job. Now, I’m old enough to be your father, Leo, so let me give you a word of advice.” He paused. “Show business broke my brother’s heart. That’s a fact. He said”—he jabbed me with his forefinger, and it hurt; I knew he wanted it to hurt—“I wish I had stayed with my own people. That’s what he said.” He leaned back triumphantly. “You see my point, Leo? You stay with your own people and you’re sure to stay out of trouble. Why, we never have any trouble with the colored people in this town—they’re just the nicest bunch of colored people you’d ever want to meet, they work hard and save their money, and go to church. But this crowd you hang out with, Leo, with their wild parties and loose women and smoking marihuana—they’re going to bring you to grief, son. You see, I said, ‘son,’ it just slipped out before I thought, but I mean it. That’s just the way I feel. And I just hope you won’t go to no more of those parties, Leo. I’d like you to promise me you won’t continue to undermine your health and your morals by—smoking all that marihuana and running with loose white women—”

  I stood up. I said, “If I’m under arrest, arrest me. If not, please let me go.”

  We stared at each other. He might talk about the “bad” company I kept, but it was only the fear of what they might possibly do which prevented him from rising, and bouncing me about that room like a ball. It was in his eyes, it was in the air, it was in the muscle that beat in his forehead. And I doubted, as we stared at each other, that even this fear would control him very long. My luck had run out. I felt my bowels loosen and lock—for fear; and my mouth turned dry. But, anyway, all my words were gone. I’d run my course. Silence, now, was my only hope, for if I could not open my mouth, I could not beg for mercy. The door opened, and one of the plainclothesmen stood there, saying something. I didn’t hear what he said, because, when the door opened, I heard Madeleine’s voice in the other room. And I simply walked out, in the direction of the voice. She was standing in front of the desk, with Saul and Lola. Saul and Lola looked blandly indignant, but Madeleine was utterly white, and her hands and legs were shaking. She was staring at the man behind the desk with a malevolence which would have done credit to Medea.

  “Now, miss,” he was saying, “it was just a mistake, and we’re very sorry for it. I wouldn’t let it get me all upset. See,” he said, turning to me as I appeared, “we haven’t harmed a hair of his precious head. He’s just as good as new.”

  “A mistake,” she said. “A mistake. You dirty, racist bastard, you’re goddamn lucky you didn’t harm a hair of his head. You’d lose that badge so goddamn fast your head would never stop spinning.”

  “I don’t like your language, miss.”

  “Fuck you,” she said. “Fuck you. You goddamn Nazi.” Then, she started to cry.

  “Madeleine,” Lola said. She walked to the desk. “Young man. A word of advice. I will try to put it in extremely simple language, so that you can understand it. The people standing before you are more powerful than you. I am more powerful than you, and I can break you by making a phone call. I am responsible for my theatrical company, and nothing will prevent me from fulfilling that responsibility. With no justification whatever, you have taken Mr. Proudhammer out of his home and brought him here and forced him, and forced us, to undergo needless harassment. You will take good care not to molest any of my company in future—else, you will have no future, and I am not a woman to make idle threats. You have already, allow me to inform you, rendered yourself liable to suit for false arrest. Come, Leo. Goodnight, my Nazi friends.”

  “Heil Hitler,” said Madeleine, and Lola took my arm and we walked out.

  We got into the San-Marquand car. There were still people in the street, and they stared at us.

  Saul started the car. “How could you two be so foolish?” he asked us, then.

  “We?” said Madeleine. “We?” What did we do?”

  “You know what the people in this town are like,” Saul said.

  “The people in this town,” said Madeleine. “The people in this town. I hope the river rises the moment we get out of here, and drowns them all like rats. Like the rats they are. But why are we foolish?”

  I said nothing. I leaned back in the car, scarcely listening.

  “Not foolish, Saul,” said Lola, “but, surely, a little indiscreet.”

  “What do you mean,” shouted Madeleine, “indiscreet! Leo left my house in broad goddamn Sunday daylight, and went to his house—and the cops dragged him to the police station, because he’d been to my house. Now, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  “We’ve worked in this town every summer for a long time, Madeleine,” Saul said. “We know the people and the people know us and we’ve never had any trouble. You have to realize that this is a small town and the people here are not very sophisticated—they’re not bad people. You just have to—understand their limits. That’s how you manage to play a character on the stage, by understanding the character’s limits. That’s the only way you can play Hedda Gabler, for instance—by understanding Hedda’s limits. I don’t think that’s so unreasonable.”

  “I am not Hedda Gabler,” Madeleine said, “but if I ever get a chance to play her, I’ll certainly pretend that she’s living in this town. But what this town could really use is a couple of Negro cooks, named Lady Macbeth and Medea.”

  “You mean,” I said—but I scarcely knew why I was bothering to speak—“you never had any trouble until I came along. Is that what you mean?”

  “Leo,” said Lola, “don’t be touchy.”

  I looked at her. “Touchy. All right. I won’t be touchy. I just asked a question. Is that what you mean, Saul?”

  “I don’t think there’s any point in discussing it now,” Saul said. “You are upset, understandably upset, we would say. We do not blame you, Leo, but our schedule has been thoroughly disrupted and we must return to the theater. If you are going home, I’ll drop you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, after a moment, “let’s do that.” And I leaned back again. I didn’t know what Madeleine was thinking. I didn’t care. I was surprised to realize that I didn’t care, and a little ashamed. I knew that she was hurt and baffled; and she wanted to reach me, but did not know how, especially with Saul and Lola in the car. We hit the road leading out of town. Nobody said anything. We passed the theater. The lights were on. Our signs were up.

  “Maybe,” said Madeleine, haltingly, “you’d rather watch rehearsal, Leo? Especially as th
ere’s nobody at home in your place.”

  Saul did not slow down. I said, “No, thanks, Madeleine. I think I’d just like to get on home. Nothing else will happen to me tonight.”

  And so we stopped before the whitewashed house. I could see that no one had come home yet, because the light was still burning as I had left it.

  I got out of the car. “Thanks for bailing me out,” I said to Saul and Lola. Then, I said to Madeleine, “Please, don’t you feel badly. Don’t you feel badly. These things happen.”

  She smiled. There were still tears on her face. “Do you want me to come by, later, after rehearsal?”

  Saul made a sound between a grunt and a cough, looking straight ahead.

  I said, “No. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good-night, all.”

  And the car drove away, and I went into the house.

  I sat down in my chair, and I picked up my book. The words bounced around the page, and I followed them around in the hope that they would eventually do something which could capture my attention. I wondered where Barbara and Jerry were. Sid: But that sort of life ain’t for the dogs which is us. Christ, baby! I get like thunder in my chest when we’re together. If we went off together I could maybe look the world straight in the face, spit in its eye like a man should do. God damn it, it’s trying to be a man on the earth. Two in life together. Sid’s ravings meant nothing to me. The lines seemed bombastic and empty and false; I wondered why I had ever wanted to play this scene; I could never deliver those lines. And, anyway—should I? Should I submit myself to the judgment of a Saul? I put down my book and I turned out the light. I went up the stairs to my room. I suddenly didn’t want to talk to anybody or to see anybody, and I sat there in the dark. I looked at the sky. I picked up my guitar and I strummed it a little. Then, I put it down.

  The night was very still. I heard the car coming when the car was still a long way off. If they had heard of my adventure, they would want to talk about it. I didn’t want to talk. The car stopped in front of our door. Then, the lights went on downstairs. The car door slammed. I moved back from the window. Barbara called my name.

  I couldn’t sit and hide in the dark; these were my friends. I opened my door and I walked downstairs.

  “Hello,” I said. “Where’ve you two been?”

  “We’ve been to the movies,” Barbara said, “but we hear you’ve been in jail.”

  “A slight misunderstanding,” I said. I sat down on the porch.

  “Did they really come all the way out here to get you?” Jerry asked.

  “Oh, yes. They were right here.”

  “I’ll be damned. I swear to God, they got bacon fat where their brains should be. Jesus Christ. Don’t they have anything else to do?”

  He sounded—and I was very surprised to hear it—as though he were on the verge of tears.

  “But what did they want?” Barbara asked. “Why did they come here?”

  “They saw a black boy leaving a white lady’s apartment,” I said, “and they had to do their duty. You know how that is.”

  She turned whiter than Madeleine had been, and her lips tightened, and she dropped her eyes.

  “Leo,” she said, after a moment, “they didn’t do anything to you?”

  “No. They just scared me.” I stood up. “They humiliated me. They made me feel like a dog. They tried to turn me into something worse than they are. They had a wonderful time doing it, now they all feel more like men. And I was very lucky. They were afraid to go too far. They were afraid the Workshop might make a stink.” I paused, and I laughed. “So now I owe my life to Saul and Lola.”

  “But they were all right, weren’t they?” Jerry asked.

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to pursue it, because I didn’t get any pleasure out of seeing Jerry hurt. “They were all right.” But I had to add, “Saul did say that he thought we were foolish.”

  “Yes,” said Barbara. “He told us that.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Yes. We thought you might be there, because—well, we knew that Madeleine had a rehearsal.”

  “Do you think I was foolish?”

  “Do I?” She stared at me. “My God, Leo, how can you ask me that?” She shrugged. “I might think you’re foolish, because I don’t think Madeleine’s worth your time—”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t want to talk about that, it’s none of my business, and it’s got nothing to do with her. I like her well enough. I just don’t think she’s good enough for you—but, you know, that doesn’t give me any reason to call the cops. So, you’re foolish. So is everybody else. That’s got nothing to do with the cops. Wow. I wish it had been me. The police chief of this town would be looking for a job.” She looked around at us, and gave a little laugh. “I mean it. After all, I’m an heiress. I don’t always like being an heiress, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not prepared to use it.” She came over to me and kissed me quickly on the forehead. “Poor Leo. I know you don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Let’s have a beer,” said Jerry, “and then I’m going to hit the sack. We are going to have to haul ass real early in the morning, children, because we have no money at all.” He went into the kitchen. Barbara sat down next to me on the porch and put her hand in mine.

  “Before the summer’s over,” she said, “remind me that there are things I’ve been keeping from you which I really must tell you.”

  “Oh? Such as?”

  “Oh,” she said, “girlish secrets.” She paused. “But I can’t carry them around within me very much longer.”

  Jerry came back, with two bottles and three glasses, and sat down on the step below us. “Well,” I said, “I’ll be happy to hear your confession whenever you’re ready.”

  “I hope you’ll be happy,” she said.

  Jerry poured the beer. “Confession! You know I haven’t been to confession in more than three years? And you know what that means? That means my soul is in mortal danger. It’s the truth I’m telling you.” He handed a glass to Barbara, then handed a glass to me.

  “How does it feel to have your soul in mortal danger?” I asked.

  “Exciting.” He grinned, and kissed Barbara. “Wicked.” Barbara took her hand from mine. We lit cigarettes. “Every time you make love, you think of the confessional and you say to yourself, Well, I’m just not going to tell the bastard, that’s all. Let him get his own kicks.” We all laughed. “I swear, I believe they sit there, jerking off.”

  “Don’t you ever miss it?” I asked.

  “What? Going to confession?”

  “Well—the church. All of it. You know—the music. the others. The—the faith. I guess—you know—the safety—”

  “Well. Sometimes, maybe. Especially when I see my mother. She’s always weeping about it. And that makes me feel bad and then I remember a couple of priests I used to like and some other people and the music and Holy Communion and the way it felt—you know, it was nice. But, then, I look at my mother and she’s not a bad woman but she is a very fucked-up woman and I know that part of what fucked her up is the Church. You know, she believes a whole lot of shit, and I’ve seen her do some very wicked things because she’s so goddamn ignorant. Well—I don’t want to be like that, that’s all. I want to live my own life the way I want to live it. My mother hates Jews and she hates Negroes, and you know, fuck it, I can’t be bothered with all that shit. So they can have it.”

  “Did you ever believe it? I mean, you know—the Son of God and heaven and hell and judgment. You know. The whole bit.”

  “My mother and my father believed it. And everyone around me believed it. So I believed it, too.”

  “You never believed it, did you, Leo?” Barbara asked. “You never even went to church.”

  “No. My father didn’t believe it. So none of us believed it. Naturally.” I stood up. “It’s been a rough day. So, you’ll forgive me if I just say good-night now.”

  After a moment they both said, “Good-night, Leo.” I carried my bee
r upstairs. They stayed on the porch awhile, I could hear them murmuring. Then, they went inside and closed their door. Then, everything was still. I remembered that I had forgotten to ask Barbara what time we were due to appear before Saul in the morning. But I knew that she, or Jerry, would wake me up.

  The story grows harder to tell. What did I do that night? When did I make my decision? Or had it already been made? Did I dream that night? Or sleep? I know that the sheet was like a rope, wet and strangling. The window was open. At some point, I awoke and, naked, walked to the window and looked out at the shadow of the trees, the shadow of the land. I lit a cigarette, and stood at the window, and wondered who I was. Downstairs, they were not yet asleep. I heard them murmuring, Barbara’s voice more than ever laryngitic, Jerry’s with all valves open. They sounded sad, it sounded very sad. I put out my cigarette and crawled back into bed, my narrow bed.

  I heard the door close downstairs, and then I heard the car door slam, and I heard the car drive away. I opened my eyes. It was very early in the morning. I pushed my fingers through my heavy hair. I sat up. I wondered where the car was going at this hour of the morning. I wondered about the silence below. I looked out of the window. It was true that our car was gone. So I went back to bed. It seemed beyond me to do anything else. I heard cocks crowing, far away.

  When I woke, Barbara sat on my bed, holding a pot of coffee and watching me.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Not very long. The coffee’s not cold yet—so, you see.” And she rose from the bed and poured coffee into two cups, which she had placed on the table before my window. She put in milk and sugar and came back to the bed.

  “Where’s Jerry?”

  “I don’t know. Driving around.”

  I watched her.

  “Did something happen?” I asked this very carefully.

  She walked up and down my room. “Yes. I guess something happened.”

  “Barbara. What’s the matter with you this morning? What happened?”