According to Grania Davis he owned “a mountain of books on Africa,” which he planned to use as research materials for a work based on the African legend of the Pygmies and the Cranes.
He never stopped working, even after a series of strokes left him disabled and partially paralyzed.
Still, at the end, he was forced to rely on his veteran’s benefits to eke out a meager existence. He died on May 8, 1993. He gave us a great deal, and deserved better in return than he received.
REASSESSMENT TIME
THE LATE LIN Carter, himself one of the more talented—albeit quirky and underachieving—writers of my generation (and Avram’s), developed an intriguing theory about the lives—or afterlives—of authors. If an author is sufficiently noteworthy during his career, Carter opined, an increase in interest will follow the author’s death. After a while, as the demands of curious readers are met, and as literary historians, biographers, and critics have had their say and exhausted their store of comment, interest flags and the author’s books lapse from print once again.
Then—and this, I believe, was Carter’s key idea—after the passage of some years, the author is rediscovered. Some if not all of his works are reprinted, the academics and critics murmur their magical spells, and the author is either crowned with the laurels of at least conditional and temporary immortality (for ultimately, only God is truly immortal) … or he is tossed onto the trash heap of literary history, and his works with him.
Carter unburdened himself of this theory a good many years ago, late at night while a winter log crackled in the fireplace and after many delicious libations had been consumed, so my recollection of the event is somewhat fuzzy-edged; but I do believe that Lin suggested a considerable lapse of time, possibly as long as a century, before that final reassessment took place.
In Avram’s case, the time is drastically shortened. He died in 1993, aged just over seventy. Tragically neglected and justly embittered in his last years, Avram lives through his works. Even now a renaissance is under way with the recent publication of The Avram Davidson Treasury and The Boss in the Wall: A Treatise on the House Devil.
The former volume, issued by Tor Books, is a huge collection of Avram’s stories, primarily of his science fiction and fantasy but including several criminous tales as well. His unique talent yielded many works which can be listed under the rubrics of several categories. More appropriately, I should say that they are uncategorizable, but at least some taxonomy, the practice of sorting and labeling, is often useful. So I will speak of Avram’s mystery fiction, his science fiction, his fantasies, as in fact I have already done in this modest essay.
There are several stories in the Treasury that Grania Davis, who co-edited both collections, would have liked to include in The Investigations as well. I especially call to your attention “The Affair at the Lahore Cantonment,” which won the 1962 Edgar Award for short story, and “Crazy Old Lady,” which was a 1977 Edgar nominee. I suggest that once you have finished reading The Investigations of Avram Davidson, you proceed to the Treasury.
The Boss in the Wall is another matter. Carved out of a sprawling unpublished Davidson manuscript, it appears under the joint byline of Avram Davidson and Grania Davis. It was Grania who rescued the huge manuscript from oblivion and prepared The Boss in the Wall for publication. The longer manuscript may someday be published. The shorter version was issued by Tachyon Publications of San Francisco, and I commend it to your attention.
We may be jumping the gun, in terms of Lin Carter’s reassessment theory, but it is my confident belief that the issuance of these three books will remind many thousands of Avram Davidson’s old readers of what a gem of a writer he was, and will bring him to the attention of even more thousands of readers.
Avram was, in his unique way, a throwback to the old school of tale-spinners. He could tailor his style to the setting and theme of a story. He was the master of the mot juste, the “right word.” With a mere handful of syllables he could transport a reader to the deck of an ancient sailing vessel as it plied the waves of the sun-dappled Mediterranean, to a musty and mysterious little shop in a shadowy byway of Victorian London, to the spartan executive offices or the clattering production line of a modern corporation.
From time to time he lapsed into the naturalistic prose that is the hallmark of the modern short story, but more often his own voice was clearly audible, and rather than being an intrusion upon the story he was telling, his presence remained (and remains) a welcome and reassuring constant.
Grania Davis has commented that Avram’s normal mode of storytelling is the mystery. “Whether the story is classified as a crime story or a fantasy, there is usually a puzzle to be solved, a mystery to be investigated.” Avram Davidson transcended the usual boundaries of categories, and simply told Avram Davidson stories.
If this is truly reassessment time, I have no doubt that Avram Davidson will not only gain entrance to Parnassus, but will be greeted by cheering crowds and by rows of graceful maidens strewing his pathway with sweet-smelling blossoms.
And a glass of good schnapps.
Avram deserves no less.
—Richard A. Lupoff, 1998
THE NECESSITY OF HIS CONDITION
“THE NECESSITY OF HIS CONDITION” was first published in 1957, and won the Ellery Queen Award for best short fiction published that year.
It is considered one of Avram Davidson’s most important stories. The topic is American slavery. An early rejection letter for the story said, “I’m glad you sent it to me. But we couldn’t touch it because of its theme.” The irony of the story is that it takes no sides. It simply draws the legal consequences of slavery to their awful conclusion.
Davidson’s own story notes said, “Really, I have, in part, to thank Life magazine for first implanting in my mind a certain detail of the Slave Code on which this story is based. This detail came to my attention years later during my long research into the institution of slavery in the United States as background for a projected article on the Dred Scott decision. The research produced much that was new to me, all of it of course unpleasant: did you know, for instance that (I believe) numerous Free Negroes themselves owned slaves?—And it also produced this story.
“It also produced the Queen’s Award (Ellery, not Elizabeth), the first large sum of money I had ever made. This story marks the turning point in my career as a writer.”
—GD
Sholto Hill was mostly residential property, but it had its commercial district in the shape of Persimmon Street and Rampart Street, the latter named after some long-forgotten barricade stormed and destroyed by Benedict Arnold (wearing a British uniform and eaten with bitterness and perverted pride). Persimmon Street, running up-slope, entered the middle of Rampart at right angles, and went no farther. This section, with its red brick houses and shops, its warehouses and offices, was called The T, and it smelled of tobacco and potatoes and molasses and goober peas and dried fish and beer and cheap cook-shop food and (the spit-and-whittle humorists claimed) old man Bailiss’s office, where the windows were never opened—never had been opened, they said, never were made to be opened. Any smell off the street or farms or stables that found its way up to Bailiss’s office was imprisoned there for life, they said. Old man Bailiss knew what they said, knew pretty much everything that went on anywhere; but he purely didn’t care. He didn’t have to, they said.
J. Bailiss, Attorney-at-Law (his worn old sign said), had a large practice and little competition. James Bailiss, Broker (his newer, but by no means new, sign), did an extensive business; again, with little competition. The premises of the latter business were located, not in The T, but in a white-washed stone structure with thick doors and barred windows, down in The Bottom—as it was called—near the river, the canal, and the railroad line.
James Bailiss, Broker, was not received socially. Nobody expected that bothered him much. Nothing bothered old man Bailiss much—Bailiss, with his old white hat and his old black coat and his old cowhid
e shoes that looked old even when they were new—turned old on the shoemaker’s last (the spit-and-whittle crowd claimed) directly they heard whose feet they were destined for.
It was about twenty-five years earlier, in 1825, that an advertisement—the first of its kind—appeared in the local newspaper.
“Take Notice! (it began). James Bailiss, having lately purchased the old arsenal building on Canal Street, will henceforth operate it as a Negro Depot. He will at all times be found ready to purchase all good and likely young Negroes at the Highest Price. He will also attend to Selling Negroes on Commission. Said Broker also gives Notice that those who have Slaves rendered unfit for labor by yaws, scrofula, chronic consumption, rheumatism, & C., may dispose of them to him on reasonable terms.”
Editor Winstanley tried to dissuade him, he said later. “Folks,” he told him, “won’t like this. This has never been said out open before,” the editor pointed out. Bailiss smiled. He was already middle-aged, had a shiny red face and long mousy hair. His smile wasn’t a very wide one.
“Then I reckon I must be the pioneer,” he said. “This isn’t a big plantation State, it never will be. I’ve give the matter right much thought. I reckon it just won’t pay for anyone to own more than half a dozen slaves in these parts. But they will multiply, you can’t stop it. I’ve seen it in my lawwork, seen many a planter broke for debts he’s gone into to buy field hands—signed notes against his next crop, or maybe even his next three crops. Then maybe the crop is so good that the price of cotton goes way down and he can’t meet his notes, so he loses his lands and his slaves. If the price of cotton should happen to be high enough for him to pay for the slaves he’s bought, then, like a dumned fool”—Bailiss never swore—“why, he signs notes for a few more. Pretty soon things get so bad you can’t give slaves away round here. So a man has a dozen of them eating their heads off and not even earning grocery bills. No, Mr. Winstanley; slaves must be sold south and southwest, where the new lands are being opened up, where the big plantations are.”
Editor Winstanley wagged his head. “I know,” he said, “I know. But folks don’t like to say things like that out loud. The slave trade is looked down on. You know that. It’s a necessary evil, that’s how it’s regarded, like a—well…” He lowered his voice. “Nothing personal, but … like a sporting house. Nothing personal, now, Mr. Bailiss.”
The attorney-broker smiled again. “Slavery has the sanction of the law. It is a necessary part of the domestic economy, just like cotton. Why, suppose I should say, ‘I love my cotton, I’ll only sell it locally’? People’d think I was just crazy. Slaves have become a surplus product in the Border States and they must be disposed of where they are not produced in numbers sufficient to meet the local needs. You print that advertisement. Folks may not ask me to dinner, but they’ll sell to me, see if they won’t.”
The notice did, as predicted, outrage public opinion. Old Marsta and Old Missis vowed no Negro of theirs would ever be sold “down the River.” But somehow the broker’s “jail”—as it was called—kept pretty full, though its boarders changed. Old man Bailiss had his agents out buying and his agents out selling. Sometimes he acted as agent for firms whose headquarters were in Natchez or New Orleans. He entered into silent partnerships with gentlemen of good family who wanted a quick return on capital, and who got it, but who still, it was needless to say, did not dine with him or take his hand publicly. There was talk, on and off, that the Bar Association was planning action not favorable to Bailiss for things connected with the legal side of his trade. It all came to nought.
“Mr. Bailiss,” young Ned Wickerson remarked to him one day in the old man’s office, “whoever said that ‘a man who defends himself has a fool for a client’ never had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
“Thank you, boy.”
“Consequently,” the young man continued, “I’ve advised Sam Worth not to go into court if we can manage to settle out of it.”
“First part of your advice is good, but there’s nothing to settle.”
“There’s a matter of $635 to settle, Mr. Bailiss.” Wickerson had been practicing for two years, but he still had freckles on his nose. He took a paper out of his wallet and put it in front of them. “There’s this to settle.”
The old man pushed his glasses down his nose and picked up the paper. He scanned it, lips moving silently. “Why, this is all correct,” he said. “Hmm. To be sure. ‘Received of Samuel Worth of Worth’s Crossing, Lemuel County, the sum of $600 cash in full payment for a Negro named Dominick Swift, commonly called Domino, aged thirty-six years and of bright complexion, which Negro I warrant sound in mind and body and a slave for life and the title I will forever defend. James Bailiss, Rutland, Lemuel County.’ Mmm. All correct. And anyway, what do you mean, six hundred and thirty-five dollars?”
“Medical and burial expenses. Domino died last week.”
“Died, now, did he? Sho. Too bad. Well, all men are mortal.”
“I’m afraid my client doesn’t take much comfort from your philosophy. Says he didn’t get two days’ work out of Domino. Says he whipped him, first off, for laziness, but when the doctor—Dr. Sloan, that was—examined him, Doctor said he had a consumption. Died right quickly.”
“Negroes are liable to quick consumptions. Wish they was a medicine for it. On the other hand, they seldom get malaria or yella fever. Providence.”
He cut off a slice of twist, shoved it in his cheek, then offered twist and knife to Wickerson, who shook his head.
“As I say, we’d rather settle out of court. If you’ll refund the purchase price we won’t press for the other expenses. What do you say?”
Bailiss looked around the dirty, dusty office. There was a case of law books with broken bindings against the north wall. The south wall had a daguerreotype of John C. Calhoun hanging crookedly on it. The single dim window was in the east wall, and the west wall was pierced by a door whose lower panels had been scarred and splintered by two generations of shoes and boots kicking it open. “Why, I say no, o’ course.”
Wickerson frowned. “If you lose, you know, you’ll have to pay my costs as well.”
“I don’t expect I’ll lose,” the old man said.
“Why, of course you’ll lose,” the young man insisted, although he did not sound convinced. “Dr. Sloan will testify that it was not ‘a quick consumption.’ He says it was a long-standing case of Negro tuberculosis. And you warranted the man sound.”
“Beats me how them doctors think up long words like that,” Bailiss said placidly. “Inter’sting point of law just come up down in N’Orleans, Ned. One of my agents was writing me. Negro brakeman had his legs crushed in an accident, man who rented him to the railroad sued, railroad pleaded ‘negligence of his fellow-servant’—in this case, the engineer.”
“Seems like an unassailable defense.” The younger lawyer was interested despite himself. “What happened?”
“Let’s see if I can recollect the Court’s words.” This was mere modesty. Old man Bailiss’s memory was famous on all matters concerning the slave codes. “Mmm. Yes. Court said: ‘The slave status has removed this man from the normal fellow-servant category. He is fettered fast by the most stern bonds our laws take note of. He cannot with impunity desert his post though danger plainly threatens, nor can he reprove free men for their bad management or neglect of duty, for the necessity of his condition is upon him.’ Awarded the owner—Creole man name of Le Tour—awarded him $1300.”
“It seems right, put like that. But now, Dr. Sloan—”
“Now, Neddy. Domino was carefully examined by my doctor, old Fred Pierce—”
“Why, Pierce hasn’t drawn a sober breath in twenty years! He gets only slaves for his patients.”
“Well, I reckon that makes him what they call a specialist, then. No, Ned, don’t go to court. You have no case. My jailer will testify, too, that Domino was sound when I sold him. It must of been that whipping sickened him.”
Wickerson rose.
“Will you make partial restitution, then?” The old man shook his head. His long hair was streaked with gray, but the face under it was still ruddy. “You know Domino was sick,” Wickerson said. “I’ve spoken to old Miss Whitford’s man, Micah, the blacksmith, who was doing some work in your jail awhile back. He told me that he heard Domino coughing, saw him spitting blood, saw you watching him, saw you give him some rum and molasses, heard you say, ‘Better not cough till I’ve sold you, Dom, else I’ll have to sell you south where they don’t coddle Negroes.’ This was just before you did sell him—to my client.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “I’d say Micah talks overmuch for a black man, even one of old Miss Whitford’s—a high and mighty lady that doesn’t care to know me on the street. But you forget one mighty important thing, Mr. Wickerson!” His voice rose. He pointed his finger. “It makes no difference what Micah heard! Micah is property! Just like my horse is property! And property can’t testify! Do you claim to be a lawyer? Don’t you know that a slave can’t inherit—can’t bequeath—can’t marry nor give in marriage—can neither sue nor prosecute—and that it’s a basic principle of the law that a slave can never testify in court except against another slave?”
Wickerson, his lips pressed tightly together, moved to the door, kicked it open, scattering a knot of idlers who stood around listening eagerly, and strode away. The old man brushed through them.
“And you’d better tell Sam Worth not to come bothering me, either!” Bailiss shouted at Wickerson’s back. “I know how to take care of trash like him!” He turned furiously to the gaping and grinning loungers.
The Investigations of Avram Davidson Page 2
