by Ann Petry
After a month of living with Bill and Weak Knees he felt fine. He felt safe. He was no longer ashamed of the color of his skin. One morning when he went to school he carried a rock in his hand. When he reached the lawn, he aimed at, and hit, the fattest of the pigeons. Squawks. A fluttering of wings. The rest of the pigeons flew up, were gone. The fattest one lay on its side. It too tried to fly, fluttered its wings and lay still.
He knew then what that story of Bill’s meant: If you were attacked you had to fight back. If you didn’t you would die.
The long full curtains covered the screen at Radio City Music Hall. The lights went up.
Camilo turned toward him. “You weren’t looking at the picture,” she said. “Didn’t you like it?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes I look at my own movies.” He helped her put the long soft brown furpiece around her shoulders, stood up, waiting, while she put on the white gloves. “Where would you like to eat?” he asked.
“I know a place not too far from here. The food is wonderful. Suppose we go there.”
They walked up Fifth Avenue. Even at this hour he thought that the people who passed them seemed, even in walking, to buck their strength against the city, against the concrete sidewalks, against the skyscrapers, and the steam heat inside them; always that suffocating dry heat inside the buildings and outside in the streets the same bone-chilling cold there was in Monmouth—damp, penetrating.
He supposed all these people they passed were hellbent on the same thing, hurrying after the same dream, chasing it up and down Fifth Avenue. He thought of Wormsley, G. Granville Wormsley, who had been his classmate at Dartmouth. Once he and Wormsley had walked along Fifth Avenue, stopping now and then to look in the store windows, just as Camilo was doing now. Only Wormsley was always hunting paintings and books; Camilo was hunting dresses and shoes and jewelry—at least that was what she looked at longest, standing, head cocked on one side, looking.
Link said, “About five years ago I walked along here with a friend of mine, a guy named Wormsley. After he’d looked in some of these store windows he said, ‘This is what brought my father here, this is what keeps me here. I look in these windows, go in these stores, and I begin to believe all over again that I can conquer this city. It’s the sight of the loot in these windows that keeps people in New York.’ About a year after that he came to Monmouth, to say goodbye to me. He said it was hopeless, nobody could win against New York City, and that it wasn’t what he wanted so he was going to London. Six months later he was back. He said he didn’t know why he had left, that he never intended to leave again, because if he lost, and now he was no longer certain about the outcome, he would rather lose in New York, in the midst of the cold and chill, in the midst of the only other kind of weather the city offered, heat and heat and heat, than to survive, let alone win, anywhere else in the world.”
Camilo had stopped to look at a red evening gown, displayed on one of those incredibly thin, very natural-looking figures they use in the windows of department stores. A seated figure, the long thin legs crossed, the trunk bending forward. Link looked too, and thought, Well, Sambo may still be sittin’ in the sun, sleepin’ in the sun in Radio City, but Mrs. Sambo now sits in the windows of the specialty shops, the exclusive dress shops. Some skilled and skilful hand makes all these store window dummies look like colored women, the hair frizzed, the skin color no longer pink and white but the offwhite of a high yaller. O wondrous world.
Camilo said, “What did your friend Wormsley want to win?”
“I asked him that. And he said, ‘All of it. All of this city. I want to control it.’ Then he said, ‘I want to be a kingmaker, not a king you understand, but a kingmaker.’ Kingmaker Wormsley.”
“Why he’s a fascist at heart.”
“No,” Link said slowly. “That doesn’t allow for his other quirks. Fascist in his desire for power—but then aren’t we all? Even you and I? Eventually won’t you want to control me? And I, of course, already want to control you.” You’ve got a terrific drive, an urge, toward and for power, little one, though you evidently don’t know it. “That doesn’t make us fascists.”
She said, “Is he a kingmaker?”
They turned off Fifth Avenue, started walking east.
Link said, “In a smallish way. If he lives long enough he will be one in a largish way.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a psychiatrist and a damn good one.”
He studied the street ahead of them. Let’s see, he thought, where would this little exquisite be likely to think the food was wonderful? It will be the place where the striped awning extends over the sidewalk, offering protection to the silk hats and the poodle cuts emerging from the limousines and taxis, where the evergreens squat in little red pots, where the doorman in the plum-colored costume stands like the keeper of the gate, even to the stance, separating the sheep from the goats before they get close enough to bang on the gate. Yea, verily, many are called, but few are chosen.
He was right. She said, “Here we are,” and tucked her hand under his arm, steering him so that they turned in under the striped awning.
The headwaiter, no, manager, no, owner, well, whatever the hell he was, stood just inside the door, short, swarthy, dressed in evening clothes, greeting the customers also dressed in evening clothes. He bowed practically to the floor at the sight of Camilo, saying, “Mademoiselle! What pleasure! We have missed you!” He had a French accent, like Old Madame Tay-tay’s, who for years was the only colored Catholic in The Narrows.
Link remembered how he used to watch her sitting on her doorstep, muttering under her breath, as she fingered her beads. She nodded her head, at frequent intervals, so that the long gold earrings she wore, dangled back and forth, making a tinkling sound. The kids said she was born in New Orleans; and that she was creole, and therefore neither colored nor white. Later, they also told him, that when she was dying, she had said her prayers in French. For a long time afterwards, he had wondered how God, whom he had always assumed to be a Protestant and an American, had been able to understand her; and didn’t dare ask Abbie lest his question be dismissed as blasphemous.
Camilo said, “I’ve been away, Georges. In Dallas.”
After a quick shrewd glance at Link, Georges bowed again, though not quite so near the floor, said, “Monsieur! What pleasure! This way.”
Georges personally escorted them the length of the restaurant, past the tables, flowers on the tables, lighted candles on the tables, past the shaded wall lights and the muted voices and the muted laughter. It was warm inside the restaurant. Link caught whiffs of perfume from the females in evening clothes. They went past a small bar and there was the faint smell of alcoholic beverages, alien smell in this warm perfumed room, old familiar smell of The Last Chance, of The Moonbeam, in this restaurant for the very rich. All cats bee gray—
They went up a flight of stairs into a small room where there was a table set for two.
Georges said, “I hope everything will be of a perfection, mademoiselle, monsieur. Your waiter will be here at once. Aha, here he is.”
The menu cards were big, elaborately decorated. Link thought, You could mat ’em and have ’em framed and they’d make a splash even on the walls of Grand Central. And this tall thin man, in a tail coat, who is our waiter, makes me understand how Weak Knees feels when he says, “Get away, Eddie. God damn it, get away.” If he doesn’t stop breathing down my neck I shall say the same thing.
Camilo said, “Roast duck, and a salad, and a vegetable. Broccoli for the vegetable.”
Link handed the outsize menu back to the waiter. He said, “Steak and whatever your chef thinks an American ought to eat with steak.”
The waiter left and Link said, “Did you reserve this?”
She smiled at him. “Yes, I did. Is it all right?”
He nodded, thinking, It’s all right from your point of view an
d in your world. It’s all wrong from where I sit.
The food was good though M. Georges’s chef wasn’t in the same class with Weak Knees, which was only to be expected. He didn’t know as much about vegetables, didn’t know anything at all about the possibilities of the humble potato. But he knew a good deal about steaks.
While they ate, he told Camilo about Weak Knees, about the new receipt for spaghetti, and how Jubine had said there’d be a shortage of salt pork if all chefs started using it, not really thinking about what he was saying, just making talk, while he studied her face. In the flickering light of the candles, the blue of her eyes was a dark unidentifiable color; the pale yellow hair had an added gleam, it fairly shimmered in the dancing flickering light.
“Jubine?” she said. “The photographer? I know him, too.”
Pleasure in the light musical voice, pleasure in her face, because Jubine linked them together, common acquaintance, their worlds came closer because they both knew Jubine. He thought, Motorcycle, GI shoes, cigar in mouth, inquisitive eyes—how did she meet Jubine?
She said, “Sometimes he takes fashion pictures for me. They’re absolutely wonderful. But he doesn’t care much about photographing models and clothes.”
When they finished eating, he said, “I’ll ask for the check now so that we can get out of here sometime in the next hour.”
She said, “Oh, there isn’t any check. It’s almost the other way around. If Georges could, he’d pay me to eat here.”
“Look!” he said. “If Georges would like to pay you to eat here why that takes care of you. It doesn’t take care of me. I’m going to pay for my part of this meal.”
“Oh, no, you mustn’t.”
He rang for the waiter, took his wallet out of his pocket.
“Link,” she said, “don’t make a scene.”
“A scene?” he said. “A scene? What do you mean by that? What kind of a scene do you think I’m likely to make in here?” Sambo was still sittin’ in the sun in Radio City Music Hall, maybe he was still sittin’ in the sun in Camilo’s mind, honing his razor.
“If you insist on paying for something that isn’t supposed to be paid for why you’ll have to be unpleasant about it. Georges isn’t going to take your money. You’d have to force him to take it—and—”
He put the wallet back in his pocket. Georges isn’t going to take your money. Why wasn’t Georges going to take his money?
The tall thin waiter said, “Yes, sir?” and hovered, again bending down, over Link’s shoulder.
Camilo said quickly, “We’d like some hot coffee.”
Now that she had got her own way she smiled at Link. She said, “Let’s do this again. Next Sunday.”
“Go to the movies and then afterwards come here and eat?”
She nodded. “Then you did enjoy it!”
“And when we come here again, next Sunday, I suppose you will already have ordered what you want me to eat.”
“Of course not. Why would I?” She stared at him and the laughter, the gaiety, went out of her face. “You mean I’m—”
“The only reason I’ve put up with this—” he gestured toward the table, the flowers, the candles, the covered silver dishes, the wine glasses, “is—well—I think I’m in love with you. But either we play this my way and ride in whatever hay wagon or tractor or freight car I can provide, or—we quit.”
“I think we’d better quit,” she said evenly.
As they were leaving, Georges said, “Was everything all right, monsieur?”
Link said, “Oh, quite. Everything was of a perfection,” unconsciously imitating the accent of Madame Tay-tay. Two on the aisle provided by the lady. Dinner afterwards. Private dining room reserved by the lady. Meal obviously paid for by the lady. Plantation buck. How many generations back? Oh, possibly four. Jump four generations and he shows up as a kept man. Objective about race? Hell, no. Nobody was. Not in the USA.
Georges glanced at him, sharply. “Monsieur has an excellent memory.”
Camilo said, “Everything was perfection, Georges. Thank you very much, and, good night.”
“Good night, mademoiselle. Good night, monsieur.”
They were silent, both of them, all the way back to Monmouth. He stopped the car on Franklin Avenue, got out, closed the door. He had been trying to figure out something to say ever since they left New York. And ended up saying, simply, inadequately, “Goodbye,” though he was certain that he would not see her again.
Four nights later. Midnight. He came out of The Last Chance, turned his coat collar up, frowned, listening to the wind keening in the branches of The Hangman, thinking, It’s too damn cold to go prowling through these streets again tonight. The Weather Bureau had been predicting this sudden change in temperature, attributing it to a cold mass that was moving in from Canada. Said cold mass had been signaling its arrival for three days, mercury in the thermometers dropping, dropping, wind shifting, shifting; had obviously moved in now and brought all the relatives, including the great grandpappy and the kissin’ cousins.
He glanced down Dumble Street. It was as bleak and deserted as a street in a small town where a curfew has rung. Everything closed down, shut up, all the lights out. The other streets in The Narrows would be just as dark, and silent as this one. He knew because he had been walking through them for the last three nights, not going anywhere, just walking, in the hope that when he went to bed he would be so dogtired he would go to sleep instantly and not dream about the girl.
He had walked and walked, listening to the sound of his own footsteps, echoing behind him on the sidewalk, as though in violation of the imaginary curfew that had long since sent everyone else scurrying home. No matter how far he walked, how tired he became, he never achieved the dreamless sleep that was his objective.
He always had the same dream. It came toward morning. It was so real that he could have sworn the girl was lying beside him, that she had her arms around him, and he thought he could feel the warmth from her body, and so turned on his side, turned toward her. A haunting, beautiful dream. The unpleasant part came when he woke up. The dream was so vivid, dream and desire and reality so inextricably mixed up, that as he lay there in the early morning grayness that was neither daylight nor dark, he extended his hand, expecting to find her beside him, within hand’s reach.
Each morning, when he awakened, and found that she was not there, he had known a sense of loss, so real that it was painful. He had tried to assuage, to allay, the pain by re-creating her in his mind’s eye, the shape of her face, the silkiness of her hair, the arched eyebrows, the deep blue eyes, the absolute perfection of the mouth and nose, the way her face lighted up when she smiled, the haunting fragrance of the perfume she used. Then he would scowl, wanting to forget her. Instead of forgetting her, putting her out of his mind, he went on remembering her, the way she walked, the light musical sound of her voice.
He knew he would never forget her. He would go on dreaming about her at night, thinking about her during the day, forever and ever. Or stand, motionless, bemused, on a cold windy street, just as he was doing now, because he was suddenly assailed by the memory of her.
He heard the creaking of the branches of The Hangman, and thought, It’s too damn cold to stand here and play the mooncalf, and there’s no moon, and you’re a big boy now, but your wits are out, your wits are out, like Hans Kraut, and crossed the street, moving quickly, going toward Abbie’s house, listening to the sound of his own footsteps, hearing the creak-creak of The Hangman so loud that he looked up, saw the bend and sway of the great branches high overhead, thought, Heavy heavy hangs over thy head, what wilt thou do to redeem it, redeem it, never can redeem it, lost it, not lost it, threw it away, own volition, nobody made you, you stiffnecked—
He started to go up Abbie’s front steps, and put his hand on the old wrought-iron railing, felt it cold under his hand, and then turned and glan
ced in the direction of the river, and saw the girl’s car parked under the street light at the corner, and so walked toward Dock Street.
The girl got out of the car, and he stood still watching her as she came toward him. The wind was blowing her hair about her face. He felt his throat constrict, so that he couldn’t swallow, could not at that moment have spoken if his life had depended on it. As she came nearer he felt a thickness rising in his throat, filling his throat.
“Hello,” she said, her face alight, alive, glowing. “I came back.”
“I’ve missed you.” He put his hands on her arms. He had never touched her before and she looked up at him, the eyes darker than he had remembered them, or perhaps it was due to the darkness of this winter’s night.
She said, “Link—” and it sounded like a question.
He pulled her close to him, looking at her face, thinking, Win or lose, all or nothing, Hobson’s choice. Then he leaned down and kissed her, and felt her lips respond to his, felt her mouth soft, warm, slowly opening.
She said, finally, “Shall we go back to where we started—to The Moonbeam?”
“All right.” He hoped he sounded matter of fact, though he doubted it. Win or lose. And he had won. He had taken a long running jump and landed on his feet. He had won MamiePowtherChinaCamiloWilliams for keeps. He knew it and he couldn’t quite get his breath back.
Inside the door of The Moonbeam, they both stood still, not saying anything, just looking. He saw Old One-One ploughing across the big smoke-filled room, heading toward two young men, two dark young men, who might have been embracing each other, passionately; swaying from the force of the emotion that made them hug each other in a tight, close, hot embrace. Was this a sudden access of love, he wondered. No. It was hate. One of them had a knife and—
