Counternarratives (35 page)

 

BLUES

H
e wanted to
say something
 . . . but the English words at first eluded
him . . . when they met earlier that year . . . at a
secret party . . . after the dinner given by Rafael
Lozano . . . at the German director Agustín's . . .
the noted poet had been staying briefly in Mexico . . . even before
then a few of them had shared his poems like talismans . . . reading
them as if their lives depended upon it . . . he had translated three
and published them in a local journal . . . the older poets had
already dismissed this so-called literature, condemned it . . . much
like their peers in Harlem . . . all this pansy dust from the gutter
passing for good writing . . . this only spurred them to read
more . . . and talk about it more, write more . . .
unforgettable as his verse, each thought . . . to himself when the
American entered the living room . . . a compact beauty, tea
brown . . . high brow capped by wavy black hair . . .
after receiving his drink he stood at the center of their
circle . . . smile flashing . . . each was vying to
get his attention . . . to their surprise he spoke decent, vigorous
Spanish . . . in his soft melodic voice . . . all
strained to hear him . . . maybe he was a
veracruzano . . .
who had grown up among
gringos . . . a Mexican as the new star of American Negro
literature . . . someone whispered this in
laughter . . . he mentioned his friend, José Fernández de Castro, the
Cuban writer . . . Carlos corrected that he was from Missouri,
wherever that was . . . his father, he told them, had managed an
electric plant . . . run a ranch in Toluca . . . he
had spent part of his adolescent years here . . . he had come to wrap
up the estate . . . he was staying with family friends on the Calle
de Ildefonso . . . though grieving he still appeared
gay . . . something nevertheless held in reserve by that insistent
grin . . . so as not to keep him standing Agustín invited him to
sit . . . the American recited lines by López Velarde and Jiménez as
he walked to the couch . . . they scrambled to places beside
him . . . Agustín as usual slung his leg up over the easy chair's arm
to show off his ample package . . . Roberto, who already had a
boyfriend, nevertheless daintily perched on the edge of his
seat . . . Antonieta, the lone woman among them, took it all in
stride . . . he winked at her several times as he spoke and she
leaned forward too . . . his English name was not so easy to
pronounce . . . Long Stone is how they all kept saying
it . . . he had no problem with any of theirs, forgetting not a
single one . . . complimenting the German on the furniture, his
modern taste . . . he, Xavier, sipped his punch and observed those
lips polishing each syllable . . . the nasturtium, rose
incarnate . . . of that mouth . . . he hated comparing
things to flowers . . . but in that moment there was no other
metaphor . . . the houseboy brought in canapés and nuts and the
American's eye trailed his low broad shoulders . . . ah ha, some of
them thought, campesinos are what he goes for . . . the German could
unrefine his touch as needed . . . he unbuttoned his shirt collar,
his fingers combing his chest . . . the poet offered his observations
of the city's literary scene . . . who, he asked, were the
politically radical, the experimental writers . . . he spoke of the
visual arts, his love of bullfighting y los novilleros . . . he
beamed a smile which made them all smile more . . . that's what he
likes, the fighting daredevils . . . they were going to take him to a
party at a painter's house . . . he agreed and after several more
rounds of drinks they headed out . . . the German's hand on the
American's waist, Elías's clasping his left elbow . . . he, Xavier,
followed a few steps behind, chatting with Antonieta . . . studying
the visitor's solid back . . . ample buttocks . . .
they piled into two cars, sped through the night to the painter's
house . . . after five knocks the man with the scar from his right
eye to his chin ushered them in . . . friends were already there,
everyone wanted to meet the American . . . a cross-dresser emerged
from a stairwell, her conversation in mid-sentence . . . he, Xavier,
had another drink and then another . . . a man named Rodolfo he had
never met before whispering something in his ear . . . the American
disappeared into the darkness . . . then suddenly Long Stone is at
Xavier's side, smiling . . . saying I will be staying in the city for
a little while longer . . . Xavier mentioning his fellowship to study
drama at Yale . . . if you get to New York send word, we'll meet up
in Harlem . . . he gives him several contacts in order to reach
him . . . before Xavier can answer a bullfighter's expert hands spear
the visitor's arm from behind . . . his eyes saying this one is mine
tonight . . . the two of them gliding away . . . into
the writhing hive . . .

He sent a telegram from New Haven . . . to the address on
St. Nicholas Avenue, where Langston was staying . . . he had heard
through the grapevine about the Guggenheim . . . the journey out to
Los Angeles to write scripts . . . he jots in his notebook that he
enjoyed the train ride down along the coast . . . he sat on the south
side as his classmate had recommended . . . observing the scenery of
autumnal New York Sound . . . the water indifferent in its blue
undulations . . . vanishing intermittently behind screens of greening
trees and warehouses . . . he slipped down for the holiday the
Americans celebrate to honor the Genoese Columbus . . . he would miss
a single lecture . . . but will be able to catch at least a weekend
matinee . . . he has told no one though he may send Salvador and
Elías each a letter . . . he paused to photograph the great vault of
Grand Central Terminal . . . from the taxi to the New Yorker Hotel he
stared up into the midday sky . . . the height of the towers
astonished him . . . he imagined the shadows sleeping in the caverns
between them. . . . the pace, still more fervid than Mexico City at
lunchtime . . . all the colors of these people, their vivid, hungry
faces . . . some made him forget that there was a
Depression . . . others' eyes scored their suffering right into
him . . . he saw through to their inner solitude . . .
you should not stay up in Harlem, a friend had written . . . they
rioted in March, another warned, attacking every white person . . .
another said it was fine, spend a night at the Theresa . . . No
problems for Mexicans but Negros are forbidden there . . . he wanted
to explore that and other neighborhoods . . . perhaps he would
venture up there even before meeting with Langston . . . after a nap
that first evening he wandered the streets . . . then took the subway
down to the West Village . . . ambling slowly around Washington
Square, avoiding the beggars, cars and buses . . . he happened upon
the Italian district . . . a meal of pasta with red
wine . . . in a little tavern he downed a few
drinks . . . his eyes lingering on the men but he said
nothing . . . no one to help relieve his
loneliness . . . he knew there were places
nearby . . . a bottle of whisky and a pack of
cigarettes . . . he retraced his steps back to Times
Square. . . . the doorman's gaze tracking him
inside . . . he sat at his desk and worked on several drafts of
poems . . . smoking a cigarette he penned a new
one . . . then the meal and trainride hit him and he lay
down . . . stretched across his bed atop the
covers . . . studying the sliver of midnight sky, scarred with
stars . . . he wondered how well or if the poet even remembered
him . . . no messages at the front desk, he will call the number he
has tomorrow . . . friends had sent him the
names . . . of several countrymen and other Latin Americans to
meet . . . new Yale friends provided him with
others . . . there are other writers he would love to
encounter . . . his intention during his return after the new
year . . . he thinks of Salvador, of his Agustín, Lazo, not the
German . . . and falls fast asleep. . . .

He peers at the telegram and tries to recall . . . the
poet's face remains an empty screen . . . he met so many people in
Mexico City . . . he should consult his notebooks,
carbons . . . so much he will never put into
print . . . he ponders, which one could this one
be . . . the party after Rafael's, at that
apartment . . . not the movie director, not Salvador, but
Xavier . . . quickly they loom into view, the immense eyes, hawkish
nose . . . wide mouth, glass vase complexion . . . a
tiny beautiful thing, almost passarine . . . he is trying to figure
out if he will even have a minute to respond . . . should he call
anyone else, or meet this man alone . . . the premiere of the play is
just over a week away . . . everything that could go wrong already
has . . . because of the rich ofay
producer-director . . . whose changes have warped his
vision . . . into something monstrous, a mess on
stage . . . who keeps demanding more of his
royalties . . . silence from his drama agent,
Rumsey . . . despite his constant appeals . . . maybe
he should let Max handle this too . . . he sips his coffee and smiles
at Toy . . . his second mother, Em his father . . .
his own mother sent a brief letter from Cleveland wishing him
well . . . her sincerity and false confidence as evident as her shaky
hand . . . the tumor cannibalizing her insides . . .
how can he be there and here . . . always the need for more
cash . . . how can he even think to write that
novel . . . poems keep grinding themselves out of
him . . . the trip to Minnesota days ago feels like it took place
last century . . . all those students cheering at his
words . . . how to bring that world more frequently into
view . . . maybe he has mixed this poet up with someone
else . . . so many there, such beauty . . . if only he
had a Beauty now to listen to him . . . lean on, lie beside as he
barely slept . . . black, Mexican, it wouldn't
matter . . . the sunlight crept in though he had only just halted a
nightmare . . . the cast on stage performing and the theater
empty . . . Jones refusing altogether to pay him . . .
critics writing reviews condemning the language and structure . . .
he could use the air and light of Central Avenue now . . . the beach
and orange groves, those California Negroes . . . even the tenements
and singsong patter of his Cleveland and Chicago neighbors . . . he
hugs Toy goodbye and heads out . . . more battles at the theater
await him . . . he knots his scarf against the October
chill . . . feels the telegram folded into fourths atop cards in his
jacket pocket . . . the subway platform not so busy at
midday . . . the train whining its swift
approach . . . he finds a seat in the middle of the
car . . . exchanges glances with a silver haired man who winks,
slyly . . . shall I make a record of your beauty . . .
he extracts a poem tucked inside the script from his portfolio . . .
uncaps his pen, begins to mark it up . . . he realizes only as the
train slumbers into 34th Street . . . that he has missed his
stop. . . .

He spent all of yesterday touring Manhattan . . .
first thing after breakfast the ultramodern Chrysler Building and the Empire State
fortress . . . both a brisk stroll from the
hotel . . . the Independent subway line to Bookstore Row in the
Village, Wall Street, Bowling Green . . . the Aquarium at the little
fort at the island's southern tip . . . he walked to the foot of
Brooklyn Bridge, imagining Crane's steps, Whitman's ferry
crossing . . . rang his hotel from a nearby booth to find out if
anyone had rung him . . . a cab then train to the Public Library's
main branch on Fifth Avenue . . . trekked up to St. Patrick's
Cathedral, Rockefeller Center . . . snapped photos, ate a late lunch
at an automat . . . sipping a cola and polishing off a bowl of soda
crackers and chicken noodle soup . . . watching the patricians and
penniless stream past the window . . . on the street he struck up a
conversation with a Puerto Rican . . . who gave the names of
restaurants to visit in East Harlem . . . a walk east to Madison's
haberdasher shops, where he bought handkerchiefs and a scarf . . .
and the Interborough up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art . . . he
could only manage the exhibit of Hogarth's prints . . . so exhausted
he stumbled out into the violet street . . . no time left to visit
Harlem . . . no messages waiting at his return . . .
in the hotel lobby he called a painter friend of Carlos's . . . to
meet for a meal tomorrow . . . he had dinner in his room, began
reading . . . through his gathering poems . . . he
penned a letter to Salvador but crumpled it . . . thought he might
see what lurked out in the darkness . . . signs, stars, blue tattoed
letters . . . but slumber gripped him and he was
out . . . he returned to his hotel after leaving the chatty
Guadalajaran . . . and a Broadway matinee of
Porgy and
Bess
 . . . he was searching for the right words to describe
it . . . the songs kept pealing deep inside him . . .
silence vast and frozen . . . a message from Langston
awaited . . . Querido Xavier, deseas cenar conmigo esta
noche? . . . he called the number and a woman
answered . . . she would pass on his message, for this evening at
7:30 pm . . . he set the clock and lay down . . . at 7
he rose and washed up . . . changed into fresh underwear, shirt, the
socks he had hung to dry . . . a pale lavender tie purchased in a
store on College Street . . . at 7:25 he headed
downstairs . . . expecting to see the American standing
there . . . he sat in a comfortable chair and
waited . . . he had brought a copy of Maeterlinck's
poems . . . he flipped through, barely reading, as his watch hand
spun . . . at 8:04 Langston walked in, palms extended in
greeting . . . his face gay and fuller, sporting a
mustache . . . he spoke in Spanish, almost formally at
first . . . Xavier replied in casual English..apologies upon
apologies, there were issues at the theater . . . a dramatic piece
beginning in a week . . . too much to explain right
now . . . did the visitor want to dine near the
hotel . . . go downtown to the Village . . . Xavier
suggested Harlem . . . Langston mentioned it was sixty blocks north,
but they they could take the train . . . there were restaurants still
open . . . he had one in mind in particular . . . if
Xavier was game . . . the visitor urged that they take a
taxicab . . . he had a little stipend . . . he would
pick up the fare . . . the doorman hailed one for
them . . . they climbed in and pitched right into
conversation . . . Langston asking about the various people he had
met last spring . . . the writers, painters,
theater . . . the social and political conditions in
Mexico . . . he offers some gossip about the
celebrities . . . he met in Los Angeles and during his stay in
Carmel . . . like the hearthrob Ramón Novarro . . .
Xavier describes the experience of Gershwin's musical . . . he is one
of the finest composers, Langston says . . . not a colored man but he
has something of us in his soul . . . in no time they reach
Harlem . . . where the buildings shrink and the faces
brown . . .