Flight to Canada (8 page)

But all the blind Nebraskaites

Who have invaded human rights,

Will at the North in every case

Be overwhelmed in deep disgrace.

When their eventful life is o’er,

No one their loss will much deplore;

And when their kindred call their name,

Their cheeks will mantle o’er with shame;

But soon their names will be forgot,

The memory of them all shall rot.

And let their burying places be

Upon the coast beside the sea;

And let the ever-rolling surge

Perform a constant funeral dirge.

And when the stranger shall demand

Why these are buried in the sand,

Let him be told without disguise:

They trod upon the Compromise.

T
HE SLAVE HOLE CAFé
is where the “community” in Emancipation City hangs out. The wallpaper shows a map of the heavens. Prominent is the North Star. A slave with rucksack is pointing it out to his dog. The café is furnished with tables, chairs, sofas, from different periods. There are quite a few captain’s chairs, deacon’s benches. There are posters and paintings and framed programs:
Our American Cousin,
a play by Tom Tyler; a photo of Lincoln boarding a train on the way back to Washington from a trip to Emancipation. Sawdust on the floor. A barrel of dill pickles. Above the long bar is a sign:
PABST BLUE RIBBON.
Corn-row and nappy-haired field slaves are here as well as a quadroon or two. Carpetbaggers, Abolitionists, Secessionists, or “Seceshes,” as they are called, even some Copperheads. The secret society known as the “Rattlesnake” order meets here. They advertise their meetings in the Emancipation newspaper: “Attention, Rattlesnakes, come out of your holes … by order of President Grand Rattle. Poison Fang, Secretary.”

Confederate sympathizers go to places named the Alabama Club, but some come here, too. They’ve been known to smash a bottle after a slave has drunk from it. Ducktail hairdos go here. Crossbars of the Confederate fly from pickup trucks.

Quickskill ran into the Slave Hole out of breath, went to a table where he saw Leechfield’s Indentured Servant friend, the Immigrant, Mel Leer. Well, he wasn’t indentured any more. He had served his contract and was now at liberty. He and Leechfield were inseparable. When he plopped into the chair the Immigrant rustled his newspaper in annoyance. His hair was wild, uncombed black curls, and he kept brushing some away from the left side of his forehead. He had an intense look, like Yul Brynner, wore long flowing ties and velvet suits and some kind of European shoes. Lace cuffs. Jewelry.

“Man, two guys just tried to confiscate me. Put a claim check on me just like I was somebody’s will-call or something,” panted Quickskill.

“Kvetch! Always kvetch!”

“What do you mean kvetch? If I hadn’t run away, I’d be in a van on the way back to Virginia.”

The waitress brought him a frosty mug of beer like the kind they feature at Sam’s Chinese restaurant on Yonge Street in Toronto.

The Immigrant looked at him. “Your people think that you corner the market on the business of atrocity. My relatives were dragged through the streets of St. Petersburg, weren’t permitted to go to school in Moscow, were pogrommed in Poland. There were taxes on our synagogues and even on our meat. We were forbidden to trade on Sundays and weren’t allowed to participate in agriculture. They forced us into baptism against our wishes. Hooligans were allowed to attack us with weapons, and the police just stood there, laughing. Your people haven’t suffered that much. I can prove it, statistically.”

“Oh yeah? Nobody’s stoning you in the streets here. You are doing quite well, hanging in cafés, going to parties with Leechfield. And you have a nice place to live. What are you bitchin about? All you and Leechfield seem to do is party and eat ice cream topped with crème de menthe.”

“There are more types of slavery than merely material slavery. There’s a cultural slavery. I have to wait as long as two weeks sometimes before I can get a
Review of Books
from New York. This America, it has no salvation. Did you see what happened in those battles? At Bull Run? They were like picnics attended by the rich. Cowboyland. Look at this filth …” It was a copy of
Life
magazine; a photo of the carnage at Gettysburg. “Filth! Obscene! Disgusting! Just as this country is. Why, during the whole time I’ve been in this town, I haven’t seen one person reading Dostoevsky. Your people! Requesting wages and leaving their plantations. They should pay for themselves. Look at us. We were responsible. We paid for ourselves. Paid our way. I earned myself! We never sassed the master, and when we were punished we always admitted that we were in the wrong. The whole world, sometimes, seems to be against us. Always passing resolutions against us. Hissing us. Nobody has suffered as much as we have.”

“Nobody has suffered as much as my people,” says Quickskill calmly.

The Immigrant, Mel Leer, rises. “Don’t tell me that lie.”

The whole café turns to the scene.

“Our people have suffered the most.”

“My people!”

“My people!”

“My people!”

“My people!”

“We suffered under the hateful Czar Nicholas!”

“We suffered under Swille and Legree, the most notorious Masters in the annals of slavery!”

“Hey, what’s the matter with you two?” It was Leechfield. On his arm was a Beecherite who had just come over from Boston. She looked like a human bird, her nose was so long, and she wore old-maid glasses. Her hat was covered with flowers.

“What took you so long? You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” the Immigrant said, sitting down again, looking at his watch. Leechfield just stared at him with those narrow eyes. That squint. And that smile which got him into the homes and near the fire of many a female Sympathizer about town. His arm dangled over the chair in which he’d plopped down. He snapped his finger for a waitress. The cold Beecherite just sat there, looking at him adoringly. The waitress came.

“Gimme a Southern Comfort.”

The girl giggled. Quickskill, now relaxed, even smiled. But the Immigrant, Mel Leer, looked at him, frowning.

“Look, Leer,” Leechfield finally said, “I’m the one who’s bringing the money into this operation.”

“Yes, but you don’t understand. It’s more complicated than that. I was the one who introduced you to the game. I taught you the techniques of survival, when you were merely interested in getting by. You see these fingers?” Mel Leer revealed his long, lean fingers. “They’ve rolled dice at Monte Carlo, distilled vodka in a vodka plant, sewn furs, deftly overwhelmed superior forces while you were humming ‘Old Black Joe,’ you … you …”

“Hold it, man. Don’t get excited. Now sit down.” Meekly, Leer sat down. (What was going on here? What was this strange bond between them? A white bondsman and a black bondsman in cahoots in some enterprise.) “She ready, you ready, so let’s go.”

The three rose to leave. Mel Leer put the foreign-language newspaper under his arm.

“Look, Leechfield, I have to talk to you, it’s important,” Quickskill said.

“Can’t do it now, man. Got to go. Come over to the loft sometime.”

“But …”

The three had moved out of the café. Quickskill ordered another mug. Canada Dry this time. That morning he had heard that Air Canada was cutting its rates by thirty-five percent.

Everybody had turned their attention toward Canada. Barbara Walters had just about come out on national television to say that the Prime Minister of Canada, this eagle-faced man, this affable and dapper gentleman who still carried a handkerchief in the left suit pocket, was the most enlightened man in the Western world. The world expected great things from this man. His wife was a former flower child: intelligent, well-bred, capable of discussing cultural subjects on television. So good-looking!

Harry Reasoner agreed with Ms. Walters, saying that though some of his critics disapproved of the way the Prime Minister still followed the custom of attending the Potlatch, that great festival of giveaway practiced by his people, during his administration the ban on the Potlatch had been lifted. Mr. Reasoner said that this would make it possible for the Potlatch to be brought into the United States as a way of relieving the people of the dreary, sad life caused by the conflict.

Ah! Canada! There had just been a free election in Canada. The Liberal party had won 141 seats in the House of Commons. There was a picture in
Time
of the Prime Minister standing next to his wife, she holding his hand, he looking down as though his sharp Indian nose would bump her forehead. There was a big sign over the archway where they stood, written in Halloween letters:
CONGRATULATIONS.

His wife said of him: “He’s a beautiful guy, a very loving human being who has taught me a lot about loving.”

Q
UICKSKILL WENT OVER TO
the address that Stray Leechfield had given him. It was located in the old warehouse district of Emancipation City. He looked at the directory. “Leechfield & Leer.” Their office was located on the third floor. He got off the elevator and walked down the hall. The door was ajar, so he walked in. He heard some people talking. One man seemed to be giving directions, telling people to move into certain positions. What was going on? He walked into the hall from the outer office and came upon an area closed off by some curtains. He opened the curtains and took a peek.

Oh my God! My God! My God! Leechfield was lying naked, his rust-colored body must have been greased, because it was glistening, and there was … there was—the naked New England girl was twisted about him, she had nothing on but those glasses and the flower hat. How did they manage? And then there was this huge bloodhound. He was licking, he was … The Immigrant was underneath one of those Brady boxes—it was flashing. He … he was taking daguerreotypes, or “chemical pictures.”

“Hey, what’s the matter with you? The sun, there’s too much light. Quickskill, what’s wrong with you?”

Leechfield said, “Damn.” The unclothed girl looked up. She had a strange smile on her face. Her eyes were glassy. She was panting heavily.

“I want to talk to Leechfield. It’s important.”

“I have to deliver this film to a distributor tonight. Make it quick,” Leer told Leechfield.

“Wait outside,” Leechfield said, annoyed.

Quickskill went outside. Soon Leechfield came through the curtains. He was dressed in a robe he was tying around the waist.

“What was that?” asked Quickskill.

“None of your goddam business, Quickskill. Look, man, don’t you worry about me. We supposed to be free, aren’t we?”

“That’s true.”

“Then don’t handcuff yourself to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s my bi’ness what I do. I ain’t your slave, so don’t be looking at me with those disapproving eyes and axing me questions.”

“I …”

“Shit, everybody can’t do anti-slavery lectures. I can’t. I have to make it the best I can, man. I don’t see no difference between what I’m doing and what you’re doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have to get evil-smelling eggs thrown at you, and I heard up in Buffalo they were gettin ready to throw some flour on William Wells Brown. Remember when those mobocrats beat up Douglass? Even Douglass, knocked on the ground like any old vagrant.”

“I don’t want to go into it. I was just shocked because I didn’t expect it.”

“You shocked? What you shocked about? I’m not watching no houses for nobody. I’m not feedin nobody’s cats and forwarding nobody’s mail. I get it this way. I pull in more in a day than you do in a whole year. You green, man. Brilliant but green. You one green Negro.”

“Listen, Leechfield, I didn’t come in here to get in an argument—”

“House nigger. Yes ma’am, no ma’am—you and that Uncle Robin. I see you coming down to the field village, putting on airs and shit. I used to watch you.”

“If it wasn’t for us, they would have discovered your game a long time before.”

“What?”

“They knew about the poultry. They asked us about it when we made inventory of the eggs. We told them it was a mistake the Texas calculator made. We knew it was you. I saw you over in the other county when I was doing errands for the Swille family.”

“What? And you didn’t say nothin?”

“We covered for you all the time—made excuses for you and sometimes did the work ourselves that you were supposed to do. And when some of you ran away, we provided you with a map, and so some of us are traveling all over the country pleading for the Cause. So what if we get eggs thrown at us and are beaten unconscious? Swille was the one who stirred up rivalry among us. Don’t you think I knew that when Swille was flattering your kind, he was making fun of us. Look, Leechfield, the reason I came up here is because, well, Swille is on our trail. Today I was visited by a couple of Nebraskaites.”

“So what you bothering me for?”

“Don’t you think we all ought to try to stop them?”

“Look, man”—he pulled out a wad of bills—“I sent the money to Swille. I bought myself with the money with which I sell myself. If anybody is going to buy and sell me, it’s going to be me.”

“That doesn’t make any difference to him. I don’t think he really wants us to pay for ourselves. I think he wants
us.
He thinks by sending the Tracers after us we’ll be dumb enough to return, voluntarily; he thinks that a couple of white faces with papers will scare us. Why should I have to tell you all of this? You of all people. You were their hero. They egged you on when you took your stolen hens, went into business. At that time they didn’t want us Mints anywhere near the business. You worked one right under their eyes. Man, Stray, you were our greased lightning, our telegraph wire, our wing-heeled Legba, warning the woodsmen and the rootmen about Barracuda and Cato’s plan to replace all of the cults with one. You were the last warrior against the Jesus cult. And when they caught up with you, how extravagant your departure was. How glorious. And now, here you are with this Leer; I don’t trust Russians. How can you—”

“Aw, man, Mel’s all right. Look, I just want to be left alone. I’m not no hero, I just have bravado.” That’s what Mel said: Bravado, striking a flamboyant pose. “See, Quickskill, the difference between you and me is that you sneak, while I don’t. You were the first one to hat, but you did it in a sneaky way. What kind of way was that, we thought. Just like a house slave. Tipping away. Following a white man and his wife onto the boat with a trunk on your shoulder, and when the guard ax you where you going, you say you with them. You house slaves were always tipping around, holding your shoes in your hands, trying not to disturb anybody. Well, Leer has done more for me than any of you niggers. Any of you. Always rooting for somebody, and when you do it, say we did it. I got tired of doing it. ‘We did it’ wasn’t paying my rent. ‘We did it’ wasn’t buying my corn, molasses and biscuits. Where was ‘we did it’ when I was doing without, huh? When I was broke and hungry. So I decided to do something that only I could do, so that’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. What I’m doing is something ‘we did it’ can’t do, unless we did it one at a time. You follow? Besides, I sent Swille a check. Look, Quickskill, money is what makes them go. Economics. He’s got the money he paid for me, and so that satisfy him. Economics.”