Middle Passage (3 page)

This upright disaster was in the oval light of a lamppost on Royal Street as I passed. He was gnawing a stolen ham. Behind him two policemen stood, tapping their nightsticks on their palms. “Come along now, Santos,” said one. “Don't make trouble. That ham'll cost you a month in the Calabozo.” Santos went right on chewing, his small, quick eyes half-seeled in gastronomic bliss. And then, without warning, both policemen smashed him full on both sides of his temples with their nightsticks. They'd each taken half steps back too, putting their waists and full weight into the swing. One nightstick broke with a sickening crack, the other vibrated in the officer's hand as if wood had struck wood. As for Santos, he only looked up sleepily. Said, “Now what'd you do that fo'?”

No fools, the policemen flew past me, Santos's eyes on their flapping waistcoats until his gaze lighted upon me. “Illinois!” he said—or, rather his sweaty voice rumbled and rattled windows along the street. “Ain't you Rutherford Calhoun from Illinois?”

I shook my head and took a step backward.

“Dammit, you
are
Calhoun! Don't lie! Papa been lookin' fo' you, boy!”

I touched my chest. “Me?”

“Yes,
you,
nigguh.” He came forward, seizing my arm. “He wants to
talk
to you 'bout somethin' you owe him.” I told him that surely he was mistaken, that indeed I owed several
people within a mile circumference of the city—my landlady Mrs. Dupree; Mr. Fenton the moneylender; and the vendors too—but I'd never
met
Papa. How could I owe him? None of this washed with Santos, a man with whom you didn't argue, because he looked exactly like what he was: an athlete gone slightly to seed, with maybe thirty pounds of muscle alchemizing to fat on his upper body. He'd be dead by forty from the strain on his heart—the extra bulk had scrunched down his spine, I heard, shortening him by two inches, but no matter. He was bigger than me. Silently he steered me, his right hand on the back of my collar, to a tavern owned by Papa on Chartres Street, a one-story building of English-bond brickwork, with sunken, uneven floors, and windows with old, diamond-paned lattices, pushing me through the door to a table at the rear of the room where Papa sat eating a meal of drop-biscuits and blueberries with—my heart jumped!—Isadora! Of a sudden, I had that special feeling of dread that comes when you enter a café and stumble upon two women you used to sleep with—who you'd have sworn were strangers but were now whispering together. About
you
by God! She looked up as I scuffed jelly-legged to the table, and her eyes, I tell you, were indecipherable.

“Isadora,” I gulped, “you
know
these people!”

She gave Papa, in fact, a very knowing smile.

“We just met to discuss a business arrangement that affects you, Rutherford. I'm sure you'll be interested to hear what Mr. Zeringue and I have decided.” Isadora touched a napkin to her lips, then stood up. “I'll wait for you outside.”

She seemed to take all the available air in the room with her as she sashayed outside, mysteriously happier than I'd seen her in months. For an instant I could not catch my
breath. Papa sat with a napkin tucked into his collar. He was holding a soup spoon dripping with blueberry jelly in his right hand when I extended my hand and introduced myself; this spoon he slapped against my palm and, having nothing else to shake, I shook that. Santos roared.

“Sir, you wanted to see me abo—”

“Don't say nothin', Calhoun.”

If there were musical instruments that fit this man's voice, that would ring from the orchestra, say, if he appeared on stage, they would be the bull fiddle, tuba, and slide trombone (Isadora was all strings, a soft flick of the lyre), a combination so guttural and brutish, full of grunts and deep-throated notes, that I cannot say his voice put me at ease. Nor this room. It had the atmosphere you feel in houses where some great “Murder of the Age” has taken place. My worst fears about him were confirmed. He was, in every sense of the word, the very Ur-type of Gangster. Fiftyish, a brown-skinned black man with gray-webbed hair, he dressed in rich burgundy waistcoats and had a princely, feudal air about him, the smell of a man who loved Gothic subterfuges and schemes, deceits, and Satanic games of power. Yet, despite his wealth, and despite the extravagant riverboat parties I heard he threw—bashes that made Roman bacchanals look like a backwoods flangdang—he was a black lord in ruins, a fallen angel who, like Lucifer, controlled the lower depths of the city—the cathouses, the Negro press, the gambling dens—but held his dark kingdom, and all within it, in the greatest contempt. He was wicked. Wicked and self-serving, I thought, but why did he want to see me?

“I suppose,” said Papa, as if he'd read my mind, “you wanna know why I had Santos bring you heah.”

Indeed, I did.

“It's simple—you owe me, Illinois.” I started to protest, but his left hand flew up, and he said, “First thing you gotta learn, I reckon, is that it's
rude
to talk when I'm talkin', and that I don't mind gettin' rid of people who have the bad manners to cut me off in mid-sentence. Most people are so confused, you know, 'bout life and what's right that it ain't completely wrong to take it from 'em.” He paused as a waiter came to the table, topping off his coffee, then drilled his gaze at me. “Now, you ain't one of them people, I kin tell.”

“Nossir,” I said.

Papa's brow went dark. “You just did it again, Calhoun.”

Quietly, biting my lips, I thought,
Sorry!

“ 'Bout this debt now.” He began working a grain of food from his front teeth with his fingernail. “You know that li'l boardinghouse for cullud folks run by Mrs. Dupree?”

I didn't like where this was leading, and found myself disliking him too, but gave him a nod.

“I own it.” His eyes narrowed. “Fact is, I own
her,
and she tells me you're three months behind in yo' rent. And that li'l moneylender Fenton—you know him?”

I bobbed my head.

“I own him too, so you might as well say I'm the one holdin' the bad paper, promises, and IOUs that you been handin' out like flyers. It comes to mebbe fifty thousand francs, I figure, and we all know a farthing-and-sixpence hoodlum like you can't even afford the down payment on a glass of lemonade.” Looking square at me, he shook his head. “If all cullud men was like you, Calhoun, I 'spect the Race would be extinct by now.”

Papa offered me a cigar, but my hands trembled so violently that I used four locofocos before the flame took to the
end. “Now, a man
should
pay his debts, it seems to me.” He placed a finger thoughtfully on one side of his nose and ordered me to sit down. “That's how worldly things work, Calhoun. The Social Wheel, as I unnerstand it after forty years in business for myself, is oiled by debts, each man owing the other somethin' in a kinda web of endless obligations. Normally,” he added, “if a man welched on me like you done, he'd find hisself on the riverbottom. But you are truly blessed, Calhoun. I daresay you have divine protection. You are indeed watched over and loved by one of God's very own angels.”

This was all news to me. “I am?”

“Uh-huh. That schoolteacher Miss Bailey has saved yo' behind. Out of the goodness of her heart, she has come forward and offered to liquidate yo' debts with her meager savings, provided you agree—as I know you will—to the simple condition of holy matrimony.”

“But that's
blackmail”

“Yes,” said Papa, nodding. “Yes, it is. I'm acquainted with the technique, son.”

“She can't do this!” I sat biting my fingers in rage. “It's . . . it's criminal!”

Santos raised his eyebrows. “Look who's talkin'.”

“And it's done,” said Papa. “Tomorrow you and Miss Bailey will be wed. I
wouldn't
miss that ceremony, if I was you. It would cancel our arrangement, and I'd have to return Miss Bailey's money, and you'd be in debt again.” His eyes bent slowly up to me. “You
do
wanna erase yo' debts, don't you?”

“Nossir . . . I mean, yessir!” I eased back off my chair. “But you say the wedding is
tomorrow?”

“At noon. And I'll be givin' Miss Bailey away. Santos heah
will be yo' best man.” His factotum grinned. Papa reached his ringed fingers toward my hand and pumped it. “Congratulations, Calhoun. I know you two are gonna be happy together.”

For the rest of that day, and most of the night, I had cold shakes and fits of fear-induced hiccuping. Stumbling from the tavern, I felt light-headed, ready to fall, and slapped one hand on the wall outside to steady myself. Isadora came up behind me. She threaded her arm through mine, supporting me as I walked, dazed, toward the waterfront. Yes, I'd underestimated her. She'd wiped my nose with my own handkerchief; with my own bread she'd baked me a tart. “Tell me”—she squeezed my arm—“what you're thinking.”

“You are not. . . hic . . . to be
believed,
Isadora!”

“Thank you.” She hugged my arm tighter and rested her head on my shoulder. “I'm doing this for your own good, Rutherford.”

“The hell you are! I'm
not
getting married! Never!”

“Yes, you are.” Her voice was full of finality. “And someday when we are very old, have grandchildren, and you look back upon this rackety free-lance life you've led from the advantage of the comfortable home and family we've built together, you will thank me.”

“I will . . . hic . . .
despise
you! Is that what you want? You're twisting my cullions, but you haven't won my consent!” I grabbed her arms and shook her hard enough to dislodge her hat and send her hair flying loose from its pins. “Why are you
doing
this?”

Bareheaded like that, with hair swinging in her eyes, the change came over Isadora, a collapsing of her lips inward against her teeth, the blood rising to her cheeks as if I'd suddenly struck her. One by one, she peeled my fingers off
her arms, then stepped away from me, drawing up her shoulders, her hair wilder now than that of a witch.

“Because I love you . . . you fool! . . . and I don't know what to
do
about it because you don't love
me!
I know that! I'm not blind, Rutherford.” She began gathering hairpins off the boardwalk, sticking them any which way back into her head. “It's because I'm not . . . not pretty. No, don't say it! That
is
why. Because I'm
dark.
You'd rather have a beautiful, glamorous, light-skinned wife like the women in the theaters and magazines. It's what all men want, someone they can show off and say to the world, 'See, look what
I'm
humping!' But she'd worry you sorely, Rutherford—I know that—you'd be suspicious of every man who came to the house, and your friends too, and she'd be vain and lazy and squander your money on all sorts of foolish things, and she'd hate having children, or doing housework, or being at your side when you're sick, but I can make you happy!” We were drawing a crowd, she noticed, and lowered her voice, sniffling a little as she tried to push her hat back into shape. “I'd hoped that you'd
learn
to love me the way I love you . . .”

“Isadora,” I struggled. “It's not like that. I
do
love you. It's just that I don't want to marry
anyone . . .”

“Well, you're getting married tomorrow, or I'm taking back my money.” Isadora rammed her hat, hopelessly ruined, down over her ears, her eyes still blazing. “You choose, Rutherford Calhoun, whichever way you like.”

And there she left me, standing by the docks in a lather of confusion. Never in my life had anyone loved me so selflessly, as the hag in the Wife of Bath's Tale had loved her fickle knight, but despite this remarkable love, I was not, as I say, ready for marriage. If you must know, I didn't feel
worthy
of
her. Her goodness shamed me. I turned into the first pub I found, one frequented by sailors, a darkly lit, rum-smelling room about fourteen feet square, with a well-sanded floor and a lamp that hung within two feet of the tables, stinking of whale oil. The place was packed with seamen. All armed to the eyeballs with pistols and cutlasses, scowling and jabbering like pirates, squirting jets of brown tobacco juice everywhere except in the spittoons—a den of Chinese assassins, scowling Moors, English scoundrels, Yankee adventurers, and evil-looking Arabs. Naturally, I felt pretty much right at home. I sat near the window beside an old mariner in a pair of shag trousers and a red flannel shirt, who was playing with his parrot, an African gray, and drinking hot brandy grog. I ordered a gin twist, then tried to untangle this knot Isadora had tightened around me.

She was as cunning as a Byzantine merchant—that was clear—but I couldn't rightly fault her. She'd known her share of grief, had Isadora. Her mother Viola, she'd told me, died when she was three, which meant that she and her sisters had no one to teach them to think like independent, menless Modern Women—it was something you
learned,
she implied, like learning how to ride a bicycle, or do the backstroke. Certainly her father was no help. Isaiah Bailey was a wifebeater, that's how Viola died, and once she was buried he started punching Isadora and her sisters around on Saturday nights after visiting his still. Yet, miraculously, Isadora had remained innocent. There was no hatred in her. Or selfishness. No vanity, or negativism. Some part of her, perhaps the part she withdrew when Isaiah started whaling on her, remained untouched, a part she fed in the local African Methodist Episcopal Church, and shored up with Scripture: a still, uncorrupted center like the Chinese lotus
that, though grown in muck and mud, remained beautifully poised and pure. But shy too. Seeing horses defecate on the street made Isadora blanch. She was constitutionally unable to swear. When she was angry, her lips would form a four-letter word, then freeze, as if she'd been chewing alum. A part of me ached to be with her always, to see that only things of beauty and light came before her. Would marrying her be so bad? That night, a little before dawn, I had a vision of how that union would be in decades to come—eighteen thousand six hundred and ninety-three cups of watery sassafras tea for breakfast, and in each of these I would find cat fur or pigeon feathers. No, it was not a vision to stir a soul that longed for high adventure.