Authors: Bernard Malamud
The Tenants (12 page)
Irene looks at him as though she doesn’t know him. Then she looks as though she reluctantly does.
Lesser says it’s Lesser. Who else can it be?
She wants to know why he had said shalom that day, meeting her outside the museum.
“I meant don’t be a stranger.”
“Be white? Be Jewish?”
“Be close is better.”
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s a simple thing,” Lesser says. “I came to tell you I love you. I figured you’d want to know. I’ve wanted to tell you the last couple of days but I’ve also not wanted to. I think you know why.”
She seems not greatly surprised although her eyes are apprehensive, then moved. It’s hard to tell; she is after all a stranger.
“I thought you were interested in Mary?”
“I won’t say I wasn’t. I slept with her for want of you. I felt jealous of you and Bill when I saw you on Lexington Avenue.”
She gazes into Lesser’s eyes. “Are you in love with me because I’m Willie’s Jewish white girl? I mean does that have something to do with it?”
“Maybe. I wouldn’t say so.”
“Do you want to save me from a miserable life with a black man, an ex-criminal?”
“My love professes no more than love. Do you love him or don’t you?”
“I’ve already told you. We talk about breaking up but neither of us makes a move. He still pits his black book against his white bitch. I see him weekends but we don’t really enjoy each other. I don’t know what to do. I want him to do it first.”
“I love you, Irene, I want you.”
“What kind of want?”
“A long want.”
“Say it plainly, I’m not very subtle.”
“I’d want to marry you after I finish my book.”
She is moved, her hungry eyes searching his, yet smiles sourly.
“You’re both alike.”
“I’ve got to write but I’ve got to more than write.”
Irene listens, then takes his hand. They kiss with cold lips.
“These boots leak. My feet are wet. Let’s go upstairs.”
They enter the building. Irene removes her boots and dries her feet with a black towel as Lesser watches.
“Take off your coat,” she says.
In the bedroom stands a double bed, a picture of a black Jesus hanging on the wall above the headboard.
“Why a black Jesus?” Lesser asks.
“Willie won’t let me hang any pictures of whites. I won’t hang flower pictures—I like real flowers.”
“But why Jesus?”
“Rather than Rap Brown. Is there a black Moses? I believe in God.”
Through the windows it is snowing heavily.
They embrace, her hands moving up his back.
“I’m afraid of what we’re doing though I want to do it.”
“Willie?”
“Also myself.”
“I love you, you are lovely.”
“I don’t feel lovely. I feel off-base, off-key, dissatisfied. I’m also afraid to get involved with another writer.”
“You said you were more confident about your life now.”
“That comes and goes.”
“You’re beautiful, Irene.”
“I don’t feel it.”
“Feel it in me.”
In bed she feels it. They kiss, grope, bite, tear at each other. He licks the floral scent of her flesh. She
digs her nails into his shoulders. He is aroused by their passion.
digs her nails into his shoulders. He is aroused by their passion.
She comes as though astonished, touched by lightning, whips both legs over his back. He spurts into her.
Afterwards Irene asks, “Do I smell black to you?”
“I smell your sex. Do you feel black?”
“I feel satisfied. I still feel some guilt but I feel satisfied.”
“I want you to let the blond hair grow out. Let it grow black.”
“I’ve started already.”
As they lie together, Lesser on his back, Irene resting on her side, her face pressed to his, he watches the blowing snow tinkling against the windows and thinks of Bill Spear alone in the vast empty house, writing at his kitchen table. The snow swirls in a white haze around his head.
It’s a free country.
LISTEN, LESSER, I JUST WROTE DOWN THIS SONG:
I got this redhot with mustard on it
I’m gonna eat my meat,
I got this hamburg with onion on it
I’m gonna eat my meat,
I got this spare rib with BarBQ sauce
I’m gonna eat my meat,
I got you in bed with nothin on you
You gonna eat my meat.
I’m gonna eat my meat,
I got this hamburg with onion on it
I’m gonna eat my meat,
I got this spare rib with BarBQ sauce
I’m gonna eat my meat,
I got you in bed with nothin on you
You gonna eat my meat.
Who’s it about, Willie?
Bill,
Lester, call me Bill.
Lester, call me Bill.
Bill—excuse me.
Just me and my gal Sal. How do you like it now, gentlemen?
Clouds pile high over the island,
Thunder crack them nuts,
Lightnin run out on catfeet,
The rain pour,
Wind fly,
Coconut trees bend low,
Waves crashin rocks on the shore,
Dead gulls gonna lay on the beach in the mornin,
Rotten fish slop in the sea,
Storm wake up Lesser,
He hang onto his bed,
Know it pitch black without tryin no light,
He try his light,
It pitch black,
He run down them shadow-flyin stairs,
Light Lucifer matches,
Go in the cellar with a #30 fuse plug,
When the lights turn on,
This unknown dude layin on the cement floor,
One leg sawed off to his knee,
He layin in front the hot furnace,
His pants leg bloody,
Puddle of wet blood on the floor,
Lesser shriek out,
Can’t see no bleedin leg layin round,
He run upstairs to tell Willie,
What he done did see,
He gnawin this white bone,
What that you eatin, Mr. Bones?
Don’t shit me, Lester,
I know your real voice,
What are you eating, Bill?
Breast of chicken,
White meat part,
Honest to God?
Looks like a big bone,
It’s pig’s foot, boy,
Kosher meat, wanna bite?
Lightnin run out on catfeet,
The rain pour,
Wind fly,
Coconut trees bend low,
Waves crashin rocks on the shore,
Dead gulls gonna lay on the beach in the mornin,
Rotten fish slop in the sea,
Storm wake up Lesser,
He hang onto his bed,
Know it pitch black without tryin no light,
He try his light,
It pitch black,
He run down them shadow-flyin stairs,
Light Lucifer matches,
Go in the cellar with a #30 fuse plug,
When the lights turn on,
This unknown dude layin on the cement floor,
One leg sawed off to his knee,
He layin in front the hot furnace,
His pants leg bloody,
Puddle of wet blood on the floor,
Lesser shriek out,
Can’t see no bleedin leg layin round,
He run upstairs to tell Willie,
What he done did see,
He gnawin this white bone,
What that you eatin, Mr. Bones?
Don’t shit me, Lester,
I know your real voice,
What are you eating, Bill?
Breast of chicken,
White meat part,
Honest to God?
Looks like a big bone,
It’s pig’s foot, boy,
Kosher meat, wanna bite?
Irene moans. Lesser wakes out of unsound sleep and snaps on the bed lamp.
Lying in bed with her one night under the picture of the black Jesus, Lesser wanted to know when they would tell Bill.
“What do you want to tell him?”
“You know what. Either you tell him or I do, or we tell him together.”
“Couldn’t it wait for a while?” Irene lay with her
head in a mass of darkening hair on her pillow. She looked very lovely and it troubled Lesser that she had become apprehensive at his question, her eyes gone somber.
head in a mass of darkening hair on her pillow. She looked very lovely and it troubled Lesser that she had become apprehensive at his question, her eyes gone somber.
“Couldn’t we let it die naturally?”
“It weighs on my mind.”
“I’d like it better if Willie tells himself—when he tells
me
it’s over. But if it actually comes to having to tell him, I’d want to do it myself.”
me
it’s over. But if it actually comes to having to tell him, I’d want to do it myself.”
“The sooner the better or he’ll be knocking on your door on Friday.”
“Would that bother you so much?”
“Wouldn’t it bother you if he expected to get into bed with you? You’re not his bitch any more.”
“Fuck you if you use that word. It’s his word, not yours.”
“Whoseever word,” Lesser said. “I’m not sharing you with him or anybody. Either you’re committed to me or you’re not.”
“I’m committed to you, though I’m not all the way uncommitted to Willie.”
“You wouldn’t expect to go on sleeping with him while you’re sleeping with me?”
“The sex part isn’t what worries me right now,” Irene said.
“What does?”
“For instance Willie was here yesterday.”
“He was?”
“For a shower. He showered, changed his underwear and left. I was gone before he got out of the bathroom. That’s how much sex there was. I sense he wants to leave me though I’ll be frank and say that if he stopped writing for any amount of time he might want me again. Not that I’d be available of course. I have other fish to fry.”
“Like me?”
“You know what I mean.”
She reached for a comb, sat up and swept several long strokes through her hair.
“You’ll have to trust me, Harry.”
“I trust you.”
“Sex isn’t the important thing.”
“What is?”
“The important thing is what happens to Willie after he leaves here. He hasn’t got two nickels to rub together. How’s he going to live and write? I worry about that. Willie’s struggle to be a writer—from being in prison to actually writing the kinds of things he is, his stories and novel, is one of the most affecting things I know about anybody’s life. It moves me an awful lot. He has to go on.”
“He will.”
“That’s what I’m worried about. It’s true he doesn’t pay rent in that creepy building you’re in, but he’s got
very little to live on—a tiny Black Writing Project grant he got in Harlem that pays him a little bread a week. He and I agreed I would help him till he got some kind of advance cash on his book, but what it’s really amounted to is I’ve been supporting him most of the time since he moved in with me. I wouldn’t want him to go back to numbers, or pushing, or anything like that.”
very little to live on—a tiny Black Writing Project grant he got in Harlem that pays him a little bread a week. He and I agreed I would help him till he got some kind of advance cash on his book, but what it’s really amounted to is I’ve been supporting him most of the time since he moved in with me. I wouldn’t want him to go back to numbers, or pushing, or anything like that.”
“That’s the past,” Lesser said. “You’re dealing with a committed writer now.”
“Suppose he has to look for work, when will he find time to write? He writes slowly and needs a lot of free time. He’s slower than ever since he met you.”
“I don’t make his choices for him.”
He told Irene he had worked part-time in a factory when he was on his first novel.
“I still had plenty of time to write.”
“Any factory would probably pay him half of what they paid you and expect him to do twice the amount of work.”
“I worked my ass off.”
“Willie’d tell them to shove it.”
“Not if his writing comes first.”
“I know we’re not,” Irene went on, “but I have this awful feeling as though you and I are a couple of Charlies giving a nigger a boot in the ass.”
“I don’t feel that way,” Harry said. “All this amounts
to is two people—you and Willie—finally agreeing to end an affair. If you aren’t betraying him as a man you aren’t betraying his color. Forget the Charlie bit.”
to is two people—you and Willie—finally agreeing to end an affair. If you aren’t betraying him as a man you aren’t betraying his color. Forget the Charlie bit.”
Irene nodded. “I know it’s crazy, but he’s been hurt so often because he’s black. You’ve read his writing. I can’t help being sensitive about it. It’s one of the reasons I feel afraid to tell him about you and me, though I know he has to know.”
“That’s assuming he’ll be hurt. You also said he mightn’t be.”
“I just don’t know for sure. Willie’s such an unpredictable man.”
“So am I,” said Lesser.
The telephone rang: it was Bill.
Irene put her finger to her lips. Lying beside her in the black’s former place in her bed, Lesser listened to his voice on the phone.
“I won’t be coming around to say howdo this Friday, Irene,” Bill said tonelessly. “I was thinking I would but my chapter is down on me right now and I got to stay with it till it lets up and I got the right action moving along.”
“What’s the right action?”
“If I knew I wouldn’t be talking about it.”
Irene said she was sorry.
At the same time she gave Lesser’s fingers a squeeze.
Willie was saying he’d be around in a week or two.
“I can think of a whole lot of things I like to do to you then.”
“I can think of a whole lot of things I like to do to you then.”
“Don’t depend on it,” she said quietly.
After a short silence he said, “Now don’t think I have stopped feeling affection for you, baby.”
Afterwards Irene, her eyes uneasy, said to Lesser. “I guess we’d better tell him, but I want to be the one that does.”
“The sooner the better or it might get sticky. I wouldn’t want it to mess up my mood for writing.”
“Oh, the hell with your mood for writing,” Irene said.
She seemed about to cry but when she had shaken that off was again affectionate to Lesser, cradled his head on her breast.
Though Lesser had worried being in love with Irene —Willie in the wings—might complicate his life and slow down his work, it did not. Finishing his book after ten years of labor had of course to be his first concern. But mostly what happened was that he was often high on reverie and felt renewed energy for work. When passing under a leafless maple tree he thinks of Irene and a blessing descends. Then he notices its branches swollen with buds and has this livened hunger to write.
Lesser was rid of oppressive loneliness and every dirty trace of jealousy; he felt a fluent breadth to his emotions, a sense of open sea beyond, though he didn’t kid himself about objective freedom in the world he lived in. Still, one was, in a sense, as free as he felt, therefore he had never been freer. Because of Irene he lived now with a feeling of more variously possessible possibilities, an optimism that boiled up imagination. Love’s doing. It helped him write freely and well after having had to press for a while. And when you were writing well that was your future.
Lesser was rid of oppressive loneliness and every dirty trace of jealousy; he felt a fluent breadth to his emotions, a sense of open sea beyond, though he didn’t kid himself about objective freedom in the world he lived in. Still, one was, in a sense, as free as he felt, therefore he had never been freer. Because of Irene he lived now with a feeling of more variously possessible possibilities, an optimism that boiled up imagination. Love’s doing. It helped him write freely and well after having had to press for a while. And when you were writing well that was your future.
They met almost daily now, yet as though in secret, for although Bill was staying away he still had his key to her apartment and might at any time pop in. If he found them together it might go well, it might go badly. Lesser hoped it would not go badly. Irene and he met in the late afternoons, walked in West Village streets and parks, hunting signs of spring; they stopped at bars and ate in restaurants she knew. They talked of their lives from childhood and often embraced. She was not, Harry thought, truly in love with him yet, but was closer to it today than she had been yesterday. He felt she trusted him, though still not sure of herself. Lesser waited, it wasn’t a bad thing to be doing while you were pushing ahead with your book. During evening rehearsals, or performances once the show had opened, he waited for her in a bar
near her house. He wanted to see her act but Irene asked him not to come. Once he sneaked into the theatre and watched her in Ibsen for an act. She was better than she said; he’d thought so. She fought her way into a part and that helped the emotion. Her voice in the theatre surprised him; it was lower, stronger than he had thought. Sometimes Lesser waited for her at the movies and afterwards they went to her place to make love. Irene insisted on going up first, then buzzed the buzzer and he, releasing his breath, came up.
near her house. He wanted to see her act but Irene asked him not to come. Once he sneaked into the theatre and watched her in Ibsen for an act. She was better than she said; he’d thought so. She fought her way into a part and that helped the emotion. Her voice in the theatre surprised him; it was lower, stronger than he had thought. Sometimes Lesser waited for her at the movies and afterwards they went to her place to make love. Irene insisted on going up first, then buzzed the buzzer and he, releasing his breath, came up.
The writer saw little of Bill, very little, thank God, considering circumstances. The black, locked in struggle with his difficult chapter, barely surfaced. All day he typed and at night kept his smoking machine by his mattress as he slept. Sometimes when he had to go somewhere, he left the L. C. Smith with Lesser and was then in and out, hardly stopping to say a word. His face was strained, almost stricken, his tumid eyes clouded. He could barely bring himself to nod to Lesser’s hello. The writer felt especially bad to be sleeping with his girl—to be in love with her—and keeping it from him whose present pain he so well understood. As though Bill’s travail made him all the more victim; for this reason all the more necessary to tell him the truth, whereas, logically, considering the trouble he was having with his writing, maybe it was
best to keep the news from him until he was in better shape to hear it—bad news or good.
best to keep the news from him until he was in better shape to hear it—bad news or good.
“Still, once you tell him I’ll feel a hell of a lot better,” Lesser said to Irene. But she was convinced Willie would almost momentarily appear in the flat to say, “Thanks, Irene, it was real sweet but now I got plans that don’t include any white chick, which I am sure you understand why.” He had been in again to take a shower and had left a little note of greeting: “Hi, sugar, I took a ten-spot out of your loose change. I will be seeing you soon but not that soon as long as this crucial chapter is still acting up so bad. Chow.”
After another week of not seeing him—they were into early April at last—though one of her eyes at times tended towards despondent, Irene was on the whole more relaxed; she was more easily affectionate with Lesser out of bed, as though she had proved her point: her affair with Willie Spearmint—since there was no affair where there was no Willie—had run its course and was dead on both feet; nor had there been any serious stress, rending of garments, nasty recriminations. It was best to have handled it as she had insisted, and if Willie felt like blaming anyone he had himself to blame first.
Lesser once asked her whether she missed the mood, the pitch of black life—as much as she had had of it with Willie. “Some,” she said. “But I’ve personally gone
through that bit. I see Mary once in a while”—she gazed into Lesser’s impassive eyes—“but I don’t really miss those who weren’t my friends, though I think of some of them on and off. I liked Sam, you have to get to know him. Willie used to take me to Harlem when we first began to go together and that was like a perpetual carnival or trip all its own. But after one of the brothers had talked to him privately—I think it was Jacob—he stopped inviting me and used to go by himself. He even began to say he wasn’t sure that I ever really did understand soul. That hurt me a lot and was one of the things that made me begin to have doubts.”
through that bit. I see Mary once in a while”—she gazed into Lesser’s impassive eyes—“but I don’t really miss those who weren’t my friends, though I think of some of them on and off. I liked Sam, you have to get to know him. Willie used to take me to Harlem when we first began to go together and that was like a perpetual carnival or trip all its own. But after one of the brothers had talked to him privately—I think it was Jacob—he stopped inviting me and used to go by himself. He even began to say he wasn’t sure that I ever really did understand soul. That hurt me a lot and was one of the things that made me begin to have doubts.”
Her hair grew in like a black cap on her blond head. Irene folded up and put away on the closet shelf the two thick black bath towels that were always adrift in the bathroom, and she took down, wrapped in brown paper, and hid, the picture of the black Jesus. Her nails had grown in; she plucked her brows thick and shaped them neatly, sometimes they looked like broken wings; she had redeemed her face, and perhaps something inside her, for she seemed kinder to herself. One day she told Lesser she had made up her mind to quit acting. “I’m not a natural. This present play is my last, I’ve decided. I want to really change my life. I’ve had enough of certain kinds of experience.”
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