Authors: Bernard Malamud
The Tenants (6 page)
And if Lesser suppresses truth Lesser is a fake. If he’s that, how can
he
go on writing?
he
go on writing?
When he returned the manuscript to Willie the morning after he had finished his second reading of it, Lesser said he was ready to discuss his work whenever it suited Willie’s convenience. He wanted now to get
it off his chest but wouldn’t press. Willie, dead-pan, except for an absent smile that grazed his lips, as though he had not heard what Lesser had said but having seen his moving lips was more or less acknowledging somebody had spoken, accepted his briefcase without a word. He didn’t so much as glance at it or look at Harry. On Lesser’s afterthought Willie seemed wounded, hurt before the fact?—by me? unless the writer was misreading. Maybe he had a toothache, or hemorrhoids—some personal problem? Whatever that was, his silence translated into annoyance more than wound; perhaps with himself, as though he might be regretting having asked Lesser to read his book and say what he thought might be wrong with it. But in a minute the black’s lips parted, he gazed into Lesser’s doubtful eyes with his own heavy eyes softened, as though forgiving him for whatever he had or hadn’t done, and said sonorously, “I thank you for reading it.” That’s all. And left so cleanly, although hauling the iron load of typewriter and weight of his book in his arms, it seemed to Lesser as though he had willed his disappearance in a prestidigitated poof. Talented man Willie Spearmint.
it off his chest but wouldn’t press. Willie, dead-pan, except for an absent smile that grazed his lips, as though he had not heard what Lesser had said but having seen his moving lips was more or less acknowledging somebody had spoken, accepted his briefcase without a word. He didn’t so much as glance at it or look at Harry. On Lesser’s afterthought Willie seemed wounded, hurt before the fact?—by me? unless the writer was misreading. Maybe he had a toothache, or hemorrhoids—some personal problem? Whatever that was, his silence translated into annoyance more than wound; perhaps with himself, as though he might be regretting having asked Lesser to read his book and say what he thought might be wrong with it. But in a minute the black’s lips parted, he gazed into Lesser’s doubtful eyes with his own heavy eyes softened, as though forgiving him for whatever he had or hadn’t done, and said sonorously, “I thank you for reading it.” That’s all. And left so cleanly, although hauling the iron load of typewriter and weight of his book in his arms, it seemed to Lesser as though he had willed his disappearance in a prestidigitated poof. Talented man Willie Spearmint.
That same noon, in a relaxed mood—he had somewhere got a cigar—Willie remarked, “I can’t stay on to talk to you now, Lesser. My bitch is itching. We partying tonight in our place and have to buy some
bottles and stuff, but I’ll be around in a day or two to consummate that little mutual matter.”
bottles and stuff, but I’ll be around in a day or two to consummate that little mutual matter.”
“Suit yourself, Willie. Whenever you say. At your convenience.” Mixed in was envy for not having been invited to the party at Irene’s.
He’s afraid, Lesser thought. Shits green. So do I, to admit the truth. It’s bad enough to criticize a man’s living flesh, as whose book isn’t. But with color added? It’s a black life, understandably touchy stuff. Lesser dreaded a little what he had let himself in for. He had felt forewarned he would have to pay for doing Willie a favor. The nature of certain things, the weight of color.
Maybe I could make it easier all around by writing him a note? On paper there’s no personal confrontation—who needs it?
As he took time to write it the next morning—it was only eleven but Willie was on his mind and he was getting little done—the black knocked, not kicked at the door.
Lesser rose, nervous but relieved, eager to dump the burden that Willie had laid like a paving block on his head.
Willie, eyes downcast—obviously he’d had trouble working, because he was already putting the typewriter away under the table—as he straightened up seemed to tighten, as though no move but the next was possible and he had no love for it. He stood staring for a
while out the window. Lesser looked too. He saw nothing.
while out the window. Lesser looked too. He saw nothing.
Willie kept staring, then seemed to give up, as though whatever he was looking for wasn’t there, if he were looking. What was there—or what there was, was in this room. In the room, whatever he was he wasn’t exactly. But after a while he was with Lesser, in his study, sitting like an ebony statue in the straight-back chair, and nobody, his presence stated, was his Pygmalion. He had sculpted himself.
The writer, sitting forward on his daybed, rubs dry white palms together.
“Drink?”
“Let’s cut out the preliminary crap and get down to where we are at.”
Lesser defensively reminds Willie he hadn’t asked to read his book. “You asked me to. If you think you made a mistake and are going to be stiffassed and uptight by what I say, maybe we ought to call it off before we start? I’m obliged to you for letting me see your manuscript.”
“I
am
uptight, man, because it’s my nature as well as my personal privilege, but let’s talk anyway, dig?”
am
uptight, man, because it’s my nature as well as my personal privilege, but let’s talk anyway, dig?”
Lesser asserts he is not out to arouse anyone’s antagonism. “I’ve got my own nature to consider. It likes to live in peace.”
“My antagonism is also my privilege and don’t go giving yourself too much credit for certain circumstances, like me asking you for a favor.”
“All I’m saying is if we can’t have a reasonable talk, let’s forget it. I’ve been on my book for years and finally want to get it done. For that I need peace and quiet. That’s why I like it up here—no serious disturbances, I can work. Levenspiel stalks me but I can stand it. Still, I wouldn’t want anybody else on my tail or in my hair, with or without cause.”
“Instead of preaching all those words, Lesser, why don’t you get off your white ass and say your true piece? I ain’t asking you to fatmouth me, just as I am not interested in getting into any argument with you.”
“I heartily agree.”
Lesser considers reading the part of the letter he had composed but drops that thought and says what he feels he has to as Willie, pretending patience, calm, nothing much to worry about, interlocks stubby fingers on his green-sweatered chest, then gives up immobility and strokes his little woolly beard.
Lesser says: “To start with, there’s no question you’re a writer, Willie. Both parts of your book, the autobiography and the five stories are strong and moving. Whatever the writing lacks there’s obviously a talent at work.”
Willie laughs mildly derisively. “Oh, come on, dad, who you telling that to? It don’t mean anything much
when you know your book is in trouble. Come on down to the cold-shit truth of it.”
when you know your book is in trouble. Come on down to the cold-shit truth of it.”
Lesser says the truth of it is the book is good but could be better.
“I told you that myself,” says Willie. “Didn’t I say I wasn’t satisfied? Now go on to what I really asked you, like
where
I steered off the track.”
where
I steered off the track.”
“I was going to say if you aren’t satisfied with the writing, Willie, then I guess you have reason not to be. I would say that the form of the whole is not sufficient. There’s a flawed quality, what you call blurred, that gives the shifting effect that bothers you.”
“Where does it
start,
man?”
start,
man?”
“Right from the beginning of the autobiography. Not that you don’t work hard but there has to be more emphasis on technique, form, though I know it’s not stylish to say that. You’ve got to build more carefully.”
Willie rises, groaning, as though somebody would nail him to the chair if he didn’t.
“I want to show you how full of crud you are, Lesser, in what you just said. First off, you dead wrong in the way you classified my work. The part you call autobiography is pure made-up fiction that I invent as I go along. Man, I am makin it up. The I guy who is narratin it ain’t me. That cat is straight out of my imagination all along, pure and simple, comin and goin. Myself, I was born on 129th Street in Harlem and moved to Bedford-Stuyvesant with my mama when I
was six years old, and which I ain’t been south of except to swim at Coney Island. I have never been in Mississippi and would not put my foot in that shithole. I never in my whole life ate chitterlins because my mama and me couldn’t stand the smell of them, and I think I would throw up if I did. I never worked in Detroit, Michigan, though my true daddy did for three years in a job cleanin toilets. But on the other hand, four of the short stories happen to be dead true. They happened to brothers I knew all my life just exactly like I tell it, and everything I say really happened and that’s the only real autobiography there is and there is no other, period and end of period.”
was six years old, and which I ain’t been south of except to swim at Coney Island. I have never been in Mississippi and would not put my foot in that shithole. I never in my whole life ate chitterlins because my mama and me couldn’t stand the smell of them, and I think I would throw up if I did. I never worked in Detroit, Michigan, though my true daddy did for three years in a job cleanin toilets. But on the other hand, four of the short stories happen to be dead true. They happened to brothers I knew all my life just exactly like I tell it, and everything I say really happened and that’s the only real autobiography there is and there is no other, period and end of period.”
Lesser admits surprise.
“The book has the tone of autobiography, but even if it’s pure fiction the point is that something’s not coming off right or you wouldn’t have asked me to read it.”
Willie calmly and thoroughly scratches his balls.
“I’m not soundin on you, Lesser, but how can you be so whiteass sure of what you sayin if my book turns out to be two different things than you thought?”
“In any case we both agree it needs more work.”
“Work,” Willie mimics him, his moist eyes rolling. “I’ve worked my ass to the flat bone. I’ve worked past misery, man. This is my fourth draft, how many more do I have to do?”
His low voice rose high.
“Maybe try one more.”
“Fuck you on that.”
Lesser is angry with himself for having got into this hassle, having known it would end as one.
“Willie,” he says irritably, “I’ve got to get on with my own book.”
Willie’s bulky body sags, ebony turned tar.
“Don’t put your whammy on me, Lesser, you. Don’t give me that grief. Don’t hit me on my self-confidence.”
Lesser asks Willie to grant him good will. “I know how you feel, I put myself in your place.”
In cold and haughty anger the black replies. “No ofay motherfucker can put himself in
my
place. This is a
black
book we talkin about that you don’t understand at all. White fiction ain’t the same as
black.
It
can’t
be.”
my
place. This is a
black
book we talkin about that you don’t understand at all. White fiction ain’t the same as
black.
It
can’t
be.”
“You can’t turn black experience into literature just by writing it down.”
“Black ain’t white and never can be. It is once and for only black. It ain’t universal if that’s what you are hintin up to. What I feel you feel different. You can’t write about black because you don’t have the least idea what we are or how we feel. Our feelin chemistry is different than yours. Dig that? It
has
to be so. I’m writin the soul writin of black people cryin out we are still slaves in this fuckn country and we ain’t
gonna stay slaves any longer. How can you understand it, Lesser, if your brain is white?”
has
to be so. I’m writin the soul writin of black people cryin out we are still slaves in this fuckn country and we ain’t
gonna stay slaves any longer. How can you understand it, Lesser, if your brain is white?”
“So is your brain white. But if the experience is about being human and moves me then you’ve made it my experience. You created it for me. You can deny universality, Willie, but you can’t abolish it.”
“Bein human is shit. It don’t give you any privileges, it never gave us any.”
“If we’re talking about art, form demands its rights, or there’s no order and maybe no meaning. What else there isn’t I think you know.”
“Art can kiss my juicy ass. You want to know what’s really art?
I
am art. Willie Spearmint,
black man
. My form is
myself.”
I
am art. Willie Spearmint,
black man
. My form is
myself.”
They faced each other, their eyes reflecting their images, Willie fuming, Lesser cursing himself for having lost the morning.
“What a blackass fool I was to let you read my book.”
Lesser desperately makes a final suggestion. “Why don’t you send your manuscript to a publisher and get somebody else’s opinion if you’re not satisfied with mine?”
“Because I tried ten of those rat-brained Jews and they all turned it down for a lot of horseshit reasons, because they are
afraid
of what the book says.”
afraid
of what the book says.”
The black, his eyes tumid, beats his head against Lesser’s wall, as the writer, not without pleasure, looks on.
LESSER BEACHES HIS BATTERED RAFT.
A woman appears on the dunes.
Mirage, he mutters; but it’s the real thing.
He leaves no footsteps following hers.
“If she be black and thereto have a wit,
She’ll find a white that shall her blackness fit.”
Mirage, he mutters; but it’s the real thing.
He leaves no footsteps following hers.
“If she be black and thereto have a wit,
She’ll find a white that shall her blackness fit.”
WILLIE SHAKESPEAR
Though he can’t speak her language, nor clearly remember her face although he has invented it, they comprehend each other at a glance and are at once locked in four arms.
The lovers lie in the hot hungry grass, canaries flitting through the feathery palms above. Just as he is having it as he always hoped to with a black gal, a white hand touches his shoulder and he wakes against the will on this snowy cold morning in Manhattan, trying to remember if it was as good as they say.
Lesser hungers to sleep again and does for a change after awaking. Fog lifts on the beach. The sea at the
shore is green—purple beyond, the salt air warm, ocean-fresh. In the distance clouds of islands float on the swelling sea.
shore is green—purple beyond, the salt air warm, ocean-fresh. In the distance clouds of islands float on the swelling sea.
He finds her in the dunes, dancing to herself, her nude blackness dancing in the dance.
As he runs to her a crow, cawing, with a rush of wings swoops down between her legs and flies off with a puff of black wool.
Holding her plucked member she curses the bird.
She curses Lesser.
Willie raps on the door.
“Lesser, I need my fuckn machine. I got to get on to my work.”
Willie, bleary, taut, suppressing rage, hauled out his typewriter the morning after their unhappy talk and did not return come siren, come noon. He didn’t show up that day or the next, Thursday. Lesser vaguely worried but did not seek him out. Had he let a fellow writer down? Said it wrong? Could he have put it more tactfully? He had told Willie what he thought he must but wondered if he mightn’t have said it more subtly, in a way that eased frustration and avoided anger. He might have encouraged him more actively, kept from hassling with him, gong to gong, though
that wasn’t easy when you were dealing with a man whose writing wore his own thin skin, not to mention color.
that wasn’t easy when you were dealing with a man whose writing wore his own thin skin, not to mention color.
After work Lesser went into the hall to Willie’s office, listened at the door, heard nothing, peeked in. The table and chair were there but no sign of Willie Spearmint or his L. C. Smith. Harry wondered had he left the building for good. He searched through the flat, opening closets, and discovered the typewriter on the floor in the corner of the one in the bedroom. There it lay, vulnerable, unguarded. The writer figured Willie must still be upset, pissed off, else he would never have left it unprotected. He worried: Suppose some bum found it and dragged it off to a pawnshop? Unlike himself, who could get by with a pen, Willie, except for penciling in corrections, typed from first to last sentence. He said he thought better, typing. Lesser considered carting the machine into his place but wasn’t sure Willie would appreciate that. When he comes back should I say he still ought to store it with me, or is he now and forever unwilling to accept the smallest favor from a white?
Should he forget it?
Over the weekend he forgot. Not totally. The thought of Willie’s typewriter at times weighed in his head; but on the whole he forgot.
Monday morning, he was in the thick of his long last chapter, stalking an idea that had appeared like a crack
in night pouring out daylight, Lesser trying with twelve busy hands to trap the light—anyway, an exciting idea aborning that lit him like a seven-flamed candle. At just that minute Willie ponderously kicked the door. Boom, kick, boom. Lesser groaned as he ran to open it. Willie entered, hauling in his machine, and without explanation set it: down under the table.
in night pouring out daylight, Lesser trying with twelve busy hands to trap the light—anyway, an exciting idea aborning that lit him like a seven-flamed candle. At just that minute Willie ponderously kicked the door. Boom, kick, boom. Lesser groaned as he ran to open it. Willie entered, hauling in his machine, and without explanation set it: down under the table.
Welcome, Willie, I worried.
He was keeping his fingers in the flowering light, trying to seize, hold it, while at the same time foreseeing what it might illuminate in time’s every direction; and memorize all this as he dealt with Willie.
Looking fully recovered except for a purple bruise on his brow, the black laughed.
“Call me Bill, Lesser, man. My writing name is my real one from now on I decided—Bill Spear.”
Bill it was then, Lesser laughing self-consciously.
“I want to say something going back to our rap that other day.”
Exuding damp, the writer gave birth to several excuses why he couldn’t just then listen, but could not bring himself to utter them.
He cracked his knuckles.
“Won’t take but a minute. All I want to tell you, Lesser, is I went to the library where my chick’s house is near and took out your books. I borrowed them both out. The second one gives off a bad smell”—he held his broad-winged nose as Lesser felt himself blush
—“but that first one you wrote, man, I got to tell you it’s a cool piece of work. After reading it, Irene said I was talking to myself. I tell you the Jesus truth, Lesser, I didn’t expect it to be that good, not from the square dude you are.”
—“but that first one you wrote, man, I got to tell you it’s a cool piece of work. After reading it, Irene said I was talking to myself. I tell you the Jesus truth, Lesser, I didn’t expect it to be that good, not from the square dude you are.”
Thanks anyway, Bill.
“Although I got some real reservations and one particular one.”
Such as what?
“The black sister in that book, you don’t touch her exactly right.”
Lesser said she was a minor character he hadn’t too much to say about.
“Like she ain’t really black,” Willie said, “not that chick, though I like her attitude. She has a whole lot of nature going for her and I wouldn’t mind laying some pipe in her pants.”
Wouldn’t she be real if she got that kind of response from him?
“She’s not like anybody real I know, leastways nobody black. In some of the ways she does things she might be white under that black paint you laid down on her.”
Was it the white in the black that aroused him? No matter, Willie had liked the book.
Lesser glanced behind him as though expecting something he had left cooking to boil over and evaporate:
He goes back to his desk, looks at the pages he had written that morning: not a visible word.
He goes back to his desk, looks at the pages he had written that morning: not a visible word.
Willie looked too but went on talking, chop chop. A deep crease had appeared on his brow. He sighed, biffed one hand with the other, studied the scene outside the window, then turned to Lesser.
“Also I will admit it got me thinking. What I am thinking about after reading your book—both of them —is I understand a little different now some of those ideas you were preaching about form and that jazz, and which way it gives proportion to the writing. I also realize some things I could have done better in my book, and why I wasn’t sure what was giving me the feeling of words and ideas shifting and moving after I thought I got them nailed down tight. In other words, Lesser, I am revising some of my thoughts and ideas about writing, though not all the way, don’t get me wrong about that. But like I am thinking things through more than I did before on some of them.”
Bravo, Willie—I mean Bill.
“What’s the matter, man, don’t you feel right?”
Lesser felt not too bad, he said.
“Got a belly cramp?”
No. Just something on his mind.
“What I said about revising some of my ideas don’t mean I’m changing how I feel on black writing in
comparison to white. Art is O.K. when it helps you to say what you got to, but I don’t want to turn into a halfass white writer or an ass-kissing Neegro who imitates ofays because he is ashamed or afraid to be black. I write black because I am black and what I got to say means something different to black people than it does to whites, if you dig. We
think
different than you do, Lesser. We
do
and we
are,
and we
write
different. If some white prick tears a piece of black skin off your ass every day, when somebody says, ‘Sit down,’ it’s gonna mean two different things to me and you, and that’s why black fiction
has
got to be different than white. The words make it different because the experience does. You know that, man. Also we are the rising people of the future, and if the whites try to hold us down it ain’t no secret we might have to cut your throats. You have had your day and now we are gonna have
ours.
That’s what I got to write about but I want to write it in black art, in the best way I can. In other words, Lesser, I want to know what you know and
add on to that
what I know
because
I am black. And if that means I have to learn something from whitey to do it better as a black man, then I will
for that purpose only.”
comparison to white. Art is O.K. when it helps you to say what you got to, but I don’t want to turn into a halfass white writer or an ass-kissing Neegro who imitates ofays because he is ashamed or afraid to be black. I write black because I am black and what I got to say means something different to black people than it does to whites, if you dig. We
think
different than you do, Lesser. We
do
and we
are,
and we
write
different. If some white prick tears a piece of black skin off your ass every day, when somebody says, ‘Sit down,’ it’s gonna mean two different things to me and you, and that’s why black fiction
has
got to be different than white. The words make it different because the experience does. You know that, man. Also we are the rising people of the future, and if the whites try to hold us down it ain’t no secret we might have to cut your throats. You have had your day and now we are gonna have
ours.
That’s what I got to write about but I want to write it in black art, in the best way I can. In other words, Lesser, I want to know what you know and
add on to that
what I know
because
I am black. And if that means I have to learn something from whitey to do it better as a black man, then I will
for that purpose only.”
Bill blew his breath into one large fist, then the other. There were two creases on his brow.
He said he had decided to put aside the book Lesser
had read—he would work on it again later—and start something new with an idea that had been flapping around in the back of his mind since he was a kid trying to understand what his skin color had to do with why his life was so weird and crazy.
had read—he would work on it again later—and start something new with an idea that had been flapping around in the back of his mind since he was a kid trying to understand what his skin color had to do with why his life was so weird and crazy.
“It’s about this black kid and his mama and how they burn off and work against each other till they kill themselves off, but not before—when this guy is a man—he goes out and gets him his revenge on the whites, maybe in some kind of riot, maybe in some personal way, because whitey is the real cause of his main troubles. Maybe he shoots twenty ofays before the pigs get to him. The point I am making, Lesser, in case you not with it, is I think this is the main way the blacks have to head along—to kill whites till those who are alive vomit with pain at the thought of what wrongs they have done us, and better not try to do any more. Now all I want you to do for me, Lesser, and I wouldn’t be asking if we both wasn’t writers, is not to spend any time criticizing the subject of any stuff I might show you, but to tell me the best way how I can write the same thing, with the same ideas, better. Only about the form of it, in other words, dig?”
Lesser, dreaming of new light in his book, beheld in his dark thoughts Bill Spear, potential executioner, requesting him to midwife his bloody fable.
He said he wondered whether that was such a good idea, considering how their talk had gone the other day. Subject and form were inseparable. Suppose he said something that was ultimately critical of an idea or two, would he have to worry he might have his throat cut?
Having said this he wished he hadn’t. Not being able to get to work had set Lesser on edge.
“Baby,” said Bill, in a sudden rage, “don’t fuss your skull. If you don’t want to read what I show you, fuck your bloody ass.”
He slammed the door.
Lesser, momentarily relieved, returned to his desk to write a long note to himself about a new approach to his final chapter; but when he sat down he got up and followed the black back to his office.
He apologized for his impatience. It had caused him to express himself badly, Willie—I mean Bill. I think we can get along all right if your purpose is to improve the artistic quality of your work. Nobody says I have to love your ideas.
“I know your type, Lester.”
Lesser explained he had been nervous about the loss of his writing time. On the other hand I want to help if I can because I respect your ambition to be the best writer you can be, I really do.
Bill quieted down.
“Now all I am asking you to do, Lesser, is after I get
a few chapters going along, to look at them and say
no more
than I am or I am not on the right track form-wise. You just say it and I’ll be the one who makes up his own mind if you right. I don’t plan to hang on to your tail for a free ride, you can bet your ass.”
a few chapters going along, to look at them and say
no more
than I am or I am not on the right track form-wise. You just say it and I’ll be the one who makes up his own mind if you right. I don’t plan to hang on to your tail for a free ride, you can bet your ass.”
Lesser agreed to do his best if Bill was patient.
“And if you have a little bitsy of extra time,” Bill said, wiping both palms on the apron of his overalls, “I want to catch up on some grammar—about noun clauses and such as that, even if nobody I know has much use for them. But I figure it won’t hurt me to know about them though I don’t want to do anything that will fuck up my own style. Like I like the way you write, Lesser, there’s no crap in it, but I don’t want to write like you.”
Lesser said he would lend Bill a grammar. He could read it through and if he came across anything that interested him, they could talk it over after the day’s work.
“Right on.”
They shook hands.
“I like to bullshit with you, Lesser, you don’t put on. We swinging real fine.”
Lesser saw himself swinging.
He hurried at last back to his work. His inspired idea, possibly for an ending, whatever it might be, lay buried in an unmarked grave.
After Willie Spearmint became Bill Spear he added hours to his working hours. He no longer trudged into Lesser’s flat at noon to put away his writing machine but appeared conveniently later, at three or half past three; and sometimes he sat late at his kitchen table, staring at the darkened sky. Lesser figured he was at work on his new book but did not know for sure because Bill said nothing and he would not ask him.
As for grammar, they talked once or twice about noun clauses, gerunds and gerundives, but the subject bored Bill. He said it killed the life out of language and never referred to it again. Instead, he studied his paperback dictionary, making lists of words in a notebook and memorizing their meanings.
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