Three Days Before the Shooting ... (120 page)

Whereupon he recalled that during his early jazz days he had learned that the success of a performance depended upon his enticing his listeners into participating in his act of combining familiar sounds and rhythms into patterns made rare and exciting. For it had been such mutual give-and-take that earned him their most enthusiastic response. A feat that was accomplished by blasting his listeners with freewheeling quotations from any musical forms with which he and they were familiar, whether it be ballads or blues, love songs, anthems, or spirituals. The trick was to move them with tonal and rhythmical excitement from the known to the unknown, and from the old and familiar into that which was new and still unfamiliar.

Indeed, the same technique prevailed when he preached before unlettered congregations. Establishing the mood with the Word as written, he quickly put the Bible aside and ranged orally through the familiar troubles and joys of the human condition while being careful to avoid learned abstractions while using rhythmical phrases to evoke images charged with emotions which they knew and to which they eagerly responded. After all, such a strategy for revealing the new in the old was traditional, and part of the art of persuasion. Thus he and the congregations became as one in the Word’s graceful power. Which often depended upon his creating illusions, and which were indispensable aspects of all types of art, whether it be profane or sacred. It was a way of reaching the hearts and minds of his audience, and during his jazz days, when standing before crowds sweating and swaying as though possessed by spirits, he became a trombone-wielding agent through whom his listeners found musical transcendence. And if successful he was repaid with screams, applause, and dancing in the aisles, or bumper-to-bumper belly-bumping all over the floors of ballrooms.

But while on fortunate occasions such responses were truly inspired, on others he had simply gone through the motions of being possessed while relying on his acting skills to create a musical illusion. Nevertheless, such pretense went with being a jazzman and served as a lifesaver when true inspiration was lacking. To some extent all entertainers were actors, and that was true even of dedicated preachers, of whom spiritual eloquence and humility were not only expected but demanded. And wasn’t it out of similar expectations that the storyteller near the window was pretending to be dumb to the meaning of the tale he was telling? That was his storyteller’s way of flattering his listeners’ intelligence while persuading them to a willing participation in his spinning of tales. Like a preacher, he mimed and “called” and his listeners responded. But in a deeper sense there was more to it than that. For while he hadn’t thought of it until now, playing dumb was also a self-sacrificial act through which good storytellers prepared their audiences to receive and enjoy such hard-earned wisdom as might underlie
the surface of his tale’s comedy. And by pretending to be too stupid to recognize its underlying message, the storyteller assumed the burden of its underlying pain and embarrassment. Thus his listeners were freed to enjoy the comedy which such tales made of life’s complexity….

So, Hickman
, he thought with a sense of discovery and relief,
perhaps by playing a wordless game of hide-and-seek the weaver meant to encourage the same type of participation. If so, I wish that his game were musical! Because then I could rely on my experienced ear and fairly good memory. As it is I’m eager and willing, but he seems to be playing a game on my ignorant old eyes—which puts me at a disadvantage, because beyond such things as biblical scenes, comic cartoons, billboards, and ads I’m ignorant of his kind of art. But now that I’m hooked I have to keep looking. Besides, if this tapestry is actually telling a story, I’m forced to find it or lose my self-respect as a wordman. Anyway, like jokes, jazz riffs, yarns, and sermons, stories have to move from a beginning through a middle to an end. The problem here is that while the figures and atmosphere suggest a movement toward some moment of revelation it’s due to a soundless juxtaposition of forms and color. The farmer, shepherd, and fisherman are in the process of moving without movement—how about that! But perhaps by staring at the earth, the sky, and the sea they’re still doing something that’s suppose to move the story toward its invisible climax. My question is what does it mean, and how will I find it?

As he frowned and stared, the answer continued to escape him; but now, as with the surprising patterns of melodic invention that enabled a swinging musician to keep his listeners’ attention, new details were emerging out of the landscape’s illusion of peaceful movement to tease his eye and his memory.

For, suddenly, the blue-green expanse of the sea was overlaid by airy images of glass insulators used on telephone poles during his boyhood. Such domed, translucent shapes had often served as targets for his slingshot, and though strictly forbidden by both the law and his father, he had found them so irresistible that years later, when coming upon young Bliss trying his hand at the game, he couldn’t help but grin at his own hypocrisy while putting a belt to the little boy’s bottom.

And now, with the airy image of the long-lost boy firing rocks at glinting insulators overlaying the landscape, new details of the scene brought a sudden sense of imminent discovery:

Below the cliff from which the man quietly fished the tall ship still steered for the sea through the inlet, but now for the first time he saw the miniature forms of sailors clinging high in its riggings as they reefed a wind-tossed sail. And now, looking midway through the watery distance between the stern of the ship and the base of the headland, he froze. For there, surrounded by a sun-reflecting splash, he saw the lonely legs and grasping hand of someone who appeared to have plunged headfirst out of nowhere and into the wind-ruffled sea….

Suddenly spurred by his vague sense of a connection between the sprawling legs and the danger that had prompted his flight to Washington, he leaped from
his chair and hurried forward, annoyed that it had taken him so long to notice such a shocking detail. And now, reaching the wall with a mounting sense of panic, he centered his attention on the sky-pointing legs and explored the landscape from highland to horizon and border to border—and paused with increasing confusion.

For now he saw that the tapestry’s deep red border was embroidered with scientific symbols, steamships, automobiles, airplanes, submarines, space rockets, and miniature portraits of famous inventors and scientists, among whom he recognized Henry Ford, Albert Einstein, and Thomas Edison.

Hickman
, he thought,
you were right about a story or parable being hidden in this thing! But now that you’ve found the clue you’re either too dumb or uneducated to get its meaning—you, who have the outrageous nerve to interpret the Book of Revelation! But either way, from the size of the feet and shape of the legs it’s plain that it’s a man—so from where did he fall? It couldn’t have been from the cliff, because he’s too far offshore … and the fellow on the cliff is so busy fishing that he isn’t even looking in his direction. And it couldn’t have been from that ship because those sailors are acting as though he doesn’t exist. Besides, if he’d fallen from there he’d have yelled for help…. So from where did he fall, and how long in his falling? It couldn’t have been from an airplane, because in spite of all of those modern inventions woven around the border everything I see in the landscape indicates that he fell long before planes were invented. So could it be that he’s supposed to have swum that far from shore to commit suicide? After all, the old folks did tell us stories about Africans who took their children and walked into the sea until they drowned. But they had a reason: because rather than live in slavery they chose to die. But this fellow’s legs are white and he’s far from any shore…
.

“A.Z.,” he heard with a start, “what are you staring at?”

“Wilhite,” he said, pointing a finger at the landscape, “what do you make of that?”

“Of
what?”

“Those legs, man; those
legs
!”

“Well, I declare,” Wilhite said. “What happened to him?”

“That’s what
I’d
like to know. It’s plain that he’s going under, but from where did he fall?”

“You’re the one who’s been looking, so you tell
me.”

“That’s the point, I’ve been looking at this thing for at least twenty minutes and enjoying the view, but then, just before you got back, I see these legs! What gets me is that they were there all the time! Now it looks like I was enjoying myself while somebody decided to commit suicide by drowning….”

“Suicide?” Wilhite said as he bent closer and stared at the legs.

“What else?”

“I don’t know, A.Z., but I think that you’re fishing in the wrong part of the creek.”

“Why?”

“Because from the position of his legs there’s no way in the
world
for him to be committing suicide by drowning. No, sir! Because it’s simply impossible for a man to lift himself high enough out of the water to take such a plunge. Look at that splash!”

“So what do you think?”

“I don’t know, but maybe we’re looking at a religious allegory in which the plunge is supposed to be the one made by Satan after he got himself kicked out of the Kingdom….”

“Maybe so, but if that’s what those legs are supposed to signify I’m put in the position of the fellow in that story you tell about the man who was being chased by a dog and had someone advise him to give himself up because the animal was a
police
dog: With him I’m saying, ‘If he’s with the police let him show me his badge, otherwise I’m gonna keep running!’ ”

“Oh, yeah? Well if you keep looking you’ll discover that his badge has some pretty sharp points. But in the meantime, what about those legs?”

“I don’t know, but if the fellow taking the plunge is supposed to be Satan, I want to see his hooves and tail! Which is only reasonable, because with that much of his body under water Satan’s tail should be sticking up there between his legs—which it isn’t. What’s more, this fellow hit the water much too quietly and low-keyed to attract attention. That’s probably why we can’t see a single soul who’s looking in his direction. Not the farmer, who’s looking at his plowed ground, not the fisher or that unfaithful shepherd, nor anyone else—at least not as far as
I
can see. While we both know very well that if it was Satan he’d have been screaming loud enough to wake up all hell and Harlem!”

“Amen, A.Z., but don’t go putting down Harlem. I’ve lived there and like most big cities you have to keep awake to stay alive. Besides, the serious questions remain: Who is he, and from where did he begin such a sad lonely fall?”

“If I knew that,” Hickman said as he turned and started away, “I’d have the answer.”

“You know, Wilhite,” he said as they moved away, “I began looking at that thing while killing time waiting for you, but now I’m sorry that it ever caught my eye! That’s right, because now that it has I’m liable to wake up in the middle of the night still worrying about who that man was and how he could have reached so high to fall so low…. This town, Lord, it looks like everywhere I turn there’s something waiting to give me a fit! And I mean even in little things unrelated to what brought us here. It just goes to show that no matter where a man finds himself it’s the things that aren’t spelled out that give him the most trouble! Yes, and since any collection of things thrown together can signify far more than any one of them by itself, you have to keep watching out for the patterns they make when they come together. If the man’s head was showing you could be satisfied in calling him Jonah—but then, Wilhite, where in all that sea is the vomiting whale?”

“A.Z.,” Wilhite said, “you sound tired.”

“I know it, but I still have my sense of humor. How are things going back home?”

“Nothing new, except for old Sister Caroline calling four or five time asking you to be sure and look up her brother.”

“Good! Because after promising to look him up I’d forgotten all about it. How’s she feeling?”

“She’s holding on, but being as sick as she is she’s anxious to see that brother of hers.”

“So we’d better try and find him and get him on down there—even if we have to dig up his fare. Sister Caroline’s a fine woman. Any word from Janey?”

“Not a word.”

“Well,” he said with a quick glance at the tapestry. “I guess that after setting up this wild goose chase she’s sitting back

[HISTORY]

AND WAITING
to see what will happen. Wilhite, tell me the truth: Do you think we ought to give up on this mission?”

“After we’ve come this far! A.Z., what are you driving at?”

“I’m asking if you think we should give it up and return home.”

“Are you serious?”

“That’s right, I’m serious.”

“Then you must
really
be tired! Anyway, now that he’s alerted we have to keep hunting, and since we’ve missed him in the open why not keep stalking his secret hole—which makes sense to me. So instead of sitting here talking, why not give his woman’s place another try?”

“Wilhite, this isn’t some animal we’re trying to corner, but a
man
. Which means that our trying to reach him through his lady friend was unethical, and since we failed I’m against trying that again. Besides, going there a second time could be dangerous. Maybe we should try once more to catch him at his office, and if we fail let’s try something else.”

“Very well, A.Z., but whether it’s ethical or not, we’d better find a way of reaching him before it’s too late.”

“I know, and we’ll do whatever we can, but rather than barging in on his mistress again let’s try to reach him through somebody else.”

“Okay, but who would that be?”

“Frankly, I don’t know, but it might be the police….”

“The
police!
A.Z., I knew you were tired, but now it seems that you’re losing faith. How could we go to them without revealing everything we don’t want them to know?”