James Baldwin - Another Country

“Rufus. Rufus. What about—” He wanted to say, What about me, Rufus? I’m white. He said, “Rufus, not everybody’s like that.”

“No? That’s news to me.”

“Leona loves you—”

“She loves the colored folks so much, ” said Rufus, “sometimes I just can’t stand it. You know all that chick knows about me? The only thing she knows?” He put his hand on his sex, brutally, as though he would tear it out, and seemed pleased to see Vivaldo wince. He sat down on the bed again. “That’s all.”

“I think you’re out of your mind,” said Vivaldo. But fear drained his voice of conviction.

“But she’s the only chick in the world for me,” Rufus added, after a moment, “ain’t that a bitch?”

“You’re destroying that girl. Is that what you want?”

“She’s destroying me, too,” said Rufus.

“Well. Is that what you want?”

“What do two people want from each other,” asked Rufus, “when they get together? Do you know?”

“Well, they don’t want to drive each other crazy, man. I know that.”

“You know more than I do,” Rufus said, sardonically. “What do you want — when you get together with a girl?”

“What do I want? ”

“Yeah, what do you want? ”

“Well,” said Vivaldo, fighting panic, trying to smile, “I just want to get laid, man.” But he stared at Rufus, feeling terrible things stir inside him.

“Yeah?” And Rufus looked at him curiously, as though he were thinking, So that’s the way white boys make it . “Is that all?”

“Well”—he looked down—“I want the chick to love me. I want to make her love me. I want to be loved.”

There was silence. Then Rufus asked, “Has it ever happened?”

“No,” said Vivaldo, thinking of Catholic girls, and whores, “I guess not.”

“How do you make it happen?” Rufus whispered. “What do you do? ” He looked over at Vivaldo. He half-smiled. “What do you do?”

“What do you mean, what do I do?” He tried to smile; but he knew what Rufus meant.

“You just do it like you was told?” He tugged at Vivaldo’s sleeve; his voice dropped. “That white chick — Jane — of yours — she ever give you a blow job?”

Oh, Rufus, he wanted to cry, stop this crap! and he felt tears well up behind his eyes. At the same time his heart lunged in terror and he felt the blood leave his face. “I haven’t had a chick that great,” he said, briefly, thinking again of the dreadful Catholic girls with whom he had grown up, of his sister and his mother and father. He tried to force his mind back through the beds he had been in — his mind grew as blank as a wall. “Except,” he said, suddenly, “with whores,” and felt in the silence that then fell that murder was sitting on the bed beside them. He stared at Rufus.

Rufus laughed. He lay back on the bed and laughed until tears began running from the corners of his eyes. It was the worst laugh Vivaldo had ever heard and he wanted to shake Rufus or slap him, anything to make him stop. But he did nothing; he lit a cigarette; the palms of his hands were wet. Rufus choked, sputtered, and sat up. He turned his agonized face to Vivaldo for an instant. Then: “Whores!” he shouted and began to laugh again.

“What’s so funny?” Vivaldo asked, quietly.

“If you don’t see it, I can’t tell you,” Rufus said. He had stopped laughing, was very sober and still. “Everybody’s on the A train — you take it uptown, I take it downtown — it’s crazy.” Then, again, he looked at Vivaldo with hatred. He said, “Me and Leona — she’s the greatest lay I ever had. Ain’t nothing we don’t do.”

“Crazy,” said Vivaldo. He crushed out his cigarette on the floor. He was beginning to be angry. At the same time he wanted to laugh.

“But it ain’t going to work,” said Rufus. “It ain’t going to work.” They heard the whistles on the river; he walked to the window again. “I ought to get out of here. I better get out of here.”

“Well, then, go . Don’t hang around, waiting — just go .”

“I’m going to go,” said Rufus. “I’m going to go. I just want to see Leona one more time.” He stared at Vivaldo. “I just want to get laid — get blowed — loved — one more time.”

“You know,” said Vivaldo, “I’m not really interested in the details of your sex life.”

Rufus smiled. “No? I thought all you white boys had a big thing about how us spooks was making out.”

“Well,” said Vivaldo, “I’m different.”

“Yeah,” said Rufus, “I bet you are.”

“I just want to be your friend,” said Vivaldo. “That’s all. But you don’t want any friends, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” said Rufus, quietly. “Yes, I do.” He paused; then, slowly, with difficulty, “Don’t mind me. I know you’re the only friend I’ve got left in the world, Vivaldo.”

And that’s why you hate me, Vivaldo thought, feeling still and helpless and sad.

Now Vivaldo and Rufus sat together in silence, near the window of the pizzeria. There was little left for them to say. They had said it all — or Rufus had; and Vivaldo had listened. Music from a nearby night club came at them, faintly, through the windows, along with the grinding, unconquerable hum of the streets. And Rufus watched the streets with a helpless, sad intensity, as though he were waiting for Leona. These streets had claimed her. She had been found, Rufus said, one freezing night, half-naked, looking for her baby. She knew where it was, where they had hidden her baby, she knew the house; only she could not remember the address.

And then, Rufus said, she had been taken to Bellevue, and he had been unable to get her out. The doctors had felt that it would be criminal to release her into the custody of the man who was the principal reason for her breakdown, and who had, moreover, no legal claim on her. They had notified Leona’s family, and her brother had come from the South and carried Leona back with him. Now she sat somewhere in Georgia, staring at the walls of a narrow room; and she would remain there forever.

Vivaldo yawned and felt guilty. He was tired — tired of Rufus’ story, tired of the strain of attending, tired of friendship. He wanted to go home and lock his door and sleep. He was tired of the troubles of real people. He wanted to get back to the people he was inventing, whose troubles he could bear.

But he was restless, too, and unwilling, now that he was out, to go home right away.

“Let’s have a nightcap at Benno’s,” he said. And then, because he knew Rufus did not really want to go there, he added, “All right?”

Rufus nodded, feeling a little frightened. Vivaldo watched him, feeling it all come back, his love for Rufus, and his grief for him. He leaned across the table and tapped him on the cheek. “Come on,” he said, “you haven’t got to be afraid of anybody.”

With these words, at which Rufus looked even more frightened, though a small smile played around the corners of his mouth, Vivaldo felt that whatever was coming had already begun, that the master switch had been thrown. He sighed, relieved, also wishing to call the words back. The waiter came. Vivaldo paid the check and they walked out into the streets.

“It’s almost Thanksgiving,” said Rufus, suddenly. “I didn’t realize that.” He laughed. “It’ll soon be Christmas, the year will soon be over—” He broke off, raising his head to look over the cold streets.

A policeman, standing under the light on the corner, was phoning in. On the opposite pavement a young man walked his dog. The music from the night club dwindled as they walked away from it, toward Benno’s. A heavy Negro girl, plain, carrying packages, and a surly, bespectacled white boy ran together toward a taxi. The yellow light on the roof went out, the doors slammed. The cab turned, came toward Rufus and Vivaldo, and the street lights blazed for an instant on the faces of the silent couple within.