James Baldwin - Another Country

She was in the kitchen, mixing batter for a cake, when Richard came back. He put his head in the kitchen door, water running from the end of his nose.

“How’re you feeling now?”

She laughed. “Gloomier than ever. I’m baking a cake.”

“That’s a terrible sign. I can see there’s not much hope for you.” He grabbed one of the dish towels and mopped his face.

“What happened to the umbrella?”

“I left it with the boys.”

“Oh, Richard, it’s so big. Can Paul handle that?”

“No, of course not,” he said. “The umbrella’s going to get caught in a high wind and they’ll be carried away over the rooftops and we’ll never see them again.” He winked. “That’s why I gave it to them. I’m not so dumb.” He walked into his study and closed the door.

She put the cake in the oven, peeled potatoes and carrots and left them in the water and calculated the time it would take for the roast beef. She had changed her clothes and set the cake out to cool when the bell rang.

It was Vivaldo. He was wearing a black raincoat and his hair was wild and dripping from the rain. His eyes seemed blacker than ever, and his face paler.

“Heathcliff!” she cried, “how nice you could come!”—and pulled him into the apartment, for it did not seem that he was going to move. “Put those wet things in the bathroom and I’ll make you a drink.”

“What a bright girl you are,” he said, barely smiling. “Christ, it’s pissing out there!” He took off his coat and disappeared into the bathroom.

She went to the study door and knocked on it. “Richard. Vivaldo’s here.”

“Okay. I’ll be right out.”

She made two drinks and brought them into the living room. Vivaldo sat on the sofa, his long legs stretched before him, staring at the carpet.

She handed him his drink. “How are you?”

“All right. Where’re the kids?” He put his drink down carefully on the low table near him.

“They’re at the movies.” She considered him a moment. “You may be all right but I’ve seen you look better.”

“Well”—again that bleak smile—“I haven’t really sobered up yet. I got real drunk last night with Jane. She can’t screw if she’s sober.” He picked up his drink and took a swallow of it, dragged a bent cigarette from one of his pockets and lit it. He looked so sad and beaten for a moment, hunched over the flame of the cigarette, that she did not speak. “Where’s Richard?”

“He’ll be out. He’s in his study.”

He sipped his drink, obviously trying to think of something to say, and not succeeding.

“Vivaldo?”

“Yeah?”

“Did Rufus stay at your place last night?”

“Rufus?” He looked frightened. “No. Why?”

“His sister called up to find out where he was.”

They stared at each other and his face made her frightened all over again.

“Where did he go?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I figured he’d gone to Harlem. He just disappeared.”

“Vivaldo, she’s coming here this afternoon.”

“Who is?”

“His sister, Ida. I told her that I left him with you and that you would be here this afternoon.”

“But I don’t know where he is . I was in the back, talking to Jane — and he said he was going to the head or something — and he never came back.” He stared at her, then at the window. “I wonder where he went.”

“Maybe,” she said, “he met a friend.”

He did not trouble to respond to this. “He should have known I wasn’t just going to dump him. He could have stayed at my place, I ended up at Jane’s place, anyway.”

Cass watched him as he banged his cigarette out in the ashtray.

“I have never,” she said, mildly, “understood what Jane wanted from you. Or, for that matter, what you wanted from her.”

He examined his fingernails, they were jagged and in mourning. “I don’t know. I just wanted a girl, I guess, someone to share those long winter evenings.”

“But she’s so much older than you are.” She picked up his empty glass. “She’s older than I am.”

“That hasn’t got anything to do with it,” he said, sullenly. “Anyway, I wanted a girl who — sort of knows the score.”

She considered him. “Yes,” she said, with a sigh, “that girl certainly knows how to keep score.”

“I needed a woman,” Vivaldo said, “she needed a man. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” she said. “If that’s really what both of you needed.”

“What do you think I was doing?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know. Only, I’ve told you, you always seem to get involved with impossible women — whores, nymphomaniacs, drunks — and I think you do it in order to protect yourself — from anything serious. Permanent.”

He sighed, smiled. “Hell, I just want to be friends.”

She laughed. “Oh, Vivaldo.”

“You and I are friends,” he said.

“Well — yes. But I’ve always been the wife of a friend of yours. So you never thought of me—”

“Sexually,” he said. Then he grinned. “Don’t be so sure.”

She flushed, at once annoyed and pleased. “I’m not talking about your fantasies.”

“I’ve always admired you,” he said soberly, “and envied Richard.”

“Well,” she said, “you’d better get over that.”

He said nothing. She rattled the ice around in his empty glass.

“Well,” he said, “what am I going to do with it? I’m not a monk, I’m tired of running uptown and paying for it—’’

“For it’s uptown that you run,” she said, with a smile. “What a good American you are.”

This angered him. “I haven’t said they were any better than white chicks.” Then he laughed. “Maybe I better cut the damn thing off.”

“Don’t be such a baby. Really. You should hear yourself.”

“You’re telling me someone’s going to come along who needs it? Needs me?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” she said, shortly, “that you don’t already know.” They heard Richard’s study door open. “I’ll fix you another drink; you might as well get good and drunk.” She bumped into Richard in the hall. He was carrying the manuscript. “Do you want a drink now?”

“Love one,” he said, and walked into the living room. From the kitchen she heard their voices, a little too loud, a little too friendly. When she came back into the living room, Vivaldo was leafing through the manuscript. Richard stood by the window.

“Just read it,” he was saying, “don’t go thinking about Dostoievski and all that. It’s just a book — a pretty good book.”

She handed Richard his drink. “It’s a very good book,” she said. She put Vivaldo’s drink on the table beside him. She was surprised and yet not surprised to realize that she was worried about the effect on Richard of Vivaldo’s opinion.

“The next book, though, will be better,” Richard said. “And very different.”

Vivaldo put the manuscript down and sipped his drink. “Well,” he said, with a grin, “I’ll read it just as soon as I sober up. Whenever,” he added, grimly, “that may be.”

“And tell me the truth, you hear? You bastard.”

Vivaldo looked at him. “I’ll tell you the truth.”

Years ago, Vivaldo had brought his manuscripts to Richard with almost exactly the same words. She moved away from them both and lit a cigarette. Then she heard the elevator door open and close and she looked at the clock. It was four. She looked at Vivaldo. The bell rang.

“There she is,” said Cass.

She and Vivaldo stared at each other.

“Take it easy,” Richard said. “What’re you looking so tragic about?”