James Baldwin - Another Country

“You knew I’d be here.” He raised his glass. “Congratulations.” Then, “What’s this I hear about all the TV networks just crying for you?”

“Don’t exaggerate. There’s just one producer who’s got some project he wants to talk to me about, I don’t even know what it is. But my agent thinks I should see him.”

Vivaldo laughed. “Don’t sound so defensive. I like TV.”

“You’re a liar. You haven’t even got a TV set.”

“Well, that’s just because I’m poor . When I get to be a success like you, I’ll go out and buy me the biggest screen on the market.” He watched Richard’s face and laughed again. “I’m just teasing you.”

“Yeah. Ida, see what you can do to civilize this character. He’s a barbarian.”

“I know,” Ida said, sadly, “but I hardly know what to do about it. Of course,” she added, “if you were to offer me an autographed copy of your book, I might come up with an inspiration.”

“It’s a deal,” Richard said. Cass came back with the ice bucket and Richard took it from her and set it on the bar. He mixed his drink. Then he joined them on the other side of the bar and put his arm around Cass’ shoulders. “To the best Saturday we’ve ever had,” he said, and raised his glass. “May there be many more.” He took a large swallow of his drink. “I love you all,” he said.

“We love you, too,” said Vivaldo.

Cass kissed Richard on the cheek. “Before I go and try to salvage lunch — tell me, just what kind of arrangement did you make with Michael? Just so I’ll know.”

“He’s taking a nap. I promised to wake him in time for cocktails. We have to buy him some ginger ale.”

“And Paul?”

“Oh, Paul. He’ll tear himself away from his cronies in time to come upstairs and get washed and meet the people. Wild horses wouldn’t keep him away.” He turned to Vivaldo. “He’s been bragging about me all over the house.”

Cass watched him for a moment. “Very well managed. And now I leave you.”

Ida picked up her glass. “Wait a minute. I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t have to, Ida. I can do it.”

“These men can get drunk, too, if we keep them waiting too long. I’ll help you, we can get it done in no time.” She followed Cass to the doorway. With one foot on the step, she turned. “Now, I’m going to hold you to your promise, Richard. About that book, I mean.”

“I’m going to hold you to yours. You’re the one who got the dirty end of this deal.”

She looked at Vivaldo. “Oh, I don’t know. I might think of something.”

“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” Cass said. “I don’t like that look on Vivaldo’s face at all .”

Ida laughed. “He is kind of simple-looking, I declare. Come on. I’ll tell you about it in the kitchen.”

“Don’t believe a word Cass says about me,” Vivaldo called.

“Oh, you mean she knows something about you? Come on, Cass, honey, we going to get down to the knitty-gritty this afternoon.” And they disappeared.

“You’ve always had a thing about colored girls, haven’t you?” Richard asked, after a moment. There was something curiously wistful in his voice.

Vivaldo looked at him. “No. I’ve never been involved with a colored girl.”

“No. But you used to do a lot of tomcatting up in Harlem. And it’s so logical, somehow, that you should be trying to make it with a colored girl now — you certainly scraped the bottom of the white barrel.”

Against his will, Vivaldo was forced to laugh. “Well. I don’t think Ida’s color has a damn thing to do with it, one way or the other.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t she just another in your long line of waifs and strays and unfortunates?”

“Richard,” Vivaldo said, and he put his glass down on the bar, “are you trying to bug me? What is it?”

“Of course I’m not trying to bug you,” Richard said. “I just think that maybe it’s time you straightened out — settled down — time you figured out what you want to do and started doing it instead of bouncing around like a kid. You’re not a kid.”

“Well, I think it’s time you stopped treating me like one. I know what I want to do and I am doing it. All right? And I’ve got to do it my own way. So get off my back.” He smiled, but it was too late.

“I didn’t think I was on your back,” said Richard. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, you know that.”

“Let’s just forget it, okay?”

“Well, hell, I don’t want you mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you.” He walked to the window and stood there, looking out. With his back to Vivaldo, he said, “You didn’t really like my book much, did you?”

“So that’s it.”

“What?” Richard turned, the sunlight full on his face, revealing the lines in his forehead, around and under his eyes, and around his mouth and chin. The face was full of lines; it was a tough face, a good face, and Vivaldo had loved it for a long time. Yet, the face lacked something, he could not have said what the something was, and he knew his helpless judgment was unjust.

He felt tears spring to his eyes. “Richard, we talked about the book and I told you what I thought, I told you that it was a brilliant idea and wonderfully organized and beautifully written and—” He stopped. He had not liked the book. He could not take it seriously. It was an able, intelligent, mildly perceptive tour de force and it would never mean anything to anyone. In the place in Vivaldo’s mind in which books lived, whether they were great, mangled, mutilated, or mad, Richard’s book did not exist. There was nothing he could do about it. “And you yourself said that the next book would be better.”

“What are you crying about?”

“What?” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Nothing.” He walked over to the bar and leaned on it. Some deep and curious cunning made him add, “You talk as though you didn’t want us to be friends any more.”

“Oh, crap. Is that what you think? Of course were friends, we’ll be friends till we die.” He walked to the bar and put his hand on Vivaldo’s shoulder, leaning down to look into his face. “Honest. Okay?”

They shook hands. “Okay. Don’t bug me any more.”

Richard laughed. “I won’t bug you any more, you stupid bastard.”

Ida came to the doorway. “Lunch is on the table. Come on, now, hurry, before it gets cold.”

They were all a little drunk by the time lunch was over, having drunk with it two bottles of champagne; and eventually they sat in the living room again as the sun began to grow fiery, preparing to go down. Paul arrived, dirty, breathless, and cheerful. His mother sent him into the bathroom to wash and change his clothes. Richard remembered the ice that had to be bought for the party and the ginger ale that he had promised Michael, and he went downstairs to buy them. Cass decided that she had better change her clothes and put up her hair.

Ida and Vivaldo had the living room to themselves for a short time. Ida put on an old Billie Holiday record and she and Vivaldo danced.

There was a hammer knocking in his throat as she stepped into his arms with a friendly smile, one hand in his hand, one hand resting lightly on his arm. He held her lightly at the waist. His fingers, at her waist, seemed to have become abnormally and dangerously sensitive, and he prayed that his face did not show the enormous, illicit pleasure which entered him through his fingertips. He seemed to feel, beneath the heavy fabric of the suit she wore, the texture of the cloth of her blouse, the delicate obstruction which was the fastening of her skirt, the slick material of her slip which seemed to purr and crackle under his fingers, against her smooth, warm skin. She seemed to be unaware of the liberties being taken by his stiff, unmoving fingers. She moved with him, both guiding and being guided by him, effortlessly keeping her feet out of the path of his great shoes. Their bodies barely touched but her hair tickled his chin and gave off a sweet, dry odor and suggested, as did everything about this girl, a deep, slow-burning, carnal heat. He wanted to hold her closer to him. Perhaps, now, at this very moment, as she looked up at him, smiling, he would lower his head and wipe that smile from her face, placing his unsmiling mouth on hers.