James Baldwin - Another Country

But her reaction had been so swift and terrible! Now, his advantage was gone. His patiently amassed and hoarded capital — of understanding and gallantry — had vanished in the twinkling of an eye.

“I’d like you to meet Sydney Ingram. This is Vivaldo Moore.”

Cass was at his shoulder, presenting the newcomer, of whose arrival he had been vaguely aware. He had come alone. Vivaldo recognized his name because the boy’s first novel had just been published and he wanted to read it. He was tall, nearly as tall as Vivaldo, with a pleasant, heavy-featured face and a great deal of black hair and, like Vivaldo, was dressed in a dark suit, probably his best one.

“I’m delighted to meet you,” Vivaldo said — sincerely, for the first time that evening.

“I’ve read his novel,” Cass said, “it’s wonderful, you must read it.”

“I want to,” said Vivaldo. Ingram smiled, looking uncomfortable, and stared into his glass as though he wished he could drown in it.

“I’ve circulated enough for the time being,” Cass said. “Let me stay with you two for a while.” She led them slowly toward the big window. It was twilight, the sun was gone, soon the street lamps would be turned on. “Somehow, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a literary hostess.”

“You looked fine to me,” said Vivaldo.

“You weren’t trying to keep up a conversation with me. My attention just keeps wandering, I can’t help it. I might as well be in a room full of physicists.”

“What are they talking about over at the bar?” Vivaldo asked.

“Steve Ellis’s responsibility to the televiewers of America,” Ingram said. They laughed. “Don’t laugh,” said Ingram, “he, too, can become President. At least, he can read and write.”

“I should think,” said Cass, “that that would disqualify him.”

She took each of them by one arm and they stood together in the darkening window, staring out at the highway and the shining water. “What a great difference there is,” she said, “between dreaming of something and dealing with it!” Neither Vivaldo nor Ingram spoke. Cass turned to Ingram and, in a voice he had never heard her use before, wistful and desirous, she asked, “Are you working on something new, Mr. Ingram? I hope you are.”

And his voice seemed, oddly, to respond to hers. They might have been calling each other across that breadth of water, seeking for each other as the darkness relentlessly fell. “Yes,” he said, “I am, it’s a new novel, it’s a love story.”

“A love story!” she said. Then, “And where does it take place?”

“Oh, here in the city. Now.”

There was a silence. Vivaldo felt her small hand, under his elbow, tighten. “I’m looking forward to reading it,” she said, “very much.”

“Not more,” he said, “than I am looking forward to finishing it and having it read, especially, if I may say so, by you.”

She turned her face to Ingram, and he could not see her smile but he could feel it. “Thank you,” she said. She turned to the window again and she sighed. “I suppose I must get back to my physicists.”

They watched the street lamps click on.

“I’m going to have a drink,” Cass said. “Will anyone join me?”

“Sure,” said Vivaldo. They walked to the bar. Richard, Ellis, and Loring were sitting on the sofa. Miss Wales and Mrs. Ellis were standing at the bar. Ida was not in the room.

“Excuse me,” said Vivaldo.

“I think somebody’s in there!” cried Miss Wales.

He walked down the hall, but did not reach the bathroom. She was sitting in the bedroom, among all the coats and hats, perfectly still.

“Ida—?”

Her hands were folded in her lap and she was staring at the floor.

“Ida, why are you mad at me? I didn’t mean anything.”

She looked up at him. Her eyes were full of tears.

“Why did you have to say what you said? Everything was fine and I was so happy until you said that. You think I’m nothing but a whore. That’s the only reason you want to see me.” The tears dripped down her face. “All you white bastards are the same.”

“Ida, I swear that isn’t true. I swear that isn’t true.” He dropped to one knee beside the bed and tried to take her hands in his. She turned her face away. “Honey, I’m in love with you. I got scared and I got jealous, but I swear I didn’t mean what you thought I meant, I didn’t, I couldn’t, I love you. Ida, please believe me. I love you.”

Her body kept shaking and he felt her tears on his hands. He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them. He tried to look into her face, but she kept her face turned away. “Ida. Ida, please.”

“I don’t know any of these people,” she said, “I don’t care about them. They think I’m just another colored girl, and they trying to be nice, but they don’t care. They don’t want to talk to me. I only stayed because you asked me, and you’ve been so nice, and I was so proud of you, and now you’ve spoiled it all.”

“Ida,” he said, “if I’ve spoiled things between you and me, I don’t know how I’m going to live. You can’t say that. You’ve got to take it back, you’ve got to forgive me and give me another chance. Ida.” He put one hand to her face and slowly turned it toward him. “Ida, I love you, I do, more than anything in this world. You’ve got to believe me. I’d rather die than hurt you.” She was silent. “I was jealous and I was scared and that was a very dumb thing I said. But I was just afraid you didn’t care about me. That’s all. I didn’t mean anything bad about you.”

She sighed and reached for her purse. He gave her a handkerchief. She dried her eyes and blew her nose. She looked very tired and helpless.

He moved and sat beside her on the bed. She avoided looking at him but she did not move.

“Ida—” and he was shocked by the sound of his voice, it contained such misery. It did not seem to be his voice, it did not seem to be under his control. “I told you, I love you. Do you care about me?” She rose and walked to the mirror. He watched her. “Please tell me.”

She looked into the mirror, then picked up her handbag from the bed. She opened it, closed it, then looked in the mirror again. Then she looked at him, “Yes,” she said, helplessly, “yes, I do.”

He took her face between his hands and kissed her. At first she did not answer him, seemed merely to be enduring him, seemed suspended, hanging, waiting. She was trembling and he tried to control her trembling with the force of his arms and hands. Then something seemed to bend in her, to give, and she put her arms around him, clinging to him. Finally, he whispered in her ear, “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go.”

“Yes,” she said, after a moment, “I guess it’s time to go.” But she did not step out of his arms at once. She looked at him and she said, “I’m sorry I was so silly. I know you didn’t mean it.”

“I’m sorry, too. I’m just a jealous, no-good bastard, I can’t help it, I’m crazy about you.”

And he kissed her again.

“—leaving so soon!” said Miss Wales. “And we never got a chance to talk!”

“Vivaldo,” said Cass, “I’ll call you this week. Ida, I can’t call you, will you call me? Let’s get together.”

“I’m waiting for a script from you, you bum,” said Ellis, “just as soon as you climb down out of that makeshift ivory tower. Nice meeting you, Miss Scott.”

“He means it,” said Mrs. Ellis. “He really means it.”

“I was happy to meet you both,” said Ingram, “very happy. Good luck with your novel.”

Richard walked them to the door. “Are we still friends?”

“Are you kidding? Of course, we’re still friends.”

But he wondered if they were.