James Baldwin - Another Country

The door closed behind them and they stood in the corridor, staring at each other.

“Shall we go home?” he asked.

She watched him, her eyes very large and dark. “You got anything to eat down there?”

“No. But the stores are still open. We can get something.”

She took his arm and they walked to the elevator. He rang the bell. He stared at her as though he could not believe his eyes.

“Good,” she said. “We’ll get something and I’ll cook you a decent supper.”

“I’m not very hungry,” he said.

They heard the elevator door slam beneath them and the elevator began to rise.

The smell of the chicken she had fried the night before still hung in the room, and the dishes were still in the sink. The wishbone lay drying on the table, surrounded by the sticky glasses out of which they had drunk beer, and by their sticky coffee cups. Her clothes were thrown over a chair, his were mainly on the floor. He had awakened, she was asleep. She slept on her side, her dark head turned away from him, making no sound.

He leaned up a little and watched her face. Her face would now be, forever, more mysterious and impenetrable than the face of any stranger. Strangers’ faces hold no secrets because the imagination does not invest them with any. But the face of a lover is an unknown precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment.

She slept. He felt that she was sleeping partly in order to avoid him. He fell back on his pillow, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling. She was in his bed but she was far from him; she was with him and yet she was not with him. In some deep, secret place she watched herself, she held herself in check, she fought him. He felt that she had decided, long ago, precisely where the limits were, how much she could afford to give, and he had not been able to make her give a penny more. She made love to him as though it were a technique of pacification, a means to some other end. However she might wish to delight him, she seemed principally to wish to exhaust him; and to remain, above all, herself on the banks of pleasure the while she labored mightily to drown him in the tide. His pleasure was enough for her, she seemed to say, his pleasure was hers. But he wanted her pleasure to be his, for them to drown in the tide together.

He had slept, but badly, aware of Ida’s body next to his, and aware of a failure more subtle than any he had known before.

And his mind was troubled with questions which he had not before permitted to enter but whose hour, now, had struck. He wondered who had been with her before him; how many, how often, how long; what he, or they before him, had meant to her; and he wondered if her lover, or lovers, had been white or black. What difference does it make? he asked himself. What difference does any of it make? One or more, white or black — she would tell him one of these days. They would learn everything about each other, they had time, she would tell him. Would she? Or would she merely accept his secrets as she accepted his body, happy to be the vehicle of his relief? While offering in return (for she knew the rules) revelations intended to pacify and also intended to frustrate him; to frustrate, that is, any attempt on his part to strike deeper into that incredible country in which, like the princess of fairy tales, sealed in a high tower and guarded by beasts, bewitched and exiled, she paced her secret round of secret days.

It was early in the morning, around seven, and there was no sound anywhere. The girl beside him stirred silently in her sleep and threw one hand up, as though she had been frightened. The scarlet eye on her little finger flashed. Her heavy hair was wild and tangled and the face she wore in sleep was not the face she wore when awake. She had taken off all her make-up, so that she had scarcely any eyebrows, and her unpainted lips were softer now, and defenseless. Her skin was darker than it was in the daytime and the round, rather high forehead held a dull, mahogany sheen. She looked like a little girl as she slept, but she was not a very trusting little girl; one hand half-covered her face and the other was hidden between her thighs. It made him think, somehow, of all the sleeping children of the poor. He touched her forehead lightly with his lips, then eased himself quietly out of bed and went into the bathroom. When he came out he stood staring for a moment at the kitchen, then lit a cigarette, and brought an ashtray back to the bed with him. He lay on his belly, smoking, his long arms dangling to the floor, where he had placed the ashtray.

“What time is it?”

He leaned up, smiling, “I didn’t know you were awake.” And, strangely, he suddenly felt terribly shy, as though this was his first time to awaken, naked, next to a naked girl.

“Oh,” she said, “I like to watch people when they think I’m asleep.”

“That’s good to know. How long have you been watching me?”

“Not long. Just when you came out of the bathroom. I saw your face and I wondered what you were thinking about.”

“I was thinking about you.” Then he kissed her. “Good morning. It’s seven-thirty.”

“My Lord. Do you always wake up so early?” And she yawned and grinned.

“No. But I guess I couldn’t wait to see you again.”

“Now, I’m going to remember that,” she said, “when you start waking up at noon and even later and act like you don’t want to get up out of the bed.”

“Well, I may not be so anxious to jump right out of bed .” She motioned for his cigarette and he held it for her while she took a drag or two. Then he put the cigarette out in the ashtray. He leaned over her. “How about you?”

“You’re sweet,” she said, and, after a moment, “you’re a deep-sea diver.” Each of them blushed. He put his hands on her breasts, which were heavy and wide apart, with reddish-brown nipples. Her large shoulders quivered a little, a pulse beat in her neck. She watched him with a face at once troubled and detached, calm, and, at the same time, frightened.

“Love me,” he said. “I want you to love me.”

She caught one of his hands as it moved along her belly.

“You think I’m one of those just-love-to-love girls.”

“Baby,” he said, “I sure hope so; we’re going to be great, let me tell you. We haven’t even started yet.” His voice had dropped to a whisper and their two hands knotted together in a teasing tug of war.

She smiled. “How many times have you said that ?”

He paused, looking over her head at the blinds which held back the morning. “I don’t believe I’ve ever said it. I’ve never felt this way before.” He looked down at her again and kissed her again. “Never.”

After a moment she said, “Neither have I.” She said it quickly, as though she had just popped a pill into her mouth and were surprised at its taste and apprehensive about its effects.

He looked into her eyes. “Is that true?”

“Yes.” Then she dropped her eyes. “I’ve got to watch my step with you.”

“Why? Don’t you trust me?”

“It’s maybe that I don’t trust myself.”

“Maybe you’ve never loved a man before,” he said.

“I’ve never loved a white man, that’s the truth.”

“Oh, well,” he said, smiling, trying to empty his mind of the doubts and fears which filled it, “be my guest.” He kissed her again, a little drunk with her heat, her taste, her smell. “Never,” he said, gravely, “never anyone like you.” Her hand relaxed a little and he guided it down. He kissed her neck and shoulders. “I love your colors. You’re so many different, crazy colors.”

“Lord,” she said, and laughed, sharply, nervously, and tried to move her hand away but he held it: the tug of war began again. “I’m the same old color all over.”