James Baldwin - Another Country

“You can’t see yourself all over. But I can. Part of you is honey, part of you is copper, some of you is gold—”

“Lord. What’re we going to do with you this morning?”

“I’ll show you. Part of you is black, too, like the entrance to a tunnel—”

“Vivaldo.” Her head hit the pillow from side to side in a kind of torment which had nothing to do with him, but for which, just the same, he was responsible. He put his hand on her forehead, already beginning to be damp, and was struck by the way she then looked at him; looked at him as though she were, indeed, a virgin, promised at her birth to him, the bridegroom; whose face she now saw for the first time, in the darkened bridal chamber, after all the wedding guests had gone. There was no sound of revelry anywhere, only silence, no help anywhere if not in this bed, violation by the bridegroom’s body her only hope. Yet she tried to smile. “I’ve never met a man like you before.” She said this in a low voice, in a tone that mixed hostility with wonder.

“Well, I told you — I’ve never met a girl like you before, either.” But he wondered what kind of men she had known. Gently, he forced her thighs open; she allowed him to place her hand on his sex. He felt that, for the first time, his body presented itself to her as a mystery and that, immediately, therefore, he, Vivaldo, became totally mysterious in her eyes. She touched him for the first time with wonder and terror, realizing that she did not know how to caress him. It was being borne in on her that he wanted her : this meant that she no longer knew what he wanted. “You’ve slept with lots of girls like me before, haven’t you? With colored girls.”

“I’ve slept with lots of all kinds of girls.” There was no laughter between them now; they whispered, and the heat between them rose. Her odor rose to meet him, it mingled with his own, sharper sweat. He was between her thighs and in her hands, her eyes stared fearfully into his.

“But with colored girls, too?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause, she sighed a long, shuddering sigh. She arched her head upward, away from him. “Were they friends of my brother’s?”

“No. No. I paid them.”

“Oh.” Her head dropped, she closed her eyes, she brought her thighs together, then opened them. The covers were in his way and he threw them off and then for a moment, half-kneeling, he stared at the honey and the copper and the gold and the black of her. Her breath came in short, sharp, trembling gasps. He wanted her to turn her face to him and open her eyes.

“Ida. Look at me.”

She made a sound, a kind of moan, and turned her face toward him but kept her eyes closed. He took her hand again.

“Come on. Help me.”

Her eyes opened for a second, veiled, but she smiled. He lowered himself down upon her, slowly, allowing her hands to guide him, and kissed her on the mouth. They locked together, shaking, her hands fluttered upward and settled on his back. I paid them . She sighed again, a different sigh, long and surrendering, and the struggle began.

It was not like the thrashing of the night before, when she bucked beneath him like an infuriated horse or a beached fish. Now she was attentive to the point of trembling and because he felt that one thoughtless moment would send her slipping and sliding away from him, he was very attentive, too. Her hands moved along his back, up and down, sometimes seeming to wish to bring him closer, sometimes being tempted to push him away, moved in a terrible, a beautiful indecision, and caused him, brokenly, deep in his throat, to moan. She opened up before him, yet fell back before him, too, he felt that he was traveling up a savage, jungle river, looking for the source which remained hidden just beyond the black, dangerous, dripping foliage. Then, for a moment, they seemed to be breaking through. Her hands broke free, her thighs inexorably loosened, their bellies ground cruelly together, and a curious, low whistle forced itself up through her throat, past her bared teeth. Then she was checked, her hands flew up to his neck, the moment passed. He rested. Then he began again. He had never been so patient, so determined, or so cruel before. Last night she had watched him; this morning he watched her; he was determined to bring her over the edge and into his possession, even, if at the moment she finally called his name, the heart within him burst. This, anyway, seemed more imminent than the spilling of his seed. He was aching in a way he had never ached before, was congested in a new way, and wherever her hands had touched him and then fled, he was cold. Her hands clung to his neck as though she were drowning and she was absolutely silent, silent as a child is silent before it finally summons enough breath to scream, before the blow lands, before the long fall begins. And, ruthlessly, viciously, he pushed her to the edge. He did not know whether her body moved with his or not, her body was so nearly his. He felt the bed throbbing beneath them, and heard it sing. Her hands went wild, flying from his neck to his throat to his shoulders. his chest, she began to thrash beneath him, trying to get away and trying to come closer. Her hands, at last, had their own way and grasped his friendly body, caressing and scratching and burning. Come on. Come on . He felt a tremor in her belly, just beneath him, as though something had broken there, and it rolled tremendously upward, seeming to divide her breasts, as though he had split her all her length. And she moaned. It was a curiously warning sound, as though she were holding up one hand against the ocean. The sound of her helplessness caused all of his affection, tenderness, desire, to return. They were almost there. Come on come on come on come on. Come on! He began to gallop her, whinnying a little with delight, and, for the first time, became a little cold with fright, that so much of himself, so long damned up, must now come pouring out. Her moans gave way to sobs and cries. Vivaldo. Vivaldo. Vivaldo . She was over the edge. He hung, hung, clinging to her as she clung to him, calling her name, wet, itching, bursting, blind. It began to pour out of him like the small weak trickle that precedes disaster in the mines. He felt his whole face pucker, felt the wind in his throat, and called her name again, while all the love in him rushed down, rushed down, and poured itself into her.

After a long time, he felt her fingers in his hair and he looked into her face. She was smiling — a thoughtful, baffled smile. “Get your big, white self off me. I can’t move.”

He kissed her, weary as he could be, and peaceful.

“Tell me something first.”

She looked sly and amused and mocking; very much like a woman and very much like a shy, little girl. “What do you want to know?”

He shook her, laughing. “Come on. Tell me.”

She kissed him on the tip of his nose. “It never happened to me before — not like this, never.”

“Never?”

“Never. Almost — but no, never.” Then, “Was I good for you?”

“Yes. Yes. Don’t ever leave me.”

“Let me get up.”

He rolled over on his back and she got out of bed and walked into the bathroom. He watched the tall, dusty body, which now belonged to him, disappear. He heard water running in the bathroom, then he heard the shower. He fell asleep.

He woke up in the early afternoon. Ida was standing before the stove, singing.

If you can’t give me a dollar,

Give me a lousy dime—

She had washed the dishes, cleaned up the kitchen, and hung up his clothes. Now she was making coffee.

Just want to feed

This hungry man of mine.