James Baldwin - Another Country

Ida professed herself very struck by the change in Eric — she meant by this that she disapproved of surprises and that Eric had surprised her — and the implacable, unaccountable Puritan in her disapproved of his new and astonishing affair. She said that Cass was foolish and that Eric was dishonest.

Vivaldo’s feelings were much milder — it was not Eric who had surprised him, but Cass. She had certainly jeopardized everything; and he remembered her declaration: No, thank you, Vivaldo, I don’t want to be protected any more . And, insofar as his own confusion allowed him to consider hers at all, he was proud of her — not so much because she had placed herself in danger as because she knew she had.

A French movie in which Eric played a bit part came to New York that summer and the four of them made an appointment to go and see it. Ida and Vivaldo were to meet Eric and Cass at the box office.

“What does she think she’s doing?” Ida asked. She and Vivaldo were walking toward the theater through the July streets.

“She’s trying to live,” said Vivaldo, mildly.

“Oh, shit, baby, Cass is a grown woman with two kids. What about those kids? Eric’s not the fatherly type, at least not with boys that age.”

“What a filthy little moralist you are. What Cass does with Cass’s life is her business. Not yours. Maybe she knows more about those kids than you do; maybe she’s trying to live the way she thinks she ought to live so that they won’t be afraid to do it when their time comes.” He felt himself beginning to be angry. “And you don’t know enough about Eric to talk about him that way.”

“Those kids are going to hate her before it’s over, believe me. And don’t tell me I don’t know about Eric; I knew all about him the minute I laid eyes on him.”

“You knew what you’d heard . And you’d never heard that he was going to have an affair with Cass. So you’re bugged.”

“Eric may have you fooled, and he may have Cass fooled — of course, I think she’s just fooling herself — but I’m not fooled. You’ll see.”

“You’re not a singer at all, you’re a fortune-teller. We should get you some big brass earrings and a vivid turban and set you up in business.”

“Laugh, clown,” she said.

“Well, what do you care? If he wants to make it with her and she wants to make it with him, what do we care?”

“Don’t you care? Richard’s your friend.”

“Cass is more my friend than Richard,” he said.

“She can’t realize what she’s doing. She’s got a good man and he’s really starting to get someplace, and she can’t find anything better to do than start screwing some poor-white faggot from Alabama. I swear, I don’t understand white folks worth a damn.”

“Eric’s not poor-white; his family’s very well off,” he said, beginning to sweat with more than the heat, wishing her voice would cease.

“Well, I hope they haven’t disowned him. Do you think Eric’s ever going to make it as an actor?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything. But, yes, I do, he’s a very good actor.”

“He’s getting kind of old to be so unknown. What was he doing in Paris all that time?”

“I don’t know, baby, but I hope he was having a ball. You know? Like whatever he digs most, that’s what I hope he was doing.”

“Well,” she said, “that isn’t what he’s doing now.”

He sighed, telling himself to drop the subject or change it. But he said, “I just don’t see why it should matter to you, that’s all. So he likes a roll in the hay with a man. So what?”

“He wanted a roll in the hay with my brother, too,” she said. “He wanted to make him as sick as he is.”

“If anything happened between Eric and your brother, it didn’t happen because Eric threw him down and raped him. Let me cool you, honey, you don’t know as much about men as you think you know.”

She turned on him a small, grim smile. “ If anything happened. You’re a damn liar, and a coward, too.”

He looked at her; for that moment he hated her. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you know damn well what happened. Its only that you don’t want to know—”

“Ida, it was none of my damn business, I never talked about it with Rufus or with Eric. Why should I have?”

“Vivaldo, you haven’t got to talk about what’s happening to know what’s happening. Rufus never talked to me about what was happening to him — but I knew just the same.”

He was silent for a moment. Then, “You’re never going to forgive me, are you? for your brother’s death.”

Then she, too, was silent. He said, “I loved your brother, too, Ida. You don’t believe that, I know, but I did. But he was just a man, baby. He wasn’t a saint.”

“I never said he was a saint. But I’m black, too, and I know how white people treat black boys and girls. They think you’re something for them to wipe their pricks on.”

He saw the lights of the movie theater three blocks down the Avenue. The summer streets were full. His throat closed and his eyes began to burn.

“After all this time we’ve been together,” he said, at last, “you still think that?”

“Our being together doesn’t change the world, Vivaldo.”

“It does,” he said, “for me.”

“That,” she said, “is because you’re white.”

He felt, suddenly, that he was going to scream, right there in the crowded streets, or close his heavy fingers around her neck. The lights of the movie theater wavered before him, and the sidewalk seemed to tilt. “You stop that,” he said, in a voice which he did not recognize. “You stop that. You stop trying to kill me. It’s not my fault I’m white. It’s not my fault you’re black. It’s not my fault he’s dead.” He threw back his head, sharply, to scatter away his tears, to bring the lights into focus, to make the sidewalk even. And in another voice, he said, “He’s dead, sweetheart, but we’re alive. We’re alive, and I love you, I love you. Please don’t try to kill me.” And then, “Don’t you love me? Do you love me, Ida? Do you?” And he turned his head and looked at her.

She did not look at him; and she said nothing; said nothing for a block or more. The theater came closer and closer. Cass and Eric were standing under the marquee, and they waved. “What I don’t understand,” she said, slowly, “is how you can talk about love when you don’t want to know what’s happening. And that’s not my fault. How can you say you loved Rufus when there was so much about him you didn’t want to know? How can I believe you love me?” And, with a curious helplessness, she took his arm. “How can you love somebody you don’t know anything about? You don’t know where I’ve been. You don’t know what life is like for me.”

“But I’m willing,” he said, “to spend the rest of my life finding out.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Vivaldo. You may spend the rest of your life finding out — but it won’t be because you’re willing.” And then, with ferocity, “And it won’t be me you’ll be finding out about. Oh, Lord.” She dropped his arm. She gave him a strange side glance; he could not read it, it seemed both pitying and cold. “I’m sorry to have hurt your feelings, I’m not trying to kill you. I know you’re not responsible for — for the world. And, listen: I don’t blame you for not being willing. I’m not willing, nobody’s willing. Nobody’s willing to pay their dues.”

Then she moved forward, smiling, to greet Eric and Cass.

“Hello, kids,” she said — and Vivaldo watched her, that urchin grin, those flashing eyes—“how you been making it?” She tapped Eric lightly on the cheek. “They tell me you’re beginning to enjoy New York almost as much as you enjoyed Paris. How about that? We’re not so bad over here, now, are we?”