Caryl Phillips - Dancing In The Dark

The corner of 135th and Seventh Avenue is his crossroads. The gentility of the neighborhood remains intact in the architecture, but the spirit of quiet contemplation that is suggested by the graceful curves and stately pillars is being slowly undermined by the energy of the new people. He pays the man, and overtips him a little, for it is late and he is always grateful to a driver who will come so far north when it is unlikely that he will be fortunate enough to find a fare to accompany him back south. He can see number 2309 with its short steep flight of steps leading up to the door. The narrow four-storey property is pinned between identical others, and is distinguishable only by the quality of the drapes that hang in the windows. This short row suggests something not quite grand, but something that is clearly beyond the ordinary, but he will not enter just yet, for his wife will still be at Marshall’s, and he has yet to acquaint himself with the procedure of how to walk comfortably into an empty house. He stands and looks at number 2309, and then decides that rather than aimlessly wander the streets on his aching feet he will take a drink in Metheney’s and have himself a little private contemplation. Mother will understand why her dispirited “Jonah Man” is reluctant to enter the house in its gloomy state, especially as he has just left a dark theater, and she will have no objections to his slipping inside Metheney’s and making himself at home.

A silk-tongued George suggests to Ada that she looks tired and perhaps she ought to leave Marshall’s and go home. Ada turns and smiles, and she announces to those in earshot that she has a headache and that it is probably time for her to leave, but she has a tight feeling in her chest that her colleagues suspect this to be untrue. Number 107 West 132nd Street is a handsome row house just off Sixth Avenue that is divided into apartments, with a tasteful flight of steps that lead to an elegant wooden door. Ada fishes carefully in her bag for her key, and even though she is far beyond people’s eyes she tries to maintain a ladylike dignity. But her George has humiliated her again, although he always does so with the utmost charm. Before she left Marshall’s he whispered to her that he had a chill and she should set a fire and warm up the apartment. He then informed her that when the drinking and carousing had died down a little he still had some business to conduct with Mr. Jesse Shipp and with the composers, Will Cook and Paul Dunbar, for there were a few numbers that needed touching up ahead of tomorrow night’s show, and with rehearsal time being severely limited they would need to get their work started now. She had smiled at George, and having said good-bye to everybody she reassured her husband that she would have no trouble getting back by herself. “You take your time,” were her final words. Lottie had begged Ada to let her accompany her on the journey back north, but Ada was a proud woman. She told Lottie to go back inside and enjoy herself. Everything would be fine. Once Ada found the key to the apartment, and opened the door and passed inside, she lit a fire and watched in silent fascination as the flames rose. She listened to the wood snapping and breaking loudly under the pressure of the heat. Then Ada looked up and peered out the window and into the empty street, and she caught herself reflected in the glass in this foolish repose and laughed out loud at her stupidity for she understood that once again she was unconsciously hoarding these slights like cards to be dealt on some future occasion, but she already understood that in order for her marriage to work she would have to ignore the pain of her husband’s indiscretions and move on. Ada returned her gaze to the blazing fire, each flame describing a singular dance.

Bob Cole and Ernest Hogan stand by the bar and watch the In Dahomey company making their noise and swilling their drinks. Although the two colored veterans have not as yet seen the show, they have heard a good portion of what Cook and Dunbar have composed, for the two men tried out their new songs in Marshall’s Lounge. As for the “business” part of the play, well everybody knows that these things are pretty much standard. A little verbal play, some spectacle, plenty of dance, a dash of disharmony, some vestige of tension, and that more or less covers everything. There have been Negro musical comedies before and so, the enviable Broadway location aside, what could be new? However, Cole and Hogan worry, for a success for one does not mean a success for all. The New York theatrical producers are notoriously fickle in their tastes, and they generally like to pocket just one colored man at a time, a man who they believe they can safely rely upon and promote, and George Walker is besporting himself as though he believes that he is that man, running his mouth off to Mr. Jesse Shipp and driving home his points with an erect forefinger. The small dark dandy from Kansas seems to have grown six inches as the evening has progressed, and Bob Cole and Ernest Hogan stand by the bar and order another drink without turning their heads to face the barman. They look straight ahead at the revelry, each man fully understanding what the other is thinking.

Leaving the Rockies behind at dawn, and setting out now across the vast expanse of the plains. He looks at the sun rising in the east and wonders if he should try to find some sleep. All night he has sat bolt upright and awake while his wife has slept peacefully on the noisy train, but his attention is now seized by the dazzling morning display of golden sunlight beginning to flood the prairie, while far off on the horizon there is a sudden flash of color, like a bird turning wing. It seems a whole lifetime ago that he left Florida and cut a swath across this continent from east to west on a ship with his wife and eleven-year-old son. Now here he is charging back across a land that is wild with large animals and dangerous men, but he feels safe on this train, watching the shifting landscapes of the huge country unfold before his eyes. How different from the small, economically impoverished island that he once called home. Riverside, California, has provided him with a roof and the possibility of making a decent living, but now he is reluctantly quarrying his way to the east coast to see the son that he has not seen in nearly ten years. His wife keeps their boy’s few letters safely tucked away in a heavy book, and she often consults the yellowing sheets, running her finger along the words as she reads and rereads, trying to memorize the sentences as though they are the comforting words to a vaguely familiar song. However, it disappoints them both that as yet their secretive son has failed to send them an up-to-date portrait of either himself or his bride, their daughter-in-law, and they both worry that the gap that has grown up between them during this past decade may yet prove to be as wide and unbridgeable as the country that they are now traveling across.

I’M A JONAH MAN

(Lyrics and Music by Alex. Rogers)

My hard luck started when I was born, leas’ so the old folks say.

Dat same hard luck been my bes’ fren’ up to dis very day.

When I was young my mamma’s fren’s to find a name they tried.

They named me after Papa and the same day Papa died.

For I’m a Jonah,

I’m an unlucky man.

My family for many years would look on me and then shed tears.

Why am I dis Jonah I sho’ can’t understand,

But I’m a good substantial full-fledged real first-class Jonah man.

A fren’ of mine gave me a six-month meal ticket one day.

He said, “It won’t do me no good, I’ve got to go away.”

I thanked him as my heart wid joy and gratitude did bound.

But when I reach’d the restaurant the place had just burn’d down.