Ishmael Reed - Flight to Canada

Pompey stands at the doorway; he holds a pillow bearing a silver telephone. “Uncle Robin, telephone. Says it’s Harriet Beecher Stowe calling from Jewett Publishers in Boston.”

“Uncle Robin?”

“Yes.”

“This is Harriet Beecher Stowe, calling from the plush-carpeted walnut-wooded offices of Jewett Publishers in Boston.”

“Yes, my employee told me.”

“Your … er … man? Yes, of course, I did read where Arthur Swille left you his entire fortune. What was wrong with him?”

“I don’t understand, Ms. Stowe. Mr. Swille was a good man. We were all fond of him down here.”

“Oh yes, of course. Look, I’m putting together an anthology of slave poetry. Can you tell me where I can find Henry Bibb?”

“I’m not exactly the ledger keeper for all of the fugitives in the world, but I think you might find him in Canada these days, Ms. Stowe.”

“Well, I hope he’s playing the harp for Christ and not up to his bad habits. Is he still refusing to talk to white people?”

“Uncle Robin … by the way, are you the Uncle Robin I interviewed for my book?”

“Yes, Ms. Stowe. You gave me a pig, a duck and a goose. Remember?”

“Yes, well, Uncle Robin, I’d like to do a book on you … and what it felt like being the house man of one of the most rich and fabulous men in the world. Known everywhere as the American Baron.”

“I got somebody already, Ms. Stowe.”

“You have somebody? Who could you know?”

“Raven Quickskill. He’s going to do it.”

“But I’ve already told Mr. Jewett that you’d do it for me. I need to buy a new silk dress. I have to go to England … I …”

Robin hangs up.

“What was that all about?” Aunt Judy said.

“Nothing, dear,” Robin said.

“Robin?”

“Yes, dear?”

“There was something I always meant to ask you. But I figured it was your business. It always struck me as being curious.”

“What, dear?”

“Why did you provide that man with those poor slave mothers’ milk each morning? That was hard to swallow. But you were my husband and so I never brought it up,” Aunt Judy said, squashing her Turkish cigarette in one of Swille’s ashtrays.

“That wasn’t slave mothers’ milk,” Uncle Robin said, puffing on a Brazilian cigar. “That was Coffee Mate,”* he said, blowing out smoke rings. “Every time I went on trips for Swille, I’d load up on it. They serve it on the airplanes. I’m an old hand at poisons, and so I’d venture a guess that if Swille’s wife, or Vivian or whatever or whoever pushed him hadn’t he’d of ‘gone on’ from the cumulative effects of the Coffee Mate. Cartwright ain’t the only scientist. Those Double Etherics that Ms. Swille’s defense witnesses talked about sounded more scientific than that bull he been laying down. I was keeping busy around here, and now that Swille’s finished I think I’ll return to my old job, and let Pompey handle the figures. It’s about time he learned. The boy’s fast. He’s so fast that some of the people are talking about seeing him in two places at the same time. He’s a good voice-thrower too. He’s got a little act he entertains us with. He puts on animal clothes and will do an impersonation of any animal you know. If you want him to be an eagle, he’ll get up and flap his wings and jump up and down. If you want him to be a turtle, he’ll walk ponderously about on all fours and do his neck like a rubbery telescope. The other night he dressed up like a low-budget peacock. He can do impersonations too. He got the whole Swille family down pat. He can do all of the men and women, and the dead ones too. His room is full of all kinds of animal and reptile and bird masks. I’m going to let him juggle the books around here for a while. Then I can go back to my plants. The camellias, the azaleas, and the ones only I know.”

“Robin,” Aunt Judy said, rising slowly from the table, “I think I’ll go upstairs. What are we going to do with all of this space, Robin? We’re not used to living like this. All we need is an apartment. They say there are fifty rooms in this place. What are we going to do with fifty rooms? Fifty rooms will be hard to clean, Robin.”

“You have servants. Bangalang.”

“I don’t want Bangalang in my house. Robin, you’re going to have to do something. You got us into this.”

“I told you I’ll think of something, Judy. You go on upstairs. I have a lot of thinking to do.”

She walks over to where he’s sitting and kisses him on the cheek. “I know you’ll think of something.”

She walks out of the room and up the stairs. Robin rises, goes over to the liquor cabinet, pours himself a double bourbon, walks over to the window. A car is moving up the driveway. Who could this be?

There’s a knock at the door. Robin opens it. It’s Stray Leechfield and two men, one short and one medium.

“Would you get your man Master Arthur Swille; we’ll wait here in the lobby,” the short one said, removing his hat, walking a grumbling Stray Leechfield into the hall. The medium one was handcuffed to Leechfield.

“I’m afraid my man is dead,” Robin said, bowing his head. “I’m the man here now.”

“He died? What does that mean?” the medium one said, staring at his companion.

“It means that I’m free. Now will you take these handcuffs off?” Leechfield said, stretching out his hands. “I have to get to New York for the opening of the Leechfield & Leer Minstrel Organization at the Ethiopian Opera House on Broadway,” Leechfield said, his nose to the ceiling.

“What’s so funny?” Leechfield said, glaring at Uncle Robin. Leechfield was dressed in a white Russian drill coat, ruby-red plush breeches, a beautiful cloth waistcoat of the color of ideal sky-blue, a splendid silk shirt and a rakish French hat from New Orleans. He had rings on all of his fingers, a diamond stickpin on a cravat and Wellington boots.

“Man, is that the way you dress up around the Great Lakes?” Robin asked.

“It’s my bi’ness how I dress, old man,” Leechfield said. “You ain’t bound to me. You don’t have to identify with me. Why don’t you get free, old man? Then maybe you’ll let me be free. You ought to get out of the South once in a while. Then you’d know that these are theatrical clothes. Dummy. This what theatrical people wear out there in the smart world.”

“Let him go,” Robin said. “It’s all right.”

“Yeah, but with Swille gone, who’s going to pay the bill?”

“Yeah, who’s going to pay the bill?” the medium one said.

“I’ll pay. I’ve taken over the books. I’ll give you a check,” Robin said. “But first, I know you’ve traveled far for this. Why don’t you go into the kitchen and have Bangalang fix you some sandwiches and give you a bottle of beer.”

The three start for the kitchen, led by Leechfield. Being a former Greaser, he knows where the kitchen is.

“Hold on, Leechfield,” Robin says.

“Yeah, what is it?” Leechfield says with a sneer.

“Did you really think that it was just a matter of economics? Did you think you could just hand history a simple check, that you could short-change history, and history would let you off as simple as that? You’ve insulted history, Leechfield. The highest insult! You thought he’d let you off with a simple check. It was more complicated than that. You thought you were dealing with straw when you’re dealing with iron. He was going to return you the check. He had money. He didn’t want money. He wanted the slave in you. When you defied him, took off, the money was no longer the issue. He couldn’t conceive of a world without slaves. That was his grand scheme. A world of lords, ladies and slaves. You were showing the other slaves that it didn’t have to be that way. That the promised land was in their heads. The old way. The old way taught that man could be the host for God. Not one man. All men. That was the conflict between you and Swille. You, 40s and Quickskill threatened to give the god in the slave breath.”