Ishmael Reed: The Last Days of Louisiana Red

Inside one of the apartments of the Yellings’ house sit Minnie and Sister. It is decorated in the psychedelic style of the sixties: attractively decorated pillows for seats, oddly shaped chairs and an old table picked up from a flea market. There are posters on the wall. One reads, “Visit Bulgaria,” another, “Free Anything,” under which is drawn the picture of a rattlesnake preparing to strike. Minnie, however skinny, has matured into a good-looking woman: A little mama; worldly, sophisticated and often impatient with her ignorant followers who believe anything she tells them. Sister is a “wee plump,” modest legs, butt and breasts. She is solid and in the old days would have been called a red hot. Sister is wrapped up so in long skirts, jewelry and a white turban that much of her original self is hidden. Minnie, this time out, is in denims, sandals, and wears an unassuming sweater. She doesn’t wear just one thing. Her fashions change as much as her mind. Sister doesn’t belong to Minnie’s cult, though Minnie has been working on her over the years.

“I saw our brother this morning, driving that old Oldsmobile of his down Shattuck. He didn’t even honk his horn.”

“He’s probably mad at you because you and them Moochers tried to close down his Solid Gumbo Works.”

“Well, what were we suppose to do? He’s so aloof, so jive. And that LaBas. Where did they get him? From the east, huh. Talking about ‘our profits are intangible and so we don’t have to keep any books,’ and then he had the nerve to point to his forehead, ‘The books are in here.’”

“He must know something, though. Your Moochers couldn’t get past his guard, even when they tried.”

“We’ll get him sooner or later. Nothing can stop my Moochers. Next time the sacrifices will be more terrible, bloodier.”

“Why is there always the need for blood, Minnie? Why do you always see ‘many casualties’ as being victorious?”

“We Moochers understand nothing but blood. Blood is truth. Blood is life. Drink blood, drink it. Blood. Blood.” (With this, a distant gaze)

“I … I … understand, I think, Minnie, but it’s still …”

“O Sister, you’re so dense. You know, I was always the one in the family who was good for theory. Our father was the poet. You and Wolf were the ones who didn’t fit.”

“Minnie, let’s not go through that again. I sympathize with your aims as far as I can understand them, but why are you so hard on Papa LaBas and Wolf? People say that he prevented the Business from going under with Dad.” (Minnie nervously mashes out her cigarette in an ashtray and swings around.)

“Now look here, Sister, don’t you dare say such things even if you mean them. LaBas and our kïnd will be locked in interminable struggle against the fascist insect! It’s inevitable.”

“See? There you go.”

“What do you mean?”

“Minnie talk (bites into a fruit). It sounds the same whoever says it. Who says everything has to be that way?”

“My slogans.”

“Your what?”

“My slogans (distantly). They tell me. My slogans know everything. With my slogans I can change the look of the future any time I wish.”

“Aw, Minnie, that’s sick. How can you change something that’s only about to be?”

“We have our tested ways. Tried and true; now with my slogans we’re able to match wits with the best of them. All this, due to our slogans. My slogans be praised.”

(Sweet lovable Nanny enters the room.)

“I jus hears you chirren carrin on, so I knows I jus had to bring yawl some good ol cream of wheat. Piping hot. Now dig in, girls.” She rests the service on the table.

“O Nanny, how sweet of you.” (Minnie goes over; kneels and hugs this lovable old creature by the legs.) “What would I have done all these years without your counsel.”

“Now, dear (comforting Minnie), my souls ache when I hears you worrin your brains so. You knows your brains will bust if you keep worrin yo sweet heart about these things. These is white folks’ matters you’s worrin so about.”

“We’re not arguing over anything deep, Nanny. She just needs to get out more. Party some. They’re beginning to call her, well… cold. Her own Minnies say her speeches put them to sleep.”

“That’s not true,” Minnie shouts, knocking the cream of wheat bowl to the floor.

“Chile, you so nervous. Look what you’z done done with my flo. Lawz be.”

“I’m sorry, Nanny … Sister loves to tease me.”

“I thought you were going on a date. What’s wrong with you teasin this chile!”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Sister says, making that derisive defiant gesture standing on one leg and fixing an earring. (She exits into the bathroom.)

(Minnie is lying on a sofa, weeping. Nanny goes over and comforts her.)

“Now, now, baby doll. Don’t cry. Yo Nanny won’t like that. Yo Nanny’s got a strong chile. Come to my heavy black bosom.” Minnie really bawls then.

(Sister comes out of the bathroom, pins some baroque-looking earrings to her ears, picks up her pocketbook.)

“Well, I have to be going; this Nigerian brother is taking me out on a date.”

“Where you going this time of night?” Nanny asks, frowning fiercely.

“We thought we’d go to eat at the Rainbow Sign and then down to Solomon Grundy’s to hear Art Fletcher. He plays a soft piano, and you can sit about the fireplace. People can hear what each other say. Across the way you can see the skyline of San Francisco.”

“Well, don’t be coming in here all time of the nite like you grown. You ain’t grown yet. Got a long way to go if you ask me. Yo Daddy thought he was so smart and look what he got. Mr. Bigshot. Where is he? What happened to him? He dead, that’s what. And your brother Wolf, who got some sense, put you in my charge and so I’m gon see about you. I raised you.”

“You old mangy dog; you never liked us — me, Dad, Street and Wolf. It was always Minnie. Minnie this. Minnie that. Always taking her side. You hated the rest of the family and you know it, so don’t you be telling me how much you loved us and how you raised me.”

(Minnie leaps from Nanny’s lap to her feet.)

“How can you defend him, Sister? He didn’t care what happened to us; he was always down at that factory making Gumbo. If it wasn’t for Nanny here, we would have perished.”

“That’s true. That’s so true. The man wasn’t nothin,” Nanny says.

“If it wasn’t for Nanny, we would be in the bay.”

“Well, she was paid enough. Always poking into Dad’s Business.”

“Sister, you apologize.”

“Apologize for what? I use to see her poking into his papers.”

“I was only looking for change to pay the paper boy,” Nanny said.

(Sister examines her watch)

“Look, I have to go. We’ll argue later. There’s always later.” (Sister exits.)

“Don’t you mind her, chile. Would you like some beer? I feels like having my nightly quart. Share a can with me? Then I’ll tell you some stories like I use to.” (Nanny rises as Minnie lifts her head)

“Will you, Nanny?”

“Yes, we’ll pretend that you’re still the little child. And I’ll read you my Louisiana Red stories.”

Minnie was glad seeing Nanny’s faithful old big behind going out of the door. That would be fun. She hadn’t heard those stories for quite a while. She knew them by heart; in fact it was those stories that prepared her for leadership of the Moochers: the Louisiana Red stories. All about the wonderful Marie of New Orleans and that diabolical fiend Doc John. As for Sister:

What does she know? The mind of a little bird. She allows her life to be controlled without knowing the source, but my Minnies and I know what’s going on. Our chapters are spreading. Sisters and Brothers are going into every part of the nation carrying the good word. Our name is on everyone’s tongue, and after that most recent shoot-out in which our brothers fled into the arms of glorious Hades, our popularity has increased manifold. Only LaBas stands in my way and that reactionary will be dealt with in due course . (pause)