Toni Morrison: Tar Baby

The greenhouse was sunk in violins and Valerian, seated at a seed bench, did not hear Sydney enter. He was drenched in music and although his fingers shuddered occasionally, his head-of-a-coin profile moved accurately to the tempo. Sydney tapped him on the shoulder and he turned.

“Your lunch, Mr. Street.”

Valerian motioned for him to put the tray down, his fingers describing a wavy arc in the air.

“You letting this place run down, Mr. Street.”

“What’s that?” asked Valerian.

Sydney walked over to the record player and lifted the arm away. “I said you letting this place run down. Used to be pretty in here. You letting it go to pieces.”

“It’s my place,” said Valerian. “Turn the music back on.”

Sydney did not move, but said, “You don’t grow nothing in here anymore.”

“I like it this way, Sydney. Put the music back.”

“Then you should take care of it.”

“That’ll do, Sydney. Hand me the mail.”

Sydney picked up the stack of letters, circulars and catalogs and held them out to Valerian, but the dancing hands could not receive them. “Want me to open them for you?” asked Sydney.

“No. Yes.”

Sydney pulled up a stepping stool and sat down next to Valerian. “You should take care of yourself, too. You need a haircut.”

“I prefer it long,” said Valerian.

“No, you don’t. You just don’t want to go into town. The mulatto’s here today. If you won’t let me cut it, let him take you over.”

“What mulatto?”

Sydney slit open a letter with a penknife. “The one Dr. Michelin sent over. A mulatto. Been coming awhile now. He can take you over to get your hair cut.”

“Not today,” said Valerian. “Not today; later, Sydney.” Valerian turned toward the tray and tried to pick up the knife and fork. He succeeded but could not manage to make them do anything else but wave there in his hands. Sydney put aside the mail, and stood up. He took the knife and fork from Valerian, broke open the steaming potato, and scooped out a forkful. He blew on it and then held it in front of Valerian’s mouth. Valerian closed his lips and looked into Sydney’s eyes. He tried as best he could to see what was there, what was really there. He wasn’t sure, but he believed he saw kindness. He opened his lips and swallowed.

“Good,” said Sydney. “That’s good. It’s not too hot, is it?”

Valerian shook his head and opened his mouth for more. He chewed for a little while and then said, “Sydney?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did you…ah…”

“No, sir, I didn’t. I heard about it same time you did.”

“Ondine never told you?”

“Not a word.”

“I hear them in the kitchen. Talking, like they used to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Remember? How they used to gossip in the kitchen back then?”

“I remember.”

“He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“Michael? Oh, yes, sir. He’s fine.”

“I’m thinking of going back. I think I should leave this place and go back to Philadelphia.”

“What for?”

“I don’t like it here anymore. No reason to be here now.”

“No reason to be anywhere, Mr. Street. But I’d think carefully on it if I was you. Ondine and me, we like it down here. Philadelphia winters can be hard on old people. It’s nice and warm down here. Quiet too. We like it fine. Would you like a sip of Chablis now?” He put down the fork and went to the small refrigerator for a bottle of wine.

“No,” said Valerian. “Not now.”

“I would,” said Sydney. “I’d like a glass myself.” He worked the screw into the cork. “You sure you don’t want any?”

“I said no.”

“How are your bunions, Mr. Street?”

“Corns. I don’t have bunions. I have corns.”

“How are they?”

“Sydney, you are drinking my wine.”

“Next time that mulatto comes, I’ll tell him to bring you back a pair of huaraches.”

“I don’t want any huaraches.”

“Sure you do. Nice pair of huaraches be good for you. Make your feet feel good. This time next year, you’ll thank me for em.”

“What do you mean, this time next year? I’m going back.”

“I figure we’re going to be here a long time, Mr. Street. A good long time.”

“What’s happening here. Something’s happening here.”

“Don’t agitate yourself. Rest your mind.” Sydney put down the wineglass, and went to the record player. He held the arm over the record and turned to Valerian. “We’ll give you the best of care. Just like we always done. That’s something you ain’t never got to worry about.” He placed the arm carefully in the groove and turned the volume up high. Valerian smiled then, and his fingers danced lightly in the air.

THE AIRPORT in Dominique is a long building made of pale yellow concrete blocks. If you didn’t know you were in the Caribbean, the paper in the ladies’ room would tell you. To an American the contempt in which the rest of the world holds toilet paper is incomprehensible. It is treated as though it were, in fact, toilet paper. Jadine stepped out of the stall and stood before the tiny mirror over the sink. She sudsed her hands generously with a piece of her own soap and rinsed them carefully. She wrapped the soap in a piece of wax paper, returned it to her traveling bag, from which she took a tube of hand lotion. She creamed her palms and the backs of her hands, then with tissue wiped away the lotion that had gotten under her fingernails. Unhurried at last, with thirty minutes before flight time. The frantic scampering over with. She had run away from New York City with the same speed she had run toward it. New York was not her home after all. The dogs were leashed in the city but the reins were not always secure. Sometimes walking with their owners they met other dogs and if they were unspayed and unchecked you could see a female standing quietly under the paws of a male who had not even spoken to her, just sniffed for purposes of identification. She thought it could be a shelter for her because there the night women could be beaten, reduced to shadows and confined to the brier patch where they belonged. But she could not beat them alone. There were no shelters anyway; it was adolescent to think that there were. Every orphan knew that and knew also that mothers however beautiful were not fair. No matter what you did, the diaspora mothers with pumping breasts would impugn your character. And an African woman, with a single glance from eyes that had burned away their own lashes, could discredit your elements.

She still had plenty of time to take two Dramamines, comb her hair, check her makeup, but this ladies’ lounge was not designed for lingering. She was doing her eyes when a girl came out of the stall next to the one she had used. She had a short mop and a plastic pail of various cleansers in her hands. She wore a green uniform which looked even greener beneath her russet wig. Jadine glanced at the wig in the mirror and then back to her own lashes. The girl stopped dead and did not take her eyes off Jadine, who was flattered but wished she would not stare so. Then the girl approached her.

“You don’t remember me?” she asked.

Jadine turned around. The wig was so overwhelming it was awhile before she recognized her.

“L’Arbe de la Croix,” said the girl.

“Oh, wow.” Jadine smiled. “I didn’t recognize you. What are you doing here? You work here now?”

The girl nodded. “You took the chocolate eater away,” she said.

Jadine closed her smile and turned back to the mirror. There was nothing like an islander; they never had any chat—or manners for that matter. Conversation with them was always an interrogation and she was not about to explain anything to this child.