“—you talk. I’ll never understand white people, never, never, never! How can you talk that way? How can you expect anyone else to respect you if you don’t respect yourselves?”
“Oh. Why the fuck did I ever get tied up with a house nigger? And I am not white people!”
“—I warn you, I warn you!”
“—you’re the one who starts it! You always start it!”
“—I knew you would be jealous. That’s why!”
“You picked a fine way to keep me from being — jealous, baby.”
“Can’t we talk about it later? Why do you always have to spoil everything?”
“Oh, sure, sure, I’m the one who spoils everything, all right!”
Eric said, to Ellis, “Do you think any of these singers have a future on TV?”
“On daytime TV maybe,” Ellis said, and laughed.
“You’re a hard man,” said Eric.
“I’m just realistic,” Ellis said. “I figure everybody’s out for himself, to make a buck, whether he says so or not. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I just wish more people would admit it, that’s all. Most of the people who think they disapprove of me don’t disapprove of me at all. They just wish that they were me.”
“I guess that’s true,” said Eric — mortally bored.
They began walking away from the music. “Did you live abroad a long time?” Ellis asked, politely.
“About three years.”
“Where?”
“Paris, mostly.”
“What made you go? There’s nothing for an actor to do over there, is there? I mean, an American actor.”
“Oh, I did a couple of things for American TV.” Coming toward them, on the path, were two glittering, loud-talking fairies. He pulled in his belly, looking straight ahead. “And I saw a lot of theater — I don’t know — it was very good for me.” The birds of paradise passed; their raucous cries faded.
Ida said, “I always feel so sorry for people like that.”
Ellis grinned. “Why should you feel sorry for them? They’ve got each other.”
The four of them now came abreast, Ida putting her arm through Eric’s.
“A couple of the waiters on my job are like that. The way some people treat them—! They tell me about it, they tell me everything. I like them, I really do. They’re very sweet. And, of course, they make wonderful escorts. You haven’t got to worry about them.”
“They don’t cost much, either,” said Vivaldo. “I’ll pick one up for you next week and we can keep him around the house as a pet.”
“I simply am not able, today, am I, to say anything that will please you?”
“Stop trying so hard. Ellis, where are you taking us for this business-mixed-with-pleasure drink?”
“Curb your enthusiasm. We’re practically there.” They turned away from the park, toward Eighth Street, and walked into a downstairs bar. Ellis was known here, naturally; they found a booth and ordered.
“Now, the extent of the business,” Ellis said, looking from Ida to Vivaldo, “is very simple. I’ve helped other people and I think I can help Miss Scott.” He looked at Ida. “You aren’t ready yet. You’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do and a hell of a lot to learn. And I’d like you to drop by my office one afternoon this week so we can go into all this in detail. You’ve got to study and work and you’ve got to keep alive while you’re doing all that and maybe I can help you work that out.” Then he looked at Vivaldo. “And you can come, too, if you think I’m trying to exploit Miss Scott unfairly. Is it your intention to act as her agent?”
“No.”
“You don’t have any reason to distrust me; you just don’t like me, is that it?”
“Yes,” said Vivaldo after a moment, “I guess that’s right.”
“Oh, Vivaldo,” Ida moaned.
“That’s all right. It’s always good to know where you stand. But you certainly aren’t going to allow this—prejudice—to stand in Miss Scott’s way?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Anyway, Ida does what she wants.”
Ellis considered him. He looked briefly at Ida. “Well. That’s reassuring.” He signaled for the waiter and turned to Ida. “What day shall we make it? Tuesday, Wednesday?”
“Wednesday might be better,” she said, hesitantly.
“Around three o’clock?”
“Yes. That’s fine.”
“It’s settled, then.” He made a note in his engagement book, then took out his billfold, picked up the check and gave a ten-dollar bill to the waiter. “Give these people anything they want,” he said, “it’s on me.”
“Oh, are you going now?” asked Ida.
“Yes. My wife will kill me if I don’t get home in time to see the kids before I go to the studio. See you Wednesday.” He held out his hand to Eric. “Glad to have met you, Red; all the best. Maybe you’ll do a show for me, one day.” He looked down at Vivaldo. “So long, genius. I’m sorry you don’t like me. Maybe one of these days you ought to ask yourself why. It’s no good blaming me, you know, if you don’t know how to get or how to hold on to what you want.” Then he turned and left. Vivaldo watched the short legs going up the stairs into the street.
He wiped his forehead with his wet handkerchief and the three of them sat in silence for a moment. Then, “I’m going to call Cass,” Vivaldo said, and rose and walked toward the phone booth in the back.
“I understand,” said Ida, carefully, “that you were a very good friend of my brother’s.”
“Yes,” he said, “I was. Or at least I tried to be.”
“Did you find it so very hard — to be his friend?”
“No. No, I hadn’t meant to suggest that.” He tried to smile. “He was very wrapped up in his music, he was very much — himself. I was younger then, I may not always have — understood.” He felt sweat in his armpits, on his forehead, between his legs.
“Oh.” She looked at him from very far away. “You may have wanted more from him than he could give. Many people did, men and women.” She allowed this to hang between them for an instant. Then, “He was terribly attractive, wasn’t he? I always think that that was the reason he died, that he was too attractive and didn’t know how — how to keep people away.” She sipped her drink. “People don’t have any mercy. They tear you limb from limb, in the name of love. Then, when you’re dead, when they’ve killed you by what they made you go through, they say you didn’t have any character. They weep big, bitter tears — not for you. For themselves, because they’ve lost their toy.”
“That’s a terribly grim view,” he said, “of love.”
“I know what I’m talking about. That’s what most people mean, when they say love.” She picked up a cigarette and waited for him to light it. “Thank you. You weren’t here, you never saw Rufus’s last girl friend — a terrible little whore of a nymphomaniac, from Georgia. She wouldn’t let him go, he tried all kinds of ways of getting away from her. He even thought of running away to Mexico. She got him so he couldn’t work — I swear, there’s nothing like a Southern white person, especially a Southern woman, when she gets her hooks into a Negro man.” She blew a great cloud of smoke above his head. “And now she’s still living, the filthy white slut, and Rufus is dead.”
He said, hoping that she would really hear him but knowing she would not, perhaps could not, “I hope you don’t think I loved your brother in that terrible way that you describe. I think we really were very good friends, and — and it was an awful shock for me to hear that he was dead. I was in Paris when I heard.”