He asked where Billy was. Usually, they all ate together. When Gretchen said that Billy was away for the weekend, he said, “Too bad. I miss the little man.”
Actually, Billy was taller than he, but Gretchen had become accustomed to Kosi’s speech, with its “my dears” and its “little men.”
The rain drummed on the flagstones of the patio outside the window. They dawdled over dinner and Gretchen opened another bottle of wine.
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I don’t feel like working tonight.”
“None of that, now,” he said reprovingly. “I didn’t make that fearful journey in a flood just to eat.”
They finished the wine as they did the dishes, Gretchen washing and Kosi wiping. The dishwasher had been broken for six months, but there wasn’t much need for it, as there were never more than three people for any one meal and fiddling with the machine was more trouble than it was worth for so few dishes.
She carried the pot of coffee into the living room with her and they each had two cups as they went over the week’s work. He had a quick, agile mind, by now severely trained, and he was impatient with her slowness.
“My dear,” he said, “you’re just not concentrating. Stop being a dilettante.”
She slammed the book shut. It was the third or fourth time he had reprimanded her since they had sat down at the desk together. Like a—like a governess, she thought, a big black mammy governess. They were working on a course on statistics and statistics bored her to stupefaction. “Not everyone can be as goddamn clever as you,” she said. “I was never the brightest student in Accra, I never won a scholarship to …”
“My dear Gretchen,” he said quietly, but obviously hurt, “I never claimed to be the brightest student anywhere …”
“Never claimed, never claimed,” she said, thinking, hopelessly, I’m being shrill. “You don’t have to claim. You just sit there being superior. Or stand out in the rain like some idiotic tribal god, looking down on the poor, cowardly white folk slinking past in their decadent Cadillacs.”
Kosi stood up, stepped back. He took off his glasses and put them in his pocket “I’m sorry,” he said “This relationship doesn’t seem to be working out …”
“This relationship,” she taunted him. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”
“Good night, Gretchen,” he said. He stood there, his mouth tight, his body taut. “If you’ll just give me the time to change back into my shirt and jacket … I won’t be a minute.”
He went into the bathroom. She heard him moving around in there. She drank what was left in her cup. The coffee was cold and the sugar at the bottom of the cup made it too sweet. She put her head in her hands, her elbows on the desk, above the scattered books, ashamed of herself. I did it because of Rudolph’s letter this afternoon, she thought. I did it because of Colin’s sweater. Because of nothing to do with that poor young man with his Oxford accent.
When he came back, wearing his shirt and jacket, still shapeless and damp, she was standing, waiting for him. Without his glasses his close-cropped head was beautiful, the forehead wide, the eyelids heavy, the nose sharply cut, the lips rounded, the ears small and flat against the head. All done in flawless, dark stone, and all somehow pitiful and defeated.
“I shall be leaving you now, my dear,” he said.
“I’ll take you in the car,” she said, in a small voice.
“I’ll walk, thank you.”
“It’s still pouring,” she said.
“We Israelis,” he said somberly, “do not pay attention to the rain.”
She essayed a laugh, but there was no answering glint of humor.
He turned toward the door. She reached out and seized his sleeve. “Kosi,” she said. “Please don’t go like that.”
He stopped and turned back toward her. “Please,” she said. She put her arms loosely around him, kissed his cheek. His hands came up slowly and held her head between them. He kissed her gently. Then not so gently. She felt his hands sliding over her body. Why not? she thought, why not, and pressed him to her. He tried to pull away and move her toward the bedroom, but she dropped onto the couch. Not in the bed in which she and Colin had lain together.
He stood over her. “Undress,” he said.
“Put out the lights.”
He went over to the switch on the wall and the room was in darkness. She heard him undressing as she took off her clothes. She was shivering when he came to her. She wanted to say, “I have made a mistake, please go home,” but she was ashamed to say it.
She was dry and unready but he plunged into her at once, hurting her. She moaned, but the moan was not one of pleasure. She felt as though she were being torn apart. He was rough and powerful and she lay absolutely still, absorbing the pain.
It was over quickly, without a word. He got up and she heard him feeling his way across the room toward the light switch. She jumped up and ran into the bathroom and locked the door. She washed her face repeatedly in cold water and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the basin. She wiped off what was left of her lipstick which had smeared around her mouth. She would have liked to take a hot shower, but she didn’t want him to hear her doing it. She put on a robe and waited as long as she dared, hoping he would be gone when she went out. But he was still there, standing in the middle of the living room, dressed, impassive. She tried to smile. She had no idea of how it came out.
“Don’t you ever do anything like that again to anybody, my dear,” he said evenly. “And certainly not to me. I will not be tolerated. I will not be condescended to. I will not be part of anybody’s program of racial integration.”
She stood with her head lowered, unable to speak.
“When you get your degree,” he went on in the same flat, malevolent tone, “you can play Lady Bountiful with the poor bastards in the charity clinics, the beautiful, rich white lady proving to all the niggers and all the little greasers how democratic and generous this wonderful country is and how loving and Christian educated beautiful white ladies who don’t happen to have husbands can be. I won’t be here to see it. I’ll be back in Africa, praying that the grateful little niggers and the grateful little greasers are getting ready to slit your throat.”
He went out silently. There was only the smallest sound as the front door closed.
After a while, she cleared the desk they had been working on. She put the cups and saucers and the coffee pot in the sink in the kitchen and piled the books on one side of the desk. I’m too old for school books, she thought. I can’t cope. Then, walking painfully, she went around and locked up. Arnold Simms, in your maroon bathrobe, she thought as she switched off the lights, rest easy. I have paid for you.
In the morning, she didn’t attend her two Saturday classes, but called Sam Corey at the studio and asked if she could come over and talk to him.
Chapter 2
1964
Even pregnant as she was, Jean insisted upon coming down and having breakfast with him every day. “At the end of the day,” she said, “I want to be as tired as you. I don’t want to be one of those American women who lie around all day and then when their husbands come home, drag the poor beasts out every evening, because they’re bursting with unused vigor. The energy gap has ruined more marriages by half than adultery.”