Chapter II: Part 2

_It will be like all things we know:
A stone will fail; a rose is sure to go._

_It will be quiet then and we may stay
Long at the picket gate,--
But there will be less to say._

ARNA BONTEMPS.

_Little Cinderella_

_Look me over, kid!
I knows I’m neat,--
Little Cinderella from head to feet.
Drinks all night at Club Alabam,--
What comes next I don’t give a damn!_

_Daddy, daddy,
You sho’ looks keen!
I likes men that are long and lean.
Broad Street ain’t got no brighter lights
Than your eyes at pitch midnight._

_Streets_

_Avenues of dreams
Boulevards of pain
Moving black streams
Shimmering like rain._

LEWIS ALEXANDER.

Wedding Day

_His name_ was Paul Watson and as he shambled down rue Pigalle he might have been any other Negro of enormous height and size. But as I have said, his name was Paul Watson. Passing him on the street, you might not have known or cared who he was, but any one of the residents about the great Montmartre district of Paris could have told you who he was as well as many interesting bits of his personal history.

He had come to Paris in the days before colored jazz bands were the style. Back home he had been a prize fighter. In the days when Joe Gans was in his glory Paul was following the ring, too. He didn’t have that fine way about him that Gans had and for that reason luck seemed to go against him. When he was in the ring he was like a mad bull, especially if his opponent was a white man. In those days there wasn’t any sympathy or nicety about the ring and so pretty soon all the ringmasters got down on Paul and he found it pretty hard to get a bout with anyone. Then it was that he worked his way across the Atlantic Ocean on a big liner--in the days before colored jazz bands were the style in Paris.

Things flowed along smoothly for the first few years with Paul’s working here and there in the unfrequented places of Paris. On the side he used to give boxing lessons to aspiring youths or gymnastic young women. At that time he was working so steadily that he had little chance to find out what was going on around Paris. Pretty soon, however, he grew to be known among the trainers and managers began to fix up bouts for him. After one or two successful bouts a little fame began to come into being for him. So it was that after one of the prize-fights, a colored fellow came to his dressing room to congratulate him on his success as well as invite him to go to Montmartre to meet “the boys.”

Paul had a way about him and seemed to get on with the colored fellows who lived in Montmartre and when the first Negro jazz band played in a tiny Parisian cafe Paul was among them playing the banjo. Those first years were without event so far as Paul was concerned. The members of that first band often say now that they wonder how it was that nothing happened during those first seven years, for it was generally known how great was Paul’s hatred for American white people. I suppose the tranquility in the light of what happened afterwards was due to the fact that the cafe in which they worked was one in which mostly French people drank and danced and then too, that was before there were so many Americans visiting Paris. However, everyone had heard Paul speak of his intense hatred of American white folks. It only took two Benedictines to make him start talking about what he would do to the first “Yank” that called him “nigger.” But the seven years came to an end and Paul Watson went to work in a larger cafe with a larger band, patronized almost solely by Americans.

I’ve heard almost every Negro in Montmartre tell about the night that a drunken Kentuckian came into the cafe where Paul was playing and said:

“Look heah, Bruther, what you all doin’ ovah heah?”

“None ya bizness. And looka here, I ain’t your brother, see?”

“Jack, do you heah that nigger talkin’ lak that tah me?”

As he said this, he turned to speak to his companion. I have often wished that I had been there to have seen the thing happen myself. Every tale I have heard about it was different and yet there was something of truth in each of them. Perhaps the nearest one can come to the truth is by saying that Paul beat up about four full-sized white men that night besides doing a great deal of damage to the furniture about the cafe. I couldn’t tell you just what did happen. Some of the fellows say that Paul seized the nearest table and mowed down men right and left, others say he took a bottle, then again the story runs that a chair was the instrument of his fury. At any rate, that started Paul Watson on his siege against the American white person who brings his native prejudices into the life of Paris.

It is a verity that Paul was the “black terror.” The last syllable of the word, nigger, never passed the lips of a white man without the quick reflex action of Paul’s arm and fist to the speaker’s jaw. He paid for more glassware and cafe furnishings in the course of the next few years than is easily imaginable. And yet, there was something likable about Paul. Perhaps that’s the reason that he stood in so well with the policemen of the neighborhood. Always some divine power seemed to intervene in his behalf and he was excused after the payment of a small fine with advice about his future conduct. Finally, there came the night when in a frenzy he shot the two American sailors.

They had not died from the wounds he had given them hence his sentence had not been one of death but rather a long term of imprisonment. It was a pitiable sight to see Paul sitting in the corner of his cell with his great body hunched almost double. He seldom talked and when he did his words were interspersed with oaths about the lowness of “crackers.” Then the World War came.

It seems strange that anything so horrible as that wholesale slaughter could bring about any good and yet there was something of a smoothing quality about even its baseness. There has never been such equality before or since such as that which the World War brought. Rich men fought by the side of paupers; poets swapped yarns with dry-goods salesmen, while Jews and Christians ate corned beef out of the same tin. Along with the general leveling influence came France’s pardon of her prisoners in order that they might enter the army. Paul Watson became free and a French soldier. Because he was strong and had innate daring in his heart he was placed in the aerial squad and cited many times for bravery. The close of the war gave him his place in French society as a hero. With only a memory of the war and an ugly scar on his left cheek he took up his old life.

His firm resolutions about American white people still remained intact and many chance encounters that followed the war are told from lip to lip proving that the war and his previous imprisonment had changed him little. He was the same Paul Watson to Montmartre as he shambled up rue Pigalle.

Rue Pigalle in the early evening has a sombre beauty--gray as are most Paris streets and other-worldish. To those who know the district it is the Harlem of Paris and rue Pigalle is its dusky Seventh Avenue. Most of the colored musicians that furnish Parisians and their visitors with entertainment live somewhere in the neighborhood of rue Pigalle. Some time during every day each of these musicians makes a point of passing through rue Pigalle. Little wonder that almost any day will find Paul Watson going his shuffling way up the same street.

He reached the corner of rue de la Bruyere and with sure instinct his feet stopped. Without half thinking he turned into “the Pit.” Its full name is The Flea Pit. If you should ask one of the musicians why it was so called, he would answer you to the effect that it was called “the pit” because all the “fleas” hang out there. If you did not get the full import of this explanation, he would go further and say that there were always “spades” in the pit and they were as thick as fleas. Unless you could understand this latter attempt at clarity you could not fully grasp what the Flea-Pit means to the Negro musicians in Montmartre. It is a tiny cafe of the genus that is called _bistro_ in France. Here the fiddle players, saxophone blowers, drum-beaters and ivory ticklers gather at four in the afternoon for a porto or a game of billiards. Here the cabaret entertainers and supper musicians meet at one o’clock at night or thereafter for a whiskey and soda, or more billiards. Occasional sandwiches and a “quiet game” also play their parts in the popularity of the place. After a season or two it becomes a settled fact just what time you may catch so-and-so at the famous “Pit.”

The musicians were very fond of Paul and took particular delight in teasing him. He was one of the chosen few that all of the musicians conceded as being “regular.” It was the pet joke of the habitues of the cafe that Paul never bothered with girls. They always said that he could beat up ten men but was scared to death of one woman.

“Say fellow, when ya goin’ a get hooked up?”

“Can’t say, Bo. Ain’t so much on skirts.”

“Man alive, ya don’t know what you’re missin’--somebody little and cute telling ya sweet things in your ear. Paris is full of women folks.”

“I ain’t much on ’em all the same. Then too, they’re all white.”

“What’s it to ya? This ain’t America.”

“Can’t help that. Get this--I’m collud, see? I ain’t got nothing for no white meat to do. If a woman eva called me nigger I’d have to kill her, that’s all!”

“You for it, son. I can’t give you a thing on this Mr. Jefferson Lawd way of lookin’ at women.”

“Oh, tain’t that. I guess they’re all right for those that wants ’em. Not me!”

“Oh you ain’t so forty. You’ll fall like all the other spades I’ve ever seen. Your kind falls hardest.”

And so Paul went his way--alone. He smoked and drank with the fellows and sat for hours in the Montmartre cafes and never knew the companionship of a woman. Then one night after his work he was walking along the street in his queer shuffling way when a woman stepped up to his side.

“Voulez vous.”

“Naw, gowan away from here.”

“Oh, you speak English, don’t you?”

“You an ’merican woman?”

“Used to be ’fore I went on the stage and got stranded over here.”

“Well, get away from here. I don’t like your kind!”

“Aw, Buddy, don’t say that. I ain’t prejudiced like some fool women.”

“You don’t know who I am, do you? I’m Paul Watson and I hate American white folks, see?”

He pushed her aside and went on walking alone. He hadn’t gone far when she caught up to him and said with sobs in her voice:--

“Oh, Lordy, please don’t hate me ’cause I was born white and an American. I ain’t got a sou to my name and all the men pass me by cause I ain’t spruced up. Now you come along and won’t look at me cause I’m white.”

Paul strode along with her clinging to his arm. He tried to shake her off several times but there was no use. She clung all the more desperately to him. He looked down at her frail body shaken with sobs, and something caught at his heart. Before he knew what he was doing he had said:--

“Naw, I ain’t that mean. I’ll get you some grub. Quit your cryin’. Don’t like seein’ women folks cry.”

It was the talk of Montmartre. Paul Watson takes a woman to Gavarnni’s every night for dinner. He comes to the Flea Pit less frequently, thus giving the other musicians plenty of opportunity to discuss him.

“How times do change. Paul, the woman-hater, has a Jane now.”

“You ain’t said nothing, fella. That ain’t all. She’s white and an ’merican, too.”

“That’s the way with these spades. They beat up all the white men they can lay their hands on but as soon as a gang of golden hair with blue eyes rubs up close to them they forget all they ever said about hatin’ white folks.”

“Guess he thinks that skirt’s gone on him. Dumb fool!”

“Don’ be no chineeman. That old gag don’ fit for Paul. He cain’t understand it no more’n we can. Says he jess can’t help himself, everytime she looks up into his eyes and asks him does he love her. They sure are happy together. Paul’s goin’ to marry her, too. At first she kept saying that she didn’t want to get married cause she wasn’t the marrying kind and all that talk. Paul jus’ laid down the law to her and told her he never would live with no woman without being married to her. Then she began to tell him all about her past life. He told her he didn’t care nothing about what she used to be jus’ so long as they loved each other now. Guess they’ll make it.”

“Yeah, Paul told me the same tale last night. He’s sure gone on her all right.”

“They’re gettin’ tied up next Sunday. So glad it’s not me. Don’t trust these American dames. Me for the Frenchies.”

“She ain’t so worse for looks, Bud. Now that he’s been furnishing the green for the rags.”

“Yeah, but I don’t see no reason for the wedding bells. She was right--she ain’t the marrying kind.”

... and so Montmartre talked. In every cafe where the Negro musicians congregated Paul Watson was the topic for conversation. He had suddenly fallen from his place as bronze God to almost less than the dust.

The morning sun made queer patterns on Paul’s sleeping face. He grimaced several times in his slumber, then finally half-opened his eyes. After a succession of dream-laden blinks he gave a great yawn, and rubbing his eyes, looked at the open window through which the sun shone brightly. His first conscious thought was that this was the bride’s day and that bright sunshine prophesied happiness for the bride throughout her married life. His first impulse was to settle back into the covers and think drowsily about Mary and the queer twists life brings about, as is the wont of most bridegrooms on their last morning of bachelorhood. He put this impulse aside in favor of dressing quickly and rushing downstairs to telephone to Mary to say “happy wedding day” to her.

One huge foot slipped into a worn bedroom slipper and then the other dragged painfully out of the warm bed were the courageous beginnings of his bridal toilette. With a look of triumph he put on his new grey suit that he had ordered from an English tailor. He carefully pulled a taffeta tie into place beneath his chin, noting as he looked at his face in the mirror that the scar he had received in the army was very ugly--funny, marrying an ugly man like him.

French telephones are such human faults. After trying for about fifteen minutes to get Central 32.01 he decided that he might as well walk around to Mary’s hotel to give his greeting as to stand there in the lobby of his own, wasting his time. He debated this in his mind a great deal. They were to be married at four o’clock. It was eleven now and it did seem a shame not to let her have a minute or two by herself. As he went walking down the street towards her hotel he laughed to think of how one always cogitates over doing something and finally does the thing he wanted to in the beginning anyway.

Mud on his nice gray suit that the English tailor had made for him. Damn--gray suit--what did he have a gray suit on for, anyway. Folks with black faces shouldn’t wear gray suits. Gawd, but it was funny that time when he beat up that cracker at the Periquet. Fool couldn’t shut his mouth he was so surprised. Crackers--damn ’em--he was one nigger that wasn’t ’fraid of ’em. Wouldn’t he have a hell of a time if he went back to America where black was black. Wasn’t white nowhere, black wasn’t. What was that thought he was trying to get ahold of--bumping around in his head--something he started to think about but couldn’t remember it somehow.

The shrill whistle that is typical of the French subway pierced its way into his thoughts. Subway--why was he in the subway--he didn’t want to go any place. He heard doors slamming and saw the blue uniforms of the conductors swinging on to the cars as the trains began to pull out of the station. With one or two strides he reached the last coach as it began to move up the platform. A bit out of breath he stood inside the train and looking down at what he had in his hand he saw that it was a tiny pink ticket. A first class ticket in a second class coach. The idea set him to laughing. Everyone in the car turned and eyed him, but that did not bother him. Wonder what stop he’d get off--funny how these French said descend when they meant get off--funny he couldn’t pick up French--been here so long. First class ticket in a second class coach!--that was one on him. Wedding day today, and that damn letter from Mary. How’d she say it now, “just couldn’t go through with it,” white women just don’t marry colored men, and she was a street woman, too. Why couldn’t she have told him flat that she was just getting back on her feet at his expense. Funny that first class ticket he bought, wish he could see Mary--him a-going there to wish her “happy wedding day,” too. Wonder what that French woman was looking at him so hard for? Guess it was the mud.

GWENDOLYN BENNETT.

_Three Drawings_

Aaron Douglas

Smoke, Lilies and Jade

_He wanted to do something_ ... to write or draw ... or something ... but it was so comfortable just to lay there on the bed ... ... his shoes off ... and think ... think of everything ... short disconnected thoughts--to wonder ... to remember ... to think and smoke ... why wasn’t he worried that he had no money ... he _had_ had five cents ... but he had been hungry ... he _was_ hungry and still ... all he wanted to do was ... lay there comfortably smoking ... think ... wishing he were writing ... or drawing ... or something ... something about the things he felt and thought ... but what did he think ... he remembered how his mother had awakened him one night ... ages ago ... six years ago ... Alex ... he had always wondered at the strangeness of it ... she had seemed so ... so ... so just the same ... Alex ... I think your father is dead ... and it hadn’t seemed so strange ... yet ... one’s mother didn’t say that ... didn’t wake one at midnight every night to say ... feel him ... put your hand on his head ... then whisper with a catch in her voice ... I’m afraid ... sh don’t wake Lam ... yet it hadn’t seemed as it should have seemed ... even when he had felt his father’s cool wet forehead ... it hadn’t been tragic ... the light had been turned very low ... and flickered ... yet it hadn’t been tragic ... or weird ... not at all as one should feel when one’s father died ... even his reply of ... yes he is dead ... had been commonplace ... hadn’t been dramatic ... there had been no tears ... no sobs ... not even a sorrow ... and yet he must have realized that one’s father couldn’t smile ... or sing any more ... after he had died ... every one remembered his father’s voice ... it had been a lush voice ... a promise ... then that dressing together ... his mother and himself ... in the bathroom ... why was the bathroom always the warmest room in the winter ... as they had put on their clothes ... his mother had been telling him what he must do ... and cried softly ... and that had made him cry too but you mustn’t cry Alex ... remember you have to be a little man now ... and that was all ... didn’t other wives and sons cry more for their dead than that ... anyway people never cried for beautiful sunsets ... or music ... and those were the things that hurt ... the things to sympathize with ... then out into the snow and dark of the morning ... first to the undertaker’s ... no first to Uncle Frank’s ... why did Aunt Lula have to act like that ... to ask again and again ... but when did he die ... when did he die ... I just can’t believe it ... poor Minerva ... then out into the snow and dark again ... how had his mother expected him to know where to find the night bell at the undertaker’s ... he was the most sensible of them all tho ... all he had said was ... what ... Harry Francis ... too bad ... tell mamma I’ll be there first thing in the morning ... then down the deserted streets again ... to grandmother’s ... it was growing light now ... it must be terrible to die in daylight ... grandpa had been sweeping the snow off the yard ... he had been glad of that because ... well he could tell him better than grandma ... grandpa ... father’s dead ... and he hadn’t acted strange either ... books lied ... he had just looked at Alex a moment then continued sweeping ... all he said was ... what time did he die ... she’ll want to know ... then passing thru the lonesome street toward home ... Mrs. Mamie Grant was closing a window and spied him ... hallow Alex ... an’ how’s your father this mornin’ ... dead ... get out ... tch tch tch an’ I was just around there with a cup a’ custard yesterday ... Alex puffed contentedly on his cigarette ... he was hungry and comfortable ... and he had an ivory holder inlaid with red jade and green ... funny how the smoke seemed to climb up that ray of sunlight ... went up the slant just like imagination ... was imagination blue ... or was it because he had spent his last five cents and couldn’t worry ... anyway it was nice to lay there and wonder ... and remember ... why was he so different from other people ... the only things he remembered of his father’s funeral were the crowded church and the ride in the hack ... so many people there in the church ... and ladies with tears in their eyes ... and on their cheeks ... and some men too ... why did people cry ... vanity that was all ... yet they weren’t exactly hypocrites ... but why ... it had made him furious ... all these people crying ... it wasn’t _their_ father ... and he wasn’t crying ... couldn’t cry for sorrow altho he had loved his father more than ... than ... it had made him so angry that tears had come to his eyes ... and he had been ashamed of his mother ... crying into a handkerchief ... so ashamed that tears had run down his cheeks and he had frowned ... and some one ... a woman ... had said ... look at that poor little dear ... Alex is just like his father ... and the tears had run fast ... because he _wasn’t_ like his father ... he couldn’t sing ... he didn’t want to sing ... he didn’t want to sing ... Alex blew a cloud of smoke ... blue smoke ... when they had taken his father from the vault three weeks later ... he had grown beautiful ... his nose had become perfect and clear ... his hair had turned jet black and glossy and silky ... and his skin was a transparent green ... like the sea only not so deep ... and where it was drawn over the cheek bones a pale beautiful red appeared ... like a blush ... why hadn’t his father looked like that always ... but no ... to have sung would have broken the wondrous repose of his lips and maybe that was his beauty ... maybe it was wrong to think thoughts like these ... but they were nice and pleasant and comfortable ... when one was smoking a cigarette thru an ivory holder ... inlaid with red jade and green....

he wondered why he couldn’t find work ... a job ... when he had first come to New York he had ... and he had only been fourteen then was it because he was nineteen now that he felt so idle ... and contented ... or because he was an artist ... but was he an artist ... was one an artist until one became known ... of course he was an artist ... and strangely enough so were all his friends ... he should be ashamed that he didn’t work ... but ... was it five years in New York ... or the fact that he was an artist ... when his mother said she couldn’t understand him ... why did he vaguely pity her instead of being ashamed ... he should be ... his mother and all his relatives said so ... his brother was three years younger than he and yet he had already been away from home a year ... on the stage ... making thirty-five dollars a week ... had three suits and many clothes and was going to help mother ... while he ... Alex ... was content to lay and smoke and meet friends at night ... to argue and read Wilde ... Freud ... Boccacio and Schnitzler ... to attend Gurdjieff meetings and know things ... Why did they scoff at him for knowing such people as Carl ... Mencken ... Toomer ... Hughes ... Cullen ... Wood ... Cabell ... oh the whole lot of them ... was it because it seemed incongruous that he ... who was so little known ... should call by first names people they would like to know ... were they jealous ... no mothers aren’t jealous of their sons ... they are proud of them ... why then ... when these friends accepted and liked him ... no matter how he dressed ... why did mother ask ... and you went looking like that ... Langston was a fine fellow ... he knew there was something in Alex ... and so did Rene and Borgia ... and Zora and Clement and Miguel ... and ... and ... and all of them ... if he went to see mother she would ask ... how do you feel Alex with nothing in your pockets ... I don’t see how you can be satisfied ... Really you’re a mystery to me ... and who you take after ... I’m sure I don’t know ... none of my brothers were lazy and shiftless ... I can never remember the time when they weren’t sending money home and your father was your age he was supporting a family ... where you get your nerve I don’t know ... just because you’ve tried to write one or two little poems and stories that no one understands ... you seem to think the world owes you a living ... you should see by now how much is thought of them ... you can’t sell anything ... and you won’t do anything to make money ... wake up Alex ... I don’t know what will become of you....

it was hard to believe in one’s self after that ... did Wildes’ parents or Shelly’s or Goya’s talk to them like that ... but it was depressing to think in that vein ... Alex stretched and yawned ... Max had died ... Margaret had died ... so had Sonia ... Cynthia ... Juan-Jose and Harry ... all people he had loved ... loved one by one and together ... and all had died ... he never loved a person long before they died ... in truth he was tragic ... that was a lovely appellation ... The Tragic Genius ... think ... to go thru life known as The Tragic Genius ... romantic ... but it was more or less true ... Alex turned over and blew another cloud of smoke ... was all life like that ... smoke ... blue smoke from an ivory holder ... he wished he were in New Bedford ... New Bedford was a nice place ... snug little houses set complacently behind protecting lawns ... half open windows showing prim interiors from behind waving cool curtains ... inviting ... like precise courtesans winking from behind lace fans ... and trees ... many trees ... casting lacey patterns of shade on the sun dipped sidewalks ... small stores ... naively proud of their pseudo grandeur ... banks ... called institutions for saving ... all naive ... that was it ... New Bedford was naive ... after the sophistication of New York it would fan one like a refreshing breeze ... and yet he had returned to New York ... and sophistication ... was he sophisticated ... no because he was seldom bored ... seldom bored by anything ... and weren’t the sophisticated continually suffering from ennui ... on the contrary ... he was amused ... amused by the artificiality of naivety and sophistication alike ... but may be that in itself was the essence of sophistication or ... was it cynicism ... or were the two identical ... he blew a cloud of smoke ... it was growing dark now ... and the smoke no longer had a ladder to climb ... but soon the moon would rise and then he would clothe the silver moon in blue smoke garments ... truly smoke was like imagination....

Alex sat up ... pulled on his shoes and went out ... it was a beautiful night ... and so large ... the dusky blue hung like a curtain in an immense arched doorway ... fastened with silver tacks ... to wander in the night was wonderful ... myriads of inquisitive lights ... curiously prying into the dark ... and fading unsatisfied ... he passed a woman ... she was not beautiful ... and he was sad because she did not weep that she would never be beautiful ... was it Wilde who had said ... a cigarette is the most perfect pleasure because it leaves one unsatisfied ... the breeze gave to him a perfume stolen from some wandering lady of the evening ... it pleased him ... why was it that men wouldn’t use perfumes ... they should ... each and every one of them liked perfumes ... the man who denied that was a liar ... or a coward ... but if ever he were to voice that thought ... express it ... he would be misunderstood ... a fine feeling that ... to be misunderstood ... it made him feel tragic and great ... but may be it would be nicer to be understood ... but no ... no great artist is ... then again neither were fools ... they were strangely akin these two ... Alex thought of a sketch he would make ... a personality sketch of Fania ... straight classic features tinted proud purple ... sensuous fine lips ... gilded for truth ... eyes ... half opened and lids colored mysterious green ... hair black and straight ... drawn sternly mocking back from the false puritanical forehead ... maybe he would made Edith too ... skin a blue ... infinite like night ... and eyes ... slant and grey ... very complacent like a cat’s ... Mona Lisa lips ... red and seductive as ... as pomegranate juice ... in truth it was fine to be young and hungry and an artist ... to blow blue smoke from an ivory holder....

here was the cafeteria ... it was almost as tho it had journeyed to meet him ... the night was so blue ... how does blue feel ... or red or gold or any other color ... if colors could be heard he could paint most wondrous tunes ... symphonious ... think ... the dulcet clear tone of a blue like night ... of a red like pomegranate juice ... like Edith’s lips ... of the fairy tones to be heard in a sunset ... like rubies shaken in a crystal cup ... of the symphony of Fania ... and silver ... and gold ... he had heard the sound of gold ... but they weren’t the sounds he wanted to catch ... no ... they must be liquid ... not so staccato but flowing variations of the same caliber ... there was no one in the cafe as yet ... he sat and waited ... that was a clever idea he had had about color music ... but after all he was a monstrous clever fellow ... Jurgen had said that ... funny how characters in books said the things one wanted to say ... he would like to know Jurgen ... how does one go about getting an introduction to a fiction character ... go up to the brown cover of the book and knock gently ... and say hello ... then timidly ... is Duke Jurgen there ... or ... no because if entered the book in the beginning Jurgen would only be a pawn broker ... and one didn’t enter a book in the center ... but what foolishness ... Alex lit a cigarette ... but Cabell was a master to have written Jurgen ... and an artist ... and a poet ... Alex blew a cloud of smoke ... a few lines of one of Langston’s poems came to describe Jurgen....

Somewhat like Ariel
Somewhat like Puck
Somewhat like a gutter boy
Who loves to play in muck.
Somewhat like Bacchus
Somewhat like Pan
And a way with women
Like a sailor man....

Langston must have known Jurgen ... suppose Jurgen had met Tonio Kroeger ... what a vagrant thought ... Kroeger ... Kroeger ... Kroeger ... why here was Rene ... Alex had almost gone to sleep ... Alex blew a cone of smoke as he took Rene’s hand ... it was nice to have friends like Rene ... so comfortable ... Rene was speaking ... Borgia joined them ... and de Diego Padro ... their talk veered to ... James Branch Cabell ... beautiful ... marvelous ... Rene had an enchanting accent ... said sank for thank and souse for south ... but they couldn’t know Cabell’s greatness ... Alex searched the smoke for expression ... he ... he ... well he has created a phantasy mire ... that’s it ... from clear rich imagery ... life and silver sands ... that’s nice ... and silver sands ... imagine lilies growing in such a mire ... when they close at night their gilded underside would protect ... but that’s not it at all ... his thoughts just carried and mingled like ... like odors ... suggested but never definite ... Rene was leaving ... they all were leaving ... Alex sauntered slowly back ... the houses all looked sleepy ... funny ... made him feel like writing poetry ... and about death too ... an elevated crashed by overhead scattering all his thoughts with its noise ... making them spread ... in circles ... then larger circles ... just like a splash in a calm pool ... what had he been thinking ... of ... a poem about death ... but he no longer felt that urge ... just walk and think and wonder ... think and remember and smoke ... blow smoke that mixed with his thoughts and the night ... he would like to live in a large white palace ... to wear a long black cape ... very full and lined with vermillion ... to have many cushions and to lie there among them ... talking to his friends ... lie there in a yellow silk shirt and black velvet trousers ... like music-review artists talking and pouring strange liquors from curiously beautiful bottles ... bottles with long slender necks ... he climbed the noisy stair of the odorous tenement ... smelled of fish ... of stale fried fish and dirty milk bottles ... he rather liked it ... he liked the acrid smell of horse manure too ... strong ... thoughts ... yes to lie back among strangely fashioned cushions and sip eastern wines and talk ... Alex threw himself on the bed ... removed his shoes ... stretched and relaxed ... yes and have music waft softly into the darkened and incensed room ... he blew a cloud of smoke ... oh the joy of being an artist and of blowing blue smoke thru an ivory holder inlaid with red jade and green....

the street was so long and narrow ... so long and narrow ... and blue ... in the distance it reached the stars ... and if he walked long enough ... far enough ... he could reach the stars too ... the narrow blue was so empty ... quiet ... Alex walked music ... it was nice to walk in the blue after a party ... Zora had shone again ... her stories ... she always shone ... and Monty was glad ... every one was glad when Zora shone ... he was glad he had gone to Monty’s party ... Monty had a nice place in the village ... nice lights ... and friends and wine ... mother would be scandalized that he could think of going to a party ... without a copper to his name ... but then mother had never been to Monty’s ... and mother had never seen the street seem long and narrow and blue ... Alex walked music ... the click of his heels kept time with a tune in his mind ... he glanced into a lighted cafe window ... inside were people sipping coffee ... men ... why did they sit there in the loud light ... didn’t they know that outside the street ... the narrow blue street met the stars ... that if they walked long enough ... far enough ... Alex walked and the click of his heels sounded ... and had an echo ... sound being tossed back and forth ... back and forth ... some one was approaching ... and their echoes mingled ... and gave the sound of castanets ... Alex liked the sound of the approaching man’s footsteps ... he walked music also ... he knew the beauty of the narrow blue ... Alex knew that by the way their echoes mingled ... he wished he would speak ... but strangers don’t speak at four o’clock in the morning ... at least if they did he couldn’t imagine what would be said ... maybe ... pardon me but are you walking toward the stars ... yes, sir, and if you walk long enough ... then may I walk with you I want to reach the stars too ... perdone me senor tiene vd. fosforo ... Alex was glad he had been addressed in Spanish ... to have been asked for a match in English ... or to have been addressed in English at all ... would have been blasphemy just then ... Alex handed him a match ... he glanced at his companion apprehensively in the match glow ... he was afraid that his appearance would shatter the blue thoughts ... and stars ... ah ... his face was a perfect compliment to his voice ... and the echo of their steps mingled ... they walked in silence ... the castanets of their heels clicking accompaniment ... the stranger inhaled deeply and with a nod of content and a smile ... blew a cloud of smoke ... Alex felt like singing ... the stranger knew the magic of blue smoke also ... they continued in silence ... the castanets of their heels clicking rhythmically ... Alex turned in his doorway ... up the stairs and the stranger waited for him to light the room ... no need for words ... they had always known each other ... as they undressed by the blue dawn ... Alex knew he had never seen a more perfect being ... his body was all symmetry and music ... and Alex called him Beauty ... long they lay ... blowing smoke and exchanging thoughts ... and Alex swallowed with difficulty ... he felt a glow of tremor ... and they talked and ... slept....

Alex wondered more and more why he liked Adrian so ... he liked many people ... Wallie ... Zora ... Clement ... Gloria ... Langston ... John ... Gwenny ... oh many people ... and they were friends ... but Beauty ... it was different ... once Alex had admired Beauty’s strength ... and Beauty’s eyes had grown soft and he had said ... I like you more than any one Dulce ... Adrian always called him Dulce ... and Alex had become confused ... was it that he was so susceptible to beauty that Alex liked Adrian so much ... but no ... he knew other people who were beautiful ... Fania and Gloria ... Monty and Bunny ... but he was never confused before them ... while Beauty ... Beauty could make him believe in Buddha ... or imps ... and no one else could do that ... that is no one but Melva ... but then he was in love with Melva ... and that explained that ... he would like Beauty to know Melva ... they were both so perfect ... such compliments ... yes he would like Beauty to know Melva because he loved them both ... there ... he had thought it ... actually dared to think it ... but Beauty must never know ... Beauty couldn’t understand ... indeed Alex couldn’t understand ... and it pained him ... almost physically ... and tired his mind ... Beauty ... Beauty was in the air ... the smoke ... Beauty ... Melva ... Beauty ... Melva ... Alex slept ... and dreamed....

he was in a field ... a field of blue smoke and black poppies and red calla lilies ... he was searching ... on his hands and knees ... searching ... among black poppies and red calla lilies ... he was searching pushed aside poppy stems ... and saw two strong white legs ... dancer’s legs ... the contours pleased him ... his eyes wandered ... on past the muscular hocks to the firm white thighs ... the rounded buttocks ... then the lithe narrow waist ... strong torso and broad deep chest ... the heavy shoulders ... the graceful muscled neck ... squared chin and quizzical lips ... grecian nose with its temperamental nostrils ... the brown eyes looking at him ... like ... Monty looked at Zora ... his hair curly and black and all tousled ... and it was Beauty ... and Beauty smiled and looked at him and smiled ... said ... I’ll wait Alex ... and Alex became confused and continued his search ... on his hands and knees ... pushing aside poppy stems and lily stems ... a poppy ... a black poppy ... a lily ... a red lily ... and when he looked back he could no longer see Beauty ... Alex continued his search ... thru poppies ... lilies ... poppies and red calla lilies ... and suddenly he saw ... two small feet olive-ivory ... two well turned legs curving gracefully from slender ankles ... and the contours soothed him ... he followed them ... past the narrow rounded hips to the tiny waist ... the fragile firm breasts ... the graceful slender throat ... the soft rounded chin ... slightly parting lips and straight little nose with its slightly flaring nostrils ... the black eyes with lights in them ... looking at him ... the forehead and straight cut black hair ... and it was Melva ... and she looked at him and smiled and said ... I’ll wait Alex ... and Alex became confused and kissed her ... became confused and continued his search ... on his hands and knees ... pushed aside a poppy stem ... a black-poppy stem ... pushed aside a lily stem ... a red-lily stem ... a poppy ... a poppy ... a lily ... and suddenly he stood erect ... exultant ... and in his hand he held ... an ivory holder ... inlaid with red jade ... and green....

and Alex awoke ... Beauty’s hair tickled his nose ... Beauty was smiling in his sleep ... half his face stained flush color by the sun ... the other half in shadow ... blue shadow ... his eye lashes casting cobwebby blue shadows on his cheek ... his lips were so beautiful ... quizzical ... Alex wondered why he always thought of that passage from Wilde’s Salome ... when he looked at Beauty’s lips ... I would kiss your lips ... he _would_ like to kiss Beauty’s lips ... Alex flushed warm ... with shame ... or was it shame ... he reached across Beauty for a cigarette ... Beauty’s cheek felt cool to his arm ... his hair felt soft ... Alex lay smoking ... such a dream ... red calla lilies ... red calla lilies ... and ... what could it all mean ... did dreams have meanings ... Fania said ... and black poppies ... thousands ... millions ... Beauty stirred ... Alex put out his cigarette ... closed his eyes ... he mustn’t see Beauty yet ... speak to him ... his lips were too hot ... dry ... the palms of his hands too cool and moist ... thru his half closed eyes he could see Beauty ... propped ... cheek in hand ... on one elbow ... looking at him ... lips smiling quizzically ... he wished Beauty wouldn’t look so hard ... Alex was finding it difficult to breathe ... breathe normally ... why _must_ Beauty look so long ... and smile _that_ way ... his face seemed nearer ... it was ... Alex could feel Beauty’s hair on his forehead ... breathe normally ... breathe normally ... could feel Beauty’s breath on his nostrils and lips ... and it was clean and faintly colored with tobacco ... breathe normally Alex ... Beauty’s lips were nearer ... Alex closed his eyes ... how did one act ... his pulse was hammering ... from wrists to finger tip ... wrist to finger tip ... Beauty’s lips touched his ... his temples throbbed ... throbbed ... his pulse hammered from wrist to finger tip ... Beauty’s breath came short now ... softly staccato ... breathe normally Alex ... you are asleep ... Beauty’s lips touched his ... breathe normally ... and pressed ... pressed hard ... cool ... his body trembled ... breathe normally Alex ... Beauty’s lips pressed cool ... cool and hard ... how much pressure does it take to waken one ... Alex sighed ... moved softly ... how does one act ... Beauty’s hair barely touched him now ... his breath was faint on ... Alex’s nostrils ... and lips ... Alex stretched and opened his eyes ... Beauty was looking at him ... propped on one elbow ... cheek in his palm ... Beauty spoke ... scratch my head please Dulce ... Alex was breathing normally now ... propped against the bed head ... Beauty’s head in his lap ... Beauty spoke ... I wonder why I like to look at some things Dulce ... things like smoke and cats ... and you ... Alex’s pulse no longer hammered from ... wrist to finger tip ... wrist to finger tip ... the rose dusk had become blue night ... and soon ... soon they would go out into the blue....