Home to Harlem · First Part · Chapter 7 (2/2)

It was time for Rose to dance. Her partner had preceded her to the open space and was standing, arm akimbo against the piano, talking to the pianist. The pianist was a slight-built, long-headed fellow. His face shone like anthracite, his eyes were arresting, intense, deep-yellow slits. He seemed in a continual state of swaying excitement, whether or not he was playing.

They were ready, Rose and the dancer-boy. The pianist began, his eyes toward the ceiling in a sort of savage ecstatic dream. Fiddler, saxophonist, drummer, and cymbalist seemed to catch their inspiration from him.⁠ ⁠…

When Luty dances, everything

Is dancing in the cabaret.

The second fiddle asks the first:

What makes you sound that funny way?

The drum talks in so sweet a voice,

The cymbal answers in surprise,

The lights put on a brighter glow

To match the shine of Luty’s eyes.

For he’s a foot-manipulating fool

When he hears that crazy moan

Come rolling, rolling outa that saxophone.⁠ ⁠…

Watch that strut; there’s no keeping him cool

When he’s a-rearing with that saxophone.⁠ ⁠…

Oh, the tearing, tantalizing tone!

Of that moaning saxophone.⁠ ⁠…

That saxophone.⁠ ⁠…

That saxophone.⁠ ⁠…

They danced, Rose and the boy. Oh, they danced! An exercise of rhythmical exactness for two. There was no motion she made that he did not imitate. They reared and pranced together, smacking palm against palm, working knee between knee, grinning with real joy. They shimmied, breast to breast, bent themselves far back and shimmied again. Lifting high her short skirt and showing her green bloomers, Rose kicked. And in his tight nigger-brown suit, the boy kicked even with her. They were right there together, neither going beyond the other.⁠ ⁠…

And the pianist! At intervals his yellow eyes, almost bloodshot, swept the cabaret with a triumphant glow, gave the dancers a caressing look, and returned to the ceiling. Lean, smart fingers beating barbaric beauty out of a white frame. Brown bodies, caught up in the wild rhythm, wiggling and swaying in their seats.

For he’s a foot-manipulating fool

When he hears that crazy moan

Come rolling, rolling outa that saxophone.⁠ ⁠…

That saxophone.⁠ ⁠…

That saxophone.⁠ ⁠…

Rose was sipping her White Rock. Her partner, at Billy’s table, sucked his iced crème de menthe through a straw. The high wave of joyful excitement had subsided and the customers sat casually drinking and gossiping as if they had not been soaring a minute before in a realm of pure joy.

From his place, giving a good view of the staircase, Zeddy saw two apparently familiar long legs swinging down the steps. Sure enough, he knew those big, thick-soled red boots.

“Them feets look jest laka Strawberry Lips’ own,” he said to Jake. Jake looked and saw first Strawberry Lips enter the cabaret, with Susy behind balancing upon her French heels, and Miss Curdy. Susy was gorgeous in a fur coat of rich shiny black, like her complexion. Opened, it showed a cerise blouse and a yellow-and-mauve check skirt. Her head of thoroughly-straightened hair flaunted a green hat with a decoration of red ostrich plumes.

“Great balls of fire! Here’s you doom, buddy,” said Jake.

“Doom, mah granny,” retorted Zeddy. “Ef that theah black ole cow come fooling near me tonight, I’ll show her who’s wearing the pants.”

Susy did not see Zeddy until her party was seated. It was Miss Curdy who saw him first. She dug into Susy’s side with her elbow and cried:

“For the love of Gawd, looka there!”

Susy’s star eyes followed Miss Curdy’s. She glared at Zeddy and fixed her eyes on the girl with him for a moment. Then she looked away and grunted: “He thinks he’s acting smart, eh? Him and I will wrastle that out to a salution, but I ain’t agwine to raise no stink in heah.”

“He’s got some more nerve pulling off that low-down stuff, and on your money, too,” said Miss Curdy.

“Who that?” asked Strawberry Lips.

“Ain’t you seen your best friends over there?” retorted Miss Curdy.

Strawberry Lips waved at Zeddy and Jake, but they were deliberately keeping their eyes away from Susy’s table. He got up to go to them.

“Where you going?” Miss Curdy asked.

“To chin wif⁠—”

A yell startled the cabaret. A girl had slapped another’s face and replied to her victim’s cry of pain with, “If you no like it you can lump it!”

“You low an’ dutty bobbin-bitch!”

“Bitch is bobbin in you’ sistah’s coffin.”

They were West Indian girls.

“I’ll mek mah breddah beat you’ bottom foh you.”

“Gash it and stop you’ jawing.”

They were interrupted by another West Indian girl, who wore a pink-flowered muslin frock and a wide jippi-jappa hat from which charmingly hung two long ends of broad pea-green ribbon.

“It’s a shame. Can’t you act like decent English people?” she said. Gently she began pushing away the assaulted girl, who burst into tears.

“She come boxing me up ovah a dutty-black ’Merican coon.”

“Mek a quick move or I’ll box you bumbole ovah de moon,” her assailant cried after her.⁠ ⁠…

“The monkey-chasers am scrapping,” Zeddy commented.

“In a language all their own,” said Jake.

“They are wild womens, buddy, and it’s a wild language they’re using, too,” remarked a young West Indian behind Jake.

“Hmm! but theyse got the excitement fever,” a lemon-colored girl at a near table made her contribution and rocked and twisted herself coquettishly at Jake.⁠ ⁠…

Susy had already reached the pavement with Miss Curdy and Strawberry Lips. Susy breathed heavily.

“Lesh git furthest away from this low-down vice hole,” she said. “Leave that plug-ugly nigger theah, I ain’t got no more use foh him nohow.”

“I never did have any time for Harlem,” said Miss Curdy. “When I was high up in society all respectable colored people lived in Washington. There was no Harlem full a niggers then. I declare⁠—”

“I should think the nigger heaven of a theater downtown is better than anything in this heah Harlem,” said Susy. “When we feels like going out, it’s better we enjoy ourse’f in the li’l corner the white folks ’low us, and then shuffle along back home. It’s good and quiet ovah in Brooklyn.”

“And we can have all the inside fun we need,” said Miss Curdy.

“Brooklyn ain’t no better than Harlem,” said Strawberry Lips, running the words rolling off his tongue. “Theah’s as much shooting-up and cut-up in Prince Street and⁠—”

“There ain’t no compahrison atall,” stoutly maintained Susy. “This here Harlem is a stinking sink of iniquity. Nigger hell! That’s what it is. Looka that theah ugly black nigger loving up a scrimpy brown gal right bef oh mah eyes. Jest daring me to turn raw and loose lak them monkey-chasing womens thisanight. But that I wouldn’t do. I ain’t a woman abandoned to sich publicity stunts. Not even though mah craw was full to bursting. Lemme see’m tonight.⁠ ⁠… Yessam, this heah Harlem is sure nigger hell. Take me way away from it.”

When Zeddy at last said good night to his newfound brown, he went straight to an all-night barrelhouse and bought a half a pint of whisky. He guzzled the liquor and smashed the flask on the pavement. Drew up his pants, tightened his belt and growled, “Now I’m ready for Susy.”

He caught the subway train for Brooklyn. Only local trains were running and it was quite an hour and a half before he got home. He staggered down Myrtle Avenue well primed with the powerful stimulation of gin-and-whisky.

At the door of Susy’s apartment he was met by his suitcase. He recoiled as from a blow struck at his face. Immediately he became sober. His eyes caught a little white tag attached to the handle. Examining it by the faint gaslight he read, in Susy’s handwriting: “Kip owt that meen you.”

Susy had put all Zeddy’s belongings into the suitcase, keeping back what she had given him: two fancy-colored silk shirts, silk handkerchiefs, a mauve dressing-gown, and a box of silk socks.

“What he’s got on that black back of his’n he can have,” she had said while throwing the things in the bag.

Zeddy beat on the door with his fists.

“Wha moh you want?” Susy’s voice bawled from within. “Ain’tchu got all you stuff theah? Gwan back where youse coming from.”

“Lemme in and quit you joking,” cried Zeddy.

“You ugly flat-footed zigaboo,” shouted Susy, “may I ketch the ’lectric chair without conversion ef I ’low you dirty black pusson in mah place again. And you better git quick foh I staht mah dawg bawking at you.”

Zeddy picked up his suitcase. “Come on, Mistah Bag. Le’s tail along back to Harlem. Leave black woman ’lone wif her gin and ugly mug. Black woman is hard luck.”