Invisible Man (42 page)

Chapter 19

I went to my first lecture with a sense of excitement. The theme was a sure-fire guarantee of audience interest and the rest was up to me. If only I were a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, I could simply stand before them with a sign across my chest, stating i know all about them, and they'd be as awed as though I were the original boogey man --somehow reformed and domesticated. I'd no more have to speak than Paul Robeson had to act; they'd simply thrill at the sight of me. And it went well enough; they made it a success through their own enthusiasm, and the barrage of questions afterwards left no doubts in my mind. It was only after the meeting was breaking up that there came the developments which even my volatile suspicions hadn't allowed me to foresee. I was exchanging greetings with the audience when she appeared, the kind of woman who glows as though consciously acting a symbolic role of life and feminine fertility. Her problem, she said, had to do with certain aspects of our ideology.

"It's rather involved, really," she said with concern, "and while I shouldn't care to take up your time, I have a feeling that you --"

"Oh, not at all," I said, guiding her away from the others to stand near a partly uncoiled firehose hanging beside the entrance, "not at all."

"But, Brother," she said, "it's really so late and you must be tired. My problem could wait until some other time . . ."

"I'm not
that
tired," I said. "And if there's something bothering you, it's my duty to do what I can to clear it up."

"But it's quite late," she said. "Perhaps some evening when you're not busy you'll drop in to see us. Then we could talk at greater length. Unless, of course. . ."

"Unless?"

"Unless," she smiled, "I can induce you to stop by
this
evening. I might add that I serve a fair cup of coffee."

"Then I'm at your service," I said, pushing open the door.

Her apartment was located in one of the better sections of the city, and I must have revealed my surprise upon entering the spacious living room.

"You can see, Brother" --the glow she gave the word was disturbing --"it is really the spiritual values of Brotherhood that interest me. Through no effort of my own, I have economic security and leisure, but what is that,
really,
when so much is wrong with the world? I mean when there is no spiritual or emotional security, and no justice?"

She was slipping out of her coat now, looking earnestly into my face, and I thought, Is she a
Salvationist,
a Puritan-with-reverse-English? --remembering Brother Jack's private description of wealthy members who, he said, sought political salvation by contributing financially to the Brotherhood. She was going a little fast for me and I looked at her gravely.

"I can see that you've thought deeply about this thing," I said.

"I've tried," she said, "and it's most perplexing --But make yourself comfortable while I put away my things."

She was a small, delicately plump woman with raven hair in which a thin streak of white had begun almost imperceptibly to show, and when she reappeared in the rich red of a hostess gown she was so striking that I had to avert my somewhat startled eyes.

"What a beautiful room you have here," I said, looking across the rich cherry glow of furniture to see a life-sized painting of a nude, a pink Renoir. Other canvases were hung here and there, and the spacious walls seemed to flash alive with warm, pure color. What does one say to all this? I thought, looking at an abstract fish of polished brass mounted on a piece of ebony.

"I'm glad you find it pleasant, Brother," she said. "We like it ourselves, though I must say that Hubert finds so little time to enjoy it. He's much too busy."

"Hubert?" I said.

"My husband. Unfortunately he had to leave. He would have loved to've met you, but then he's always dashing off. Business, you know."

"I suppose it's unavoidable," I said with sudden discomfort.

"Yes, it is," she said. "But we're going to discuss Brotherhood and ideology, aren't we?" And there was something about her voice and her smile that gave me a sense of both comfort and excitement. It was not merely the background of wealth and gracious living, to which I was alien, but simply the being there with her and the sensed possibility of a heightened communication; as though the discordantly invisible and the conspicuously enigmatic were reaching a delicately balanced harmony. She's rich but human, I thought, watching the smooth play of her relaxed hands.

"There are so many aspects to the movement," I said. "Just where shall we start? Perhaps it's something that I'm unable to handle."

"Oh, it's nothing
that
profound," she said. "I'm sure you'll straighten out my little ideological twists and turns. But sit here on the sofa, Brother; it's more comfortable." I sat, seeing her go toward a door, the train of her gown trailing sensuously over the oriental carpet. Then she turned and smiled.

"Perhaps you'd prefer wine or milk instead of coffee?"

"Wine, thank you," I said, finding the idea of milk strangely repulsive. This isn't at all what I expected, I thought. She returned with a tray holding two glasses and a decanter, placing them before us on a low cocktail table, and I could hear the wine trickle musically into the glasses, one of which she placed in front of me.

"Here's to the movement," she said, raising her glass with smiling eyes.

"To the movement," I said.

"And to Brotherhood."

"And to Brotherhood."

"This is very nice," I said, seeing her nearly closed eyes, her chin tilting upward, toward me, "but just what phase of our ideology should we discuss?"

"All of it," she said. "I wish to embrace the whole of it. Life is so terribly empty and disorganized without it. I sincerely believe that only Brotherhood offers any hope of making life worth living again -Oh, I know that it's too vast a philosophy to grasp immediately, as it were; still, it's so vital and alive that one gets the feeling that one should at least make the try. Don't you agree?"

"Well, yes," I said. "It's the most meaningful thing that
I
know."

"Oh, I'm so pleased to have you agree with me. I suppose that's why I always thrill to hear you speak, somehow you convey the great throbbing vitality of the movement. It's really amazing. You give me such a feeling of security --although," she interrupted herself with a mysterious smile, "I must confess that you also make me afraid."

"Afraid? You can't mean that," I said.

"Really," she repeated, as I laughed. "It's so powerful, so --so
primitive!"
I felt some of the air escape from the room, leaving it unnaturally quiet. "You don't mean primitive?" I said.

"Yes,
primitive;
no one has told you, Brother, that at times you have tom-toms beating in your voice?"

"My God," I laughed, "I thought that was the beat of profound ideas."

"Of course, you're correct," she said. "I don't mean really primitive. I suppose I mean
forceful,
powerful. It takes hold of one's emotions as well as one's intellect. Call it what you will, it has so much naked power that it goes straight through one. I tremble just to think of such vitality." I looked at her, so close now that I could see a single jet-black strand of out-of-place hair.

"Yes," I said, "the emotion is there; but it's actually our scientific approach that releases it. As Brother Jack says, we're nothing if not organizers. And the emotion isn't merely released, it's guided, channelized

--that is the real source of our effectiveness. After all, this very good wine can please emotion, but I doubt seriously that it can organize anything."

She leaned gracefully forward, her arm along the back of the sofa, saying, "Yes, and you do both in your speeches. One just
has
to respond, even when one isn't too clear as to your meaning. Only I do know what you're saying and that's even more inspiring."

"Actually, you know, I'm as much affected by the audience as it is by me. Its response helps me do my best."

"And there's another important aspect," she said; "one which concerns me greatly. It provides women the full opportunity for self-expression, which is so very important, Brother. It's as though every day were Leap Year --which is as it should be. Women should be absolutely as free as men." And if I were really free, I thought, lifting my glass, I'd get the hell out of here.

"I thought you were exceptionally good tonight --it's time the woman had a champion in the movement. Until tonight I'd always heard you on minority problems."

"This is a new assignment," I said. "But from now on one of our main concerns is to be the Woman Question."

"That's wonderful and it's about time. Something has to give women an opportunity to come to close grips with life. Please go on, tell me your ideas," she said, pressing forward, her hand light upon my arm.

And I went on talking, relieved to talk, carried away by my own enthusiasm and by the warmth of the wine. And it was only when I turned to ask a question of her that I realized that she was leaning only a nose-tip away, her eyes upon my face.

"Go on, please go on," I heard. "You make it sound so clear --please." I saw the rapid, moth-wing fluttering of her lids become the softness of her lips as we were drawn together. There was not an idea or concept in it but sheer warmth; then the bell was ringing and I shook it off and got to my feet, hearing it ring again as she arose with me, the red robe falling in heavy folds upon the carpet, and she saying, "You make it all so wonderfully alive," as the bell sounded again. And I was trying to move, to get out of the apartment, looking for my hat and filling with anger, thinking, Is she crazy? Doesn't she hear? as she stood before me in bewilderment, as though I were acting irrationally. And now taking my arm with sudden energy, saying, "This way, in here," almost pulling me along as the bell rang again, through a door down a short hall, a satiny bedroom, in which she stood appraising me with a smile, saying, "This is mine," as I looked at her in outrageous disbelief.

"Yours,
yours?
But what about that bell?"

"Never mind," she cooed, looking into my eyes.

"But be reasonable," I said, pushing her aside. "What about that door?"

"Oh, of course, you mean the telephone, don't you, darling?"

"But your old man --your husband?"

"In Chicago --"

"But he might not --"

"No, no, darling, he won't --"

"But he might!"

"But, Brother, darling, I talked with him, I know."

"You what? What kind of game is this?"

"Oh, you poor darling! It isn't a game, really you have no cause to worry, we're free. He's in Chicago, seeking his lost youth, no doubt," she said, bursting into laughter of self-surprise. "He's not at all interested in uplifting things --freedom and necessity, woman's rights and all that. You know, the sickness of our class --Brother, darling."

I took a step across the room; there was another door to my left through which I saw the gleam of chromium and tile.

"Brotherhood, darling," she said, gripping my biceps with her little hands. "Teach me, talk to me. Teach me the beautiful ideology of Brotherhood." And I wanted both to smash her and to stay with her and knew that I should do neither. Was she trying to ruin me, or was this a trap set by some secret enemy of the movement waiting outside the door with cameras and wrecking bars?

"You should answer the phone," I said with forced calm, trying to release my hands without touching her, for if I touched her -"And you'll continue?" she said. I nodded, seeing her turn without a word and go toward a vanity with a large oval mirror, taking up an ivory telephone. And in the mirrored instant I saw myself standing between her eager form and a huge white bed, myself caught in a guilty stance, my face taut, tie dangling; and behind the bed another mirror which now like a surge of the sea tossed our images back and forth, back and forth, furiously multiplying the time and the place and the circumstance. My vision seemed to pulse alternately clear and vague, driven by a furious bellows, as her lips said soundlessly,
I'm sorry,
and then impatiently into the telephone, "Yes, this is she," and then to me again, smiling as she covered the mouthpiece with her hand,

"It's only my sister; it'll only take a second." And my mind whirled with forgotten stories of male servants summoned to wash the mistress's back; chauffeurs sharing the masters' wives; Pullman porters invited into the drawing room of rich wives headed for Reno --thinking, But this is the movement, the
Brotherhood.
And now I saw her smile, saying, "Yes, Gwen, dear. Yes," as one free hand went up as though to smooth her hair and in one swift motion the red robe swept aside like a veil, and I went breathless, at the petite and generously curved nude, framed delicate and firm in the glass. It was like a dream interval and in an instant it swung back and I saw only her mysteriously smiling eyes above the rich red robe.

I was heading for the door, torn between anger and a fierce excitement, hearing the phone click down as I started past and feeling her swirl against me and I was lost, for the conflict between the ideological and the biological, duty and desire, had become too subtly confused. I went to her, thinking, Let them break down the door, whosoever will, let them come.

I didn't know whether I was awake or dreaming. It was dead quiet, yet I was certain that there had been a noise and that it had come from across the room as she beside me made a soft sighing sound. It was strange. My mind revolved. I was chased out of a chinkapin woods by a bull. I ran up a hill; the whole hill heaved. I heard the sound and looked up to see the man looking straight at me from where he stood in the dim light of the hall, looking in with neither interest nor surprise. His face expressionless, his eyes staring. There was the sound of even breathing. Then I heard her stir beside me.

"Oh, hello, dear," she said, her voice sounding far away. "Back so soon?"

"Yes," he said. "Wake me early, I have a lot to do."