The Impressionist (52 page)

‘I mean, what are we doing here?’

‘Celebrating, Johnny. And don’t look like that.’

They order champagne, and Jonathan tries to fight a rising tide of bad feeling. As if mocking him, the singer launches into a mournful song:

‘Why do people believe in some old sign?

Why do people believe in some old sign?

To hear a hoot owl holler, someone is surely dyin’’

She has an American accent. Around them, drawled American English mixes with French. Jonathan wonders where all these people have come from, the supercilious manager, the young brown-skinned busboy who keeps peeking through the kitchen door. He feels threatened, hemmed in. It is as if Africa is already reaching out towards him, before he has made sure of his foothold in Europe.

‘To dream of muddy water, trouble is knockin’ at your door

To dream of muddy water, trouble is knockin’ at your door

Your man is sure to leave you, and never return no more’

A woman at a nearby table whistles her approval. She glances over at Star and says something to her friend, who laughs. Jonathan glares at them, but Star does not seem to have noticed. She is listening to the music, entranced.

‘Doesn’t it make you feel tingly inside? So sad. You can tell how much they’ve suffered.’

‘Who?’

‘Negroes, silly. It’s not like you or me. The worst we’ve ever had to contend with is the bathwater not being heated up in the morning.’

‘When your man come home evil, tell you you are getting old

When your man come home evil, tell you you are getting old

That’s a true sign he’s got someone else bakin’ his jelly roll’

What did she say? Jelly roll? He flashes back to the boat-house, Star’s moan as they fumbled about in the darkness. How long has she been coming here? He is wrestling with something, some hidden suspicion, when a well-dressed group of white people comes through the door. Instantly Bricktop switches to a light popular tune, the piano player picking up the pace. The atmosphere brightens. Jonathan watches the white party. They seem to be led by a couple, the woman petite and blonde, her husband older, beaming around at the other tables as if to say
see how I indulge my wife, so charming, so original…
They are evidently showing off Le Grand Due to their friends. Bricktop stands at their table, singing just for them.

‘They have something, don’t they? Something we’ve lost.’

Star seems determined to talk about Negroes. Jonathan clutches the ring in his pocket. Now or never.

‘Star, darling, I have a question to ask you.’

‘Yes, Johnny?’

‘The thing is, Star, we’ve known each other for a while, and you know how I –’

‘Hey, sugar! Now how did I guess I was going to find my baby at the Duke?’

In a single movement, lithe as a cat, a man has insinuated himself into the chair next to Star. He slides an arm around her, draws her to him and kisses her full on the lips. Jonathan’s jaw sags open. He is kissing her. This man. Kissing. Her. Kissing Star. And he is (this cannot be, this absolutely is not happening) –
black.
Black as night, as tar, coal, pitch, liquorice and the suits of funeral directors. Black as a Bible, his skin shining in the candlelight like something made of polished wood. The palms of his black hands contrastingly pink, his thick lips pressed on hers, kissing her, kissing Star. Kissing. Star. Black man. Star.

‘Star?’ asks Jonathan. His voice sounds small and far away.

‘Sweets,’ gulps Star. ‘What are you doing here?’ She looks flustered, angry.

‘Baby,’ says Sweets reproachfully. ‘I came to see you. Why else would I be wandering around this big old city after dark?’

Jonathan’s jaw begins to ache. He realizes he has not closed his mouth. Sweets turns round and extends a pink-palmed hand. He laughs, a big rich laugh full of humour and self-confidence.

‘Elvin T. Baker at your service, but most everybody calls me Sweets. You a friend of my little shining Star?’

Jonathan sits there, rooted to the spot. He does not shake the hand. Sweets’s good mood seems to fade.

‘Sweets,’ says Star, ‘I thought I told you not to turn up while my father was in town.’

‘This your father? He look mighty young to be anyone’s daddy.’

‘Don’t be stupid. This is Jonathan. He’s my – my friend.’ She looks mortified.

‘Star,’ says Jonathan. ‘Who is this man?’

‘Oooh!’ cuts in Sweets, raising his voice. ‘You want to know who this man is? He’s
her
man, that’s who he is.’

‘Sweets!’ Star half screams. The world seems to slow down. Jonathan takes in details: Sweets’s narrowed eyes, his diamond cufflinks, the cut of his beautifully tailored suit. Other things: heads craning round to watch the argument, the red-haired singer making a sign at the doorman.

‘Johnny,’ says Star. ‘Listen.’

But Jonathan is halfway out of his chair.

‘What are you doing? What are you doing with this – this –’

‘Kid, say the N-word and you’re dead,’ says Sweets icily. ‘You ain’t at no British tea party now.’

‘Sweets!’ shouts Star. Then, ‘Johnny!’

Jonathan heads for the door, Star following him.

‘Johnny, wait!’

He wheels round.

‘I meant to tell you, Johnny. I really did. I didn’t know he was going to come here.’

‘What do you mean, you didn’t know? He’s – he’s a black man, for God’s sake. What are you doing with him? You can’t be – oh God – you are, aren’t you. How – how long?’

‘A while.’

‘I can’t believe it. I mean, what would your father say?’

Star stands her ground. ‘Look, I don’t care what my father says, and to be honest if you’re going to be like that I don’t: care what you say either. Oh Johnny. I like you, you know I do – it’s just – well, Sweets is different. He plays the piano. You should hear him play. He’s wonderful. And he’s different. Exotic. Strong. I’ve never met anyone like him.’

‘Different? To whom? To me?’

Star looks at him, pityingly. ‘Yes, Johnny, to you. Come on. I know you, Johnny. I feel I know all there is about you. Gloucestershire, Chopham Hall, Oxford, blah blah blah. You’re very sweet, but you’re exactly like everybody else. You do the same things as everybody else and you say the same things as everybody else. I know if I stayed with you we’d end up getting married and we’d live in the country with horses and a rose garden and moulder away until we were a pair of tweedy old fools smelling of dog hair and making a nuisance of ourselves on the Parish Council.’

‘But Star, you’re English. I thought that’s what you wanted.’

‘When did I say that?’

‘That you were English? You just
are
, that’s all.’

‘I mean about the country. I never said that. That’s not what I want, it’s what
you
want. You’re the most conventional person I know, Johnny. I think that’s all right, but it’s not for me. You like following the rules, having everything just so. I want to get away from it. It’s stifling, doing what you were born to do, following it all along from birth to marriage to death like you were on a set of rails. I want passion, primitive emotions. I want to be in contact with the origin of things. Don’t you see? Sweets, he’s – look Jonathan, he grew up on the streets. He knows about things. He actually shot someone once. And his family were terribly terribly poor. Things like that happen to Negroes. That’s why they have soul.’

Jonathan stutters, ‘But I’ve got soul.’

‘Not really, Johnny. English people have a soul, which is why we go to church on Sunday, but we haven’t got
soul.
Sweets explained it to me. It’s about music and suffering. And it’s something to do with food as well, but that’s slightly different. Anyway, you don’t have it and Sweets does.’

‘Damn right I have,’ says Sweets, who has come up to stand by Star’s side. He puts a hand on herbare shoulder. Jonathan stares at it, black skin touching white, half expecting it to burn her.

The manager has arrived too. He looks Jonathan up and down sceptically.

‘Everything OK here, Sweets?’

‘Sure, Gene. No problem.’

‘Good. When you’ve finished with your um –
personal business,
could you do me a favour and sit in with Brick? Jackson say he gotta make a phone call.’

‘Sure, Gene. Sure.’

‘Star,’ says Jonathan desperately. ‘You have to listen to me.’ He looks over at Sweets. ‘Do you think you could give us a moment alone?’

‘Go on, Sweets,’ says Star. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘OK, baby.’ He saunters over to the band, and swaps places with the pianist.

‘Star, what if I were to tell you that you don’t know everything about me.’

‘Don’t be difficult, Johnny.’

‘Star, listen to me. What if I were to tell you I’m not who you think I am. That I grew up on the street too. That I’ve done all sorts of things.’

‘But it wouldn’t be true. I know your parents were in the colonies, and while I accept it may have been tough sometimes, it doesn’t really count.’

‘That’s not what I mean. My name isn’t really Jonathan Bridgeman. I’m not even – Star, would you love me more if I were like Sweets?’

‘But you aren’t. Johnny, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I mean, if I weren’t so English. If I weren’t so –
white.’

‘But you are, Johnny.’

‘Star, I’m not. I love you and though I may not be as black as him, I’m blacker than you think. Honestly. I’ve got soul, Star. I have.’

‘No, you haven’t. You’re being stupid now. Playing silly games won’t make any difference. I’m sorry. I’ve made my decision. I didn’t want to hurt you, but there it is. I think it’s best if you go. Sweets has quite a temper.’

‘Star-’

‘Please, Johnny just go.’

She looks imploringly at him. In a daze, he turns round and walks out. Behind him, drifting through the door comes the sound of a jaunty piano.

When you have organized your whole life as a ladder (with, for example, something shining and white at the top, and sticky blackness at the bottom) there are consequences when someone kicks it away. Jonathan is in a state of collapse. He wanders around Montmartre, oblivious to shouts and offers, barely able to distinguish the pavement from the gutter.

This is what happens. This terrible blurring is what happens when boundaries are breached. Pigment leaks through skin like ink through blotting paper. It becomes impossible to tell what is valuable and what is not.

You’re the most English person I know.
It’s a good one, all right. He can’t help laughing, laughing until he is doubled up, bending forward with his hands propped on his knees and his breath coming in gulps. People steer round him, the madman howling in the street for no reason.

When he looks up, a giant is standing there in an astrakhan hat. From the curled toes of his red boots to the sheepskin jerkin belted round his considerable waist, he is an impressive figure.

‘Cabaret, monsieur?’ he says. ‘Cabaret Russe?’

Why not. It makes no difference. Step inside, take a seat at a table in view of a rickety stage, with long silver streamers as a ragged backdrop and a circle of parquet in front where more giants are performing an athletic dance. They sink to their knees and kick their red-booted feet in the air, ethnographically perfect, the Cossack distilled down to an essence easily graspable in thirty seconds by the drunkest or most obtuse tourist. A shot of vodka. A second. One thing smudges into another. What is static is set in motion. What is solid melts, unfolding, birthing itself out of itself… And what about Star? He has done everything right, fashioned himself so perfectly. He has made himself into an accurate facsimile of the right man for her, only to find Sweets waiting for him at the end, a black hand on her shoulder. Is it too late to change? Maybe he should revert to an earlier incarnation. Or should he go on? Is Sweets’s blackness another kind of skin he could put on and inhabit?

The Cossack dancers stop, and the band strike up a slow waltz.
Voulez-vous danser m’sieu?
She is an artificial blonde, huge sad eyes ringed with black, sunken cheeks hinting that underneath the paper-thin smile it has been a while since she last ate. Her name is Sonya, and you can tip her at the end of each number, if you like. They hold on to each other like drowning people, shuffling in tired figures round the dancefloor. She talks a little, about film stars, about her family who were rich before the Revolution. White Russian. There’s another good one. White Russian. You understand? No, of course you don’t. She leaves him holding his sides, leaning on a pillar, signs to the bouncers that no, he’s not dangerous. Leave him. He will be quiet in a moment.

He goes back to the table. A ripple of applause greets the arrival on stage of a nondescript little man. In his white tie and tails he manages to look neither elegant nor specially scruffy. It is just a costume, a set of work clothes. Illuminated by a wobbly spotlight which casts a washed-out circle on the silver backdrop, he stands very upright and makes a bombastic introduction in a language (Russian?) Jonathan does not understand. There is a pause. He turns away from the audience, then spins back, a false moustache stuck on his top lip. Holding himself as if he is a very important person, a king or a politician, he gives a speech. A little laughter. Some heckling. He spins round again, comes back without the moustache. His voice thin and reedy, he quavers through a few words, his face held in a lopsided rictus.