Invisible Man (19 page)

“I wouldn’t lie, sir,” I said.

“Then who was that patient you were talking with?”

“I never saw him before, sir.”

“What was he saying?”

“I can’t recall it all,” I muttered. “The man was raving.”

“Speak up. What did he say?”

“He thinks that he lived in France and that he’s a great doctor …”

“Continue.”

“He said that I believed that white was right,” I said.

“What?” Suddenly his face twitched and cracked like the surface of dark water. “And you do, don’t you?” Dr. Bledsoe said, suppressing a nasty laugh. “Well, don’t you?”

I did not answer, thinking,
You, you …

“Who was he, did you ever see him before?”

“No, sir, I hadn’t.”

“Was he northern or southern?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

He struck his desk. “College for Negroes! Boy, what do you know other than how to ruin an institution in half an hour that it took over half a hundred years to build? Did he
talk
northern or southern?”

“He talked like a white man,” I said, “except that his voice sounded southern, like one of ours …”

“I’ll have to investigate him,” he said. “A Negro like that should be under lock and key.”

Across the campus a clock struck the quarter hour and something inside me seemed to muffle its sound. I turned to him desperately. “Dr. Bledsoe, I’m awfully sorry. I had no intention of going there but things just got out of hand. Mr. Norton understands how it happened …”

“Listen to me, boy,” he said loudly. “Norton is one man and I’m another, and while he might think he’s satisfied,
I
know that he isn’t! Your poor judgment has caused this school incalculable damage. Instead of uplifting the race, you’ve torn it down.”

He looked at me as though I had committed the worst crime imaginable. “Don’t you know we can’t tolerate such a thing? I gave you an opportunity to serve one of our best white friends, a man who could make your fortune. But in return you dragged the entire race into the slime!”

Suddenly he reached for something beneath a pile of papers, an old leg shackle from slavery which he proudly called a “symbol of our progress.”

“You’ve got to be disciplined, boy,” he said. “There’s no if’s and and’s about it.”

“But you gave Mr. Norton your word …”

“Don’t stand there and tell me what I already know. Regardless of what I said, as the leader of this institution I can’t possibly let this pass. Boy, I’m getting rid of you!”

It must have happened when the metal struck the desk, for suddenly I was leaning toward him, shouting with outrage.

“I’ll tell him,” I said. “I’ll go to Mr. Norton and tell him. You’ve lied to both of us …”

“What!” he said. “You have the nerve to threaten me … in my own office?”

“I’ll tell him,” I screamed. “I’ll tell everybody. I’ll fight you. I swear it, I’ll fight!”

“Well,” he said, sitting back, “well, I’ll be damn!”

For a moment he looked me up and down and I saw his head go back into the shadow, hearing a high, thin sound like a cry of rage; then his face came forward and I saw his laughter. For an instant I stared; then I wheeled and started for the door, hearing him sputter, “Wait, wait,” behind me.

I turned. He gasped for breath, propping his huge head up with his hands as tears streamed down his face.

“Come on, come,” he said, removing his glasses and wiping his eyes. “Come on, son,” his voice amused and conciliatory. It was as though I were being put through a fraternity initiation and found myself going back. He looked at me, still laughing with agony. My eyes burned.

“Boy, you
are
a fool,” he said. “Your white folk didn’t teach you anything and your mother-wit has left you cold. What has happened to you young Negroes? I thought you had caught on to how things are done down here. But you don’t even know the difference between the way things are and the way they’re supposed to be. My God,” he gasped, “what is the race coming to? Why, boy, you can tell anyone you like—sit down there … Sit down, sir, I say!”

Reluctantly I sat, torn between anger and fascination, hating myself for obeying.

“Tell anyone you like,” he said. “I don’t care. I wouldn’t raise my little finger to stop you. Because I don’t owe anyone a thing, son. Who, Negroes? Negroes don’t control this school or much of anything else—haven’t you learned even that? No, sir, they don’t control this school, nor white folk either. True they
support
it, but
I
control it. I’s big and black and I say ‘Yes, suh’ as loudly as any burrhead when it’s convenient, but I’m still the king down here. I don’t care how much it appears otherwise. Power doesn’t have to show off. Power is confident, self-assuring, self-starting and self-stopping, self-warming and self-justifying. When you have it, you know it. Let the Negroes snicker and the crackers laugh! Those are the facts, son. The only ones I even pretend to please are
big
white folk, and even those I control more than they control me. This is a power set-up, son, and I’m at the controls. You think about that. When you buck against me, you’re bucking against power, rich white folk’s power, the nation’s power—which means government power!”

He paused to let it sink in and I waited, feeling a numb, violent outrage.

“And I’ll tell you something your sociology teachers are afraid to tell you,” he said. “If there weren’t men like me running schools like this, there’d be no South. Nor North, either. No, and there’d be no country—not as it is today. You think about that, son.” He laughed. “With all your speech-making and studying I thought you understood something. But you … All right, go ahead. See Norton. You’ll find that
he
wants you disciplined; he might not know it, but he does. Because he knows that I know what is best for his interests. You’re a black educated fool, son. These white folk have newspapers, magazines, radios, spokesmen to get their ideas across. If they want to tell the world a lie, they can tell it so well that it becomes the truth; and if I tell them that you’re lying, they’ll tell the world even if you prove you’re telling the truth. Because it’s the kind of lie they want to hear …”

I heard the high thin laugh again. “You’re nobody, son. You don’t exist—can’t you see that? The white folk tell everybody what to think—except men like me. I tell
them;
that’s my life, telling white folk how to think about the things I know about. Shocks you, doesn’t it? Well, that’s the way it is. It’s a nasty deal and I don’t always like it myself. But you listen to me: I didn’t make it, and I know that I can’t change it. But I’ve made my place in it and I’ll have every Negro in the country hanging on tree limbs by morning if it means staying where I am.”

He was looking me in the eye now, his voice charged and sincere, as though uttering a confession, a fantastic revelation which I could neither believe nor deny. Cold drops of sweat moved at a glacier’s pace down my spine …

“I mean it, son,” he said. “I had to be strong and purposeful to get where I am. I had to wait and plan and lick around … Yes, I had to act the nigger!” he said, adding another fiery, “Yes!”

“I don’t even insist that it was worth it, but now I’m here and I mean to stay—after you win the game, you take the prize and you keep it, protect it; there’s nothing else to do.” He shrugged. “A man gets old winning his place, son. So you go ahead, go tell your story; match your truth against my truth, because what I’ve said is truth, the broader truth. Test it, try it out … When I started out I was a young fellow …”

But I no longer listened, nor saw more than the play of light upon the metallic disks of his glasses, which now seemed to float within the disgusting sea of his words. Truth, truth, what was truth? Nobody I knew, not even my own mother, would believe me if I tried to tell them. Nor would I tomorrow, I thought, nor would I … I gazed helplessly at the grain of the desk, then past his head to the case of loving cups behind his chair. Above the case a portrait of the Founder looked non-committally down.

“Hee, hee!” Bledsoe laughed. “Your arms are too short to box with me, son. And I haven’t had to really clip a young Negro in years. No,” he said getting up, “they haven’t been so cocky as they used to.”

This time I could barely move, my stomach was knotted and my kidneys ached. My legs were rubbery. For three years I had thought of myself as a man and here with a few words he’d made me as helpless as an infant. I pulled myself up …

“Wait, hold on a second,” he said, looking at me like a man about to flip a coin. “I like your spirit, son. You’re a fighter, and I like that; you just lack judgment, though lack of judgment can ruin you. That’s why I have to penalize you, son. I know how you feel, too. You don’t want to go home to be humiliated, I understand that, because you have some vague notions about dignity. In spite of me, such notions seep in along with the gimcrack teachers and northern-trained idealists. Yes, and you have some white folk backing you and you don’t want to face them because nothing is worse for a black man than to be humiliated by white folk. I know all about that too; ole doc’s been ’buked and scorned and all of that. I don’t just
sing
about it in chapel, I
know
about it. But you’ll get over it; it’s foolish and expensive and a lot of dead weight. You let the white folk worry about pride and dignity—you learn where you are and get yourself power, influence, contacts with powerful and influential people—then stay in the dark and use it!”

How long will I stand here and let him laugh at me, I thought, holding on to the back of the chair, how long?

“You’re a nervy little fighter, son,” he said, “and the race needs good, smart, disillusioned fighters. Therefore I’m going to give you a hand—maybe you’ll feel that I’m giving you my left hand after I’m struck you with my right—if you think I’m the kind of man who’d lead with his right, which I’m most certainly not. But that’s all right too, take it or leave it. I want you to go to New York for the summer and save your pride—and your money. You go there and earn your next year’s fees, understand?”

I nodded, unable to speak, whirling about furiously within myself, trying to deal with him, to fit what he was saying to what he had said …

“I’ll give you letters to some of the school’s friends to see that you get work,” he said. “But this time, use your judgment, keep your eyes open, get in the swing of things! Then, if you make good, perhaps … well, perhaps … It’s up to you.”

His voice stopped as he stood, tall and black and disk-eyed, huge.

“That’s all, young man,” he said, his tone abrupt, official. “You have two days in which to close your affairs.”

“Two days?”

“Two days!” he said.

I went down the steps and up the walk in the dark, making it out of the building just before it bent me double beneath the wisteria that hung from the trees on ropelike vines. Almost a total disembowelment and when it paused I looked up through the trees arched high and cool above me to see a whirling, double-imaged moon. My eyes were out of focus. I started toward my room, covering one eye with my hand to avoid crashing into trees and lampposts projected into my path. I went on, tasting bile and thankful that it was night with no one to witness my condition. My stomach felt raw. From somewhere across the quiet of the campus the sound of an old guitar-blues plucked from an out-of-tune piano drifted toward me like a lazy, shimmering wave, like the echoed whistle of a lonely train, and my head went over again, against a tree this time, and I could hear it splattering the flowering vines.

When I could move, my head started to whirl in a circle. The day’s events flowed past. Trueblood, Mr. Norton, Dr. Bledsoe and the Golden Day swept around my mind in a mad surreal whirl. I stood in the path holding my eye and trying to push back the day, but each time I floundered upon Dr. Bledsoe’s decision. It still echoed in my mind and it was real and it was final. Whatever my responsibility was for what had occurred, I knew that I would pay for it, knew that I would be expelled, and the very idea stabbed my insides again. I stood there on the moonlit walk, trying to think ahead to its effects, imagining the satisfaction of those who envied my success, the shame and disappointment of my parents. I would never live down my disgrace. My white friends would be disgusted and I recalled the fear that hung over all those who had no protection from powerful whites.

How had I come to this? I had kept unswervingly to the path placed before me, had tried to be exactly what I was expected to be, had done exactly what I was expected to do—yet, instead of winning the expected reward, here I was stumbling along, holding on desperately to one of my eyes in order to keep from bursting out my brain against some familiar object swerved into my path by my distorted vision. And now to drive me wild I felt suddenly that my grandfather was hovering over me, grinning triumphantly out of the dark. I simply could not endure it. For, despite my anguish and anger, I knew of no other way of living, nor other forms of success available to such as me. I was so completely a part of that existence that in the end I had to make my peace. It was either that or admit that my grandfather had made sense. Which was impossible, for though I still believed myself innocent, I saw that the only alternative to permanently facing the world of Trueblood and the Golden Day was to accept the responsibility for what had happened. Somehow, I convinced myself, I had violated the code and thus would have to submit to punishment. Dr. Bledsoe is right, I told myself, he’s right; the school and what it stands for have to be protected. There was no other way, and no matter how much I suffered I would pay my debt as quickly as possible and return to building my career …

Back in my room I counted my savings, some fifty dollars, and decided to get to New York as quickly as possible. If Dr. Bledsoe didn’t change his mind about helping me get a job, it would be enough to pay my room and board at Men’s House, about which I had learned from fellows who lived there during their summer vacations. I would leave in the morning.

So while my roommate grinned and mumbled unaware in his sleep I packed my bags.