Invisible Man (37 page)

We stopped before an expensive-looking building in a strange part of the city. I could see the word
Chthonian
on the storm awning stretched above the walk as I got out with the others and went swiftly toward a lobby lighted by dim bulbs set behind frosted glass, going past the uniformed doorman with an uncanny sense of familiarity; feeling now, as we entered a sound-proof elevator and shot away at a mile a minute, that I had been through it all before. Then we were stopping with a gentle bounce and I was uncertain whether we had gone up or down. Brother Jack guided me down the hall to a door on which I saw a bronze door-knocker in the shape of a large-eyed owl. Now he hesitated a moment, his head thrust forward as though listening, then his hand covered the owl from view, producing instead of the knock which I expected, an icy peal of clear chimes. Shortly the door swung partly open, revealing a smartly dressed woman, whose hard, handsome face broke into smiles.

“Come in, brothers,” she said, her exotic perfume filling the foyer.

I noticed a clip of blazing diamonds on her dress as I tried to stand aside for the others, but Brother Jack pushed me ahead.

“Excuse me,” I said, but she held her ground, and I was pressing tensely against her perfumed softness, seeing her smile as though there were only she and I. Then I was past, disturbed not so much by the close contact, as by the sense that I had somehow been through it all before. I couldn’t decide if it were from watching some similar scene in the movies, from books I’d read, or from some recurrent but deeply buried dream. Whatsoever, it was like entering a scene which, because of some devious circumstance, I had hitherto watched only from a distance. How could they have such an expensive place, I wondered.

“Put your things in the study,” the woman said. “I’ll go see about drinks.”

We entered a room lined with books and decorated with old musical instruments: An Irish harp, a hunter’s horn, a clarinet and a wooden flute were suspended by the neck from the wall on pink and blue ribbons. There were a leather divan and a number of easy chairs.

“Throw your coat on the divan,” Brother Jack said.

I slid out of my overcoat and looked around. The dial of the radio built into a section of the natural mahogany bookshelf was lighted, but I couldn’t hear any sound; and there was an ample desk on which rested silver and crystal writing things, and, as one of the men came to stand gazing at the bookcase, I was struck by the contrast between the richness of the room and their rather poor clothing.

“Now we’ll go into the other room,” Brother Jack said, taking me by the arm.

We entered a large room in which one entire wall was hung with Italian-red draperies that fell in rich folds from the ceiling. A number of well-dressed men and women were gathered in groups, some beside a grand piano, the others lounging in the pale beige upholstery of the blond wood chairs. Here and there I saw several attractive young women but carefully avoided giving them more than a glance. I felt extremely uncomfortable, although after brief glances no one paid me any special attention. It was as though they hadn’t seen me, as though I were here, and yet not here. The others were moving away to join the various groups now, and Brother Jack took my arm.

“Come, let’s get a drink,” he said, guiding me toward the end of the room.

The woman who’d let us in was mixing drinks behind a handsome free-form bar which was large enough to have graced a night club.

“How about a drink for us, Emma?” Brother Jack said.

“Well, now, I’ll have to think about it,” she said, tilting her severely drawn head and smiling.

“Don’t think, act,” he said. “We’re very thirsty men. This young man pushed history ahead twenty years today.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes becoming intent. “You must tell me about him.”

“Just read the morning papers, Emma. Things have begun to move. Yes, leap ahead.” He laughed deeply.

“What would you like, Brother?” she said, her eyes brushing slowly over my face.

“Bourbon,” I said, a little too loudly, as I remembered the best the South had to offer. My face was warm, but I returned her glance as steadily as I dared. It was not the harsh uninterested-in-you-as-a-human-being stare that I’d known in the South, the kind that swept over a black man as though he were a horse or an insect; it was something more, a direct, what-type-of-mere-man-have-we-here kind of look that seemed to go beneath my skin … Somewhere in my leg a muscle twitched violently.

“Emma, the bourbon!
Two
bourbons,” Brother Jack said.

“You know,” she said, picking up a decanter, “I’m intrigued.”

“Naturally. Always,” he said. “Intrigued and intriguing. But we’re dying of thirst.”

“Only of impatience,” she said, pouring the drinks. “I mean
you
are. Tell me, where did you find this young hero of the people?”

“I didn’t,” Brother Jack said. “He simply arose out of a crowd. The people always throw up their leaders, you know …”

“Throw
them up,” she said. “Nonsense, they chew them up and spit them out. Their leaders are made, not born. Then they’re destroyed. You’ve always said that. Here you are, Brother.”

He looked at her steadily. I took the heavy crystal glass and raised it to my lips, glad for an excuse to turn from her eyes. A haze of cigarette smoke drifted through the room. I heard a series of rich arpeggios sound on the piano behind me and turned to look, hearing the woman Emma say not quite softly enough, “But don’t you think he should be a little blacker?”

“Shhh, don’t be a damn fool,” Brother Jack said sharply. “We’re not interested in his looks but in his voice. And I suggest, Emma, that you make it
your
interest too …”

Suddenly hot and breathless, I saw a window across the room and went over and stood looking out. We were up very high; street lamps and traffic cut patterns in the night below. So she doesn’t think I’m black enough. What does she want, a black-face comedian? Who is she, anyway, Brother Jack’s wife, his girl friend? Maybe she wants to see me sweat coal tar, ink, shoe polish, graphite. What was I, a man or a natural resource?

The window was so high that I could barely hear the sound of traffic below … This was a bad beginning, but hell, I was being hired by Brother Jack, if he still wanted me, not this Emma woman. I’d like to show her how really black I am, I thought, taking a big drink of the bourbon. It was smooth, cold. I’d have to be careful with the stuff. Anything might happen if I had too much. With these people I’ll have to be careful. Always careful. With all people I’ll have to be careful …

“It’s a pleasant view, isn’t it?” a voice said, and I whirled to see a tall dark man. “But now would you mind joining us in the library?” he said.

Brother Jack, the men who had come along in the car, and two others whom I hadn’t seen before were waiting.

“Come in, Brother,” Jack said. “Business before pleasure, is always a good rule, whoever you are. Some day the rule shall be business
with
pleasure, for the joy of labor shall have been restored. Sit down.”

I took the chair directly before him, wondering what this speech was all about.

“You know, Brother,” he said, “we don’t ordinarily interrupt our social gatherings with business, but with you it’s necessary.”

“I’m very sorry,” I said. “I should have called you earlier.”

“Sorry? Why, we’re only too glad to do so. We’ve been waiting for you for months. Or for someone who could do what you’ve done.”

“But what … ?” I said.

“What are we doing? What is our mission? It’s simple; we are working for a better world for all people. It’s that simple. Too many have been dispossessed of their heritage, and we have banded together in brotherhood so as to do something about it. What do you think of that?”

“Why, I think it’s fine,” I said, trying to take in the full meaning of his words. “I think it’s excellent. But how?”

“By moving them to action just as you did this morning … Brothers, I was there,” he said to the others, “and he was magnificent. With a few words he set off an effective demonstration against evictions!”

“I was present too,” another said. “It was amazing.”

“Tell us something of your background,” Brother Jack said, his voice and manner demanding truthful answers. And I explained briefly that I had come up looking for work to pay my way through college and had failed.

“Do you still plan to return?”

“Not now,” I said. “I’m all done with that.”

“It’s just as well,” Brother Jack said. “You have little to learn down there. However, college training is not a bad thing—although you’ll have to forget most of it. Did you study economics?”

“Some.”

“Sociology?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let me advise you to forget it. You’ll be given books to read along with some material that explains our program in detail. But we’re moving too fast. Perhaps you aren’t interested in working for the Brotherhood.”

“But you haven’t told me what I’m supposed to do,” I said.

He looked at me fixedly, picking up his glass slowly and taking a long swallow.

“Let’s put it this way,” he said. “How would you like to be the new Booker T. Washington?”

“What!” I looked into his bland eyes for laughter, seeing his red head turned slightly to the side. “Please, now,” I said.

“Oh, yes, I’m serious.”

“Then I don’t understand you.” Was
I
drunk? I looked at him; he
seemed
sober.

“What do you think of the idea? Or better still, what do you think of Booker T. Washington?”

“Why, naturally, I think he was an important figure. At least most people say so.”

“But?”

“Well,” I was at a loss for words. He was going too fast again. The whole idea was insane and yet the others were looking at me calmly; one of them was lighting up an under-slung pipe. The match sputtered, caught fire.

“What is it?” Brother Jack insisted.

“Well, I guess I don’t think he was as great as the Founder.”

“Oh? And why not?”

“Well, in the first place, the Founder came before him and did practically everything Booker T. Washington did and a lot more. And more people believed in him. You hear a lot of arguments about Booker T. Washington, but few would argue about the Founder …”

“No, but perhaps that is because the Founder lies outside history, while Washington is still a living force. However, the
new
Washington shall work for the poor …”

I looked into my crystal glass of bourbon. It was unbelievable, yet strangely exciting and I had the sense of being present at the creation of important events, as though a curtain had been parted and I was being allowed to glimpse how the country operated. And yet none of these men was well known, or at least I’d never seen their faces in the newspapers.

“During these times of indecision when all the old answers are proven false, the people look back to the dead to give them a clue,” he went on. “They call first upon one and then upon another of those who have acted in the past.”

“If you please, Brother,” the man with the pipe interrupted, “I think you should speak more concretely.”

“Please don’t interrupt,” Brother Jack said icily.

“I wish only to point out that a scientific terminology exists,” the man said, emphasizing his words with his pipe. “After all, we call ourselves scientists here. Let us speak as scientists.”

“In due time,” Brother Jack said. “In due time … You see, Brother,” he said, turning to me, “the trouble is that there is little the dead can do; otherwise they wouldn’t be the dead. No! But on the other hand, it would be a great mistake to assume that the dead are absolutely powerless. They are powerless only to give the full answer to the new questions posed for the living by history. But they try! Whenever they hear the imperious cries of the people in a crisis, the dead respond. Right now in this country, with its many national groups, all the old heroes are being called back to life—Jefferson, Jackson, Pulaski, Garibaldi, Booker T. Washington, Sun Yat-sen, Danny O’Connell, Abraham Lincoln and countless others are being asked to step once again upon the stage of history. I can’t say too emphatically that we stand at a terminal point in history, at a moment of supreme world crisis. Destruction lies ahead unless things are changed. And things
must
be changed. And changed by the people. Because, Brother, the enemies of man are dispossessing the world! Do you understand?”

“I’m beginning to,” I said, greatly impressed.

“There are other terms, other more accurate ways of saying all this, but we haven’t time for that right now. We speak now in terms that are easy to understand. As you spoke to the crowd this morning.”

“I see,” I said, feeling uncomfortable under his stare.

“So it isn’t a matter of whether you
wish
to be the new Booker T. Washington, my friend. Booker Washington was resurrected today at a certain eviction in Harlem. He came out from the anonymity of the crowd and spoke to the people. So you see, I don’t joke with you. Or play with words either. There is a scientific explanation for this phenomenon—as our learned brother has graciously reminded me—you’ll learn it in time, but whatever you call it the reality of the world crisis is a fact. We are all realists here, and materialists. It is a question of who shall determine the direction of events. That is why we’ve brought you into this room. This morning you answered the people’s appeal and we want you to be the true interpreter of the people. You shall be the new Booker T. Washington, but even greater than he.”

There was silence. I could hear the wet cracking of the pipe.

“Perhaps we should allow the brother to express himself as to how he feels about all this,” the man with the pipe said.

“Well, Brother?” Brother Jack said.

I looked into their waiting faces.

“It’s all so new to me that I don’t know exactly what I do think,” I said. “Do you really think you have the right man?”

“You mustn’t let that worry you,” Brother Jack said. “You will rise to the task; it is only necessary that you work hard and follow instructions.”