Invisible Man (32 page)

"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 underslung 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."

They stood up now. I looked at them, fighting a sense of unreality. They stared at me as the fellows had done when I was being initiated into my college fraternity. Only this was real and now was the time for me to decide or to say I thought they were crazy and go back to Mary's. But what is there to lose? I thought. At least they've invited me, one of us, in at the beginning of something big; and besides, if I refused to join them, where would I goto a job as porter at the railroad station? At least here was a chance to speak.

"When shall I start?" I said.

"Tomorrow, we must waste no time. By the way, where are you living?"

"I rent a room from a woman in Harlem," I said.

"A housewife?"

"She's a widow," I said. "She rents rooms."

"What is her educational background?"

"She's had very little."

"More or less like the old couple that was evicted?"

"Somewhat, but better able to take care of herself. She's tough," I said with a laugh.

"Does she ask a lot of questions? Are you friendly with her?"

"She's been very nice to me," I said. "She allowed me to stay on after I was unable to pay my rent."

He shook his head. "No."

"What is it?" I said.

"It is best that you move," he said. "We'll find you a place further downtown so that you'll be within easy call . . ."

"But I have no money, and she's entirely trustworthy."

"That will be taken care of," he said, waving his hand. "You must realize immediately that much of our work is opposed. Our discipline demands therefore that we talk to no one and that we avoid situations in which information might be given away unwittingly. So you must put aside your past. Do you have a family?"

"Yes."

"Are you in touch with them?"

"Of course. I write home now and then," I said, beginning to resent his method of questioning. His voice had become cold, searching.

"Then it's best that you cease for a while," he said. "Anyway, you'll be too busy. Here." He fished into his vest pocket for something and got suddenly to his feet.

"What is it?" someone asked.

"Nothing, excuse me," he said, rolling to the door and beckoning. In a moment I saw the woman appear.

"Emma, the slip of paper I gave you. Give it to the new Brother," he said as she stepped inside and closed the door.

"Oh, so it's you," she said with a meaningful smile.

I watched her reach into the bosom of her taffeta hostess gown and remove a white envelope.

"This is your new identity," Brother Jack said. "Open it." Inside I found a name written on a slip of paper.

"That is your new name," Brother Jack said. "Start thinking of yourself by that name from this moment. Get it down so that even if you are called in the middle of the night you will respond. Very soon you shall be known by it all over the country. You are to answer to no other, understand?"

"I'll try," I said.

"Don't forget his living quarters," the tall man said.

"No," Brother Jack said with a frown. "Emma, please, some funds."

"How much, Jack?" she said.

He turned to me. "Do you owe much rent?"

"Too much," I said.

"Make it three hundred, Emma," he said.

"Never mind," he said as I showed my surprise at the sum. "This will pay your debts and buy you clothing. Call me in the morning and I'll have selected your living quarters. For a start your salary will be sixty dollars a week."

Sixty a week! There was nothing I could say. The woman had crossed the room to the desk and returned with the money, placing it in my hand.

"You'd better put it away," she said expansively.

"Well, Brothers, I believe that's all," he said. "Emma, how about a drink?"

"Of course, of course," she said, going to a cabinet and removing a decanter and a set of glasses in which she poured about an inch of clear liquid.

"Here you are, Brothers," she said.

Taking his, Brother Jack raised it to his nose, inhaling deeply. "To the Brotherhood of Man . . . to History and to Change," he said, touching my glass.

"To History," we all said.

The stuff burned, causing me to lower my head to hide the tears that popped from my eyes.

"Aaaah!" someone said with deep satisfaction.

"Come along," Emma said. "Let's join the others."

"Now for some pleasure," Brother Jack said. "And remember your new identity." I wanted to think but they gave me no time. I was swept into the large room and introduced by my new name. Everyone smiled and seemed eager to meet me, as though they all knew the role I was to play. All grasped me warmly by the hand.

"What is your opinion of the state of women's rights, Brother?" I was asked by a plain woman in a large black velvet tarn. But before I could open my mouth, Brother Jack had pushed me along to a group of men, one of whom seemed to know all about the eviction. Nearby, a group around the piano were singing folk songs with more volume than melody. We moved from group to group, Brother Jack very authoritative, the others always respectful. He must be a powerful man, I thought, not a clown at all. But to hell with this Booker T. Washington business. I would do the work but I would be no one except myself --whoever I was, I would pattern my life on that of the Founder. They might think I was acting like Booker T. Washington; let them. But what I thought of myself I would keep to myself. Yes, and I'd have to hide the fact that I had actually been afraid when I made my speech. Suddenly I felt laughter bubbling inside me. I'd have to catch up with this science of history business. We had come to stand near the piano now, where an intense young man questioned me about various leaders of the Harlem community. I knew them only by name, but pretended that I knew them all.

"Good," he said, "good, we have to work with all these forces during the coming period."

"Yes, you're quite right," I said, giving my glass a tinkling twirl. A short broad man saw me and waved the others to a halt. "Say, Brother," he called. "Hold the music, boys, hold it!"

"Yes, uh . . . Brother," I said.

"You're just who we need. We been looking for you."

"Oh," I said.

"How about a spiritual, Brother? Or one of those real good ole Negro work songs? Like this:
Ah
went to Atlanta --nevah been there befo',"
he sang, his arms held out from his body like a penguin's wings, glass in one hand, cigar in the other.
"White man sleep in a feather bed, Nigguh sleep on the
flo'
. . . Ha! Ha! How about it, Brother?"

"The Brother
does not sing!"
Brother Jack roared staccato.

"Nonsense,
all
colored people sing."

"This is an outrageous example of unconscious racial chauvinism!" Jack said.

"Nonsense, I
like
their singing," the broad man said doggedly.

"The Brother
does not sing!"
Brother Jack cried, his face turning a deep purple. The broad man regarded him stubbornly. "Why don't you let
him
say whether he can sing or not

. . . ? Come on, Brother, git hot!
Go Down, Moses,"
he bellowed in a ragged baritone, putting down his cigar and snapping his fingers.
"Way down in Egypt's land. Tell dat ole Pharaoh to let ma colored
folks sing!
I'm for the rights of the colored brother to sing!" he shouted belligerently. Brother Jack looked as if he would choke; he raised his hand, signaling. I saw two men shoot from across the room and lead the short man roughly away. Brother Jack followed them as they disappeared beyond the door, leaving an enormous silence.

For a moment I stood there, my eyes riveted upon the door, then I turned, the glass hot in my hand, my face feeling as though it would explode. Why was everyone staring at me as though I were responsible? Why the hell were they staring at me? Suddenly I yelled, "What's the matter with you?

Haven't you ever seen a drunk --" when somewhere off the foyer the broad man's voice staggered drunkenly to us,
"St. Louis mammieeeee --with her diamond riiiings . . ."
and was clipped off by a slamming door, leaving a roomful of bewildered faces. And suddenly I was laughing hysterically.

"He hit me in the face," I wheezed. "He hit me in the face with a yard of chitterlings!" --bending double, roaring, the whole room seeming to dance up and down with each rapid eruption of laughter.