The End of a Primitive (3 page)

“Five-star General of the Army, Dwight D. Eisenhower, will be nominated on the first ballot,” the chimpanzee promptly replied.

“And are you sure it won’t be Senator Taft?” Gloucester, who was a loyal Taft supporter, prompted the chimp.

“No, not even for Vice President,” the chimpanzee asserted positively. “All Bob Taft will get will be a big hug from Eisenhower when the General rushes across the street directly following his nomination to congratulate Taft on losing and calling for party unity. Senator Richard M. Nixon of California will be nominated for Vice President, and on September 28, 1952, he will go on television—the same as you and I—defend a political fund placed at his disposal by innocent and patriotic businessmen of California, most of whom have somehow become involved in the real estate business and are hamstrung in their desire to invest in low rental properties by the Democratic administration’s rent control program which, paradoxically, precipitates high rent. Mr Nixon will also bare his financial status to the complete satisfaction of the Republicans and the complete dissatisfaction of the Democrats, after which he will hasten to the special campaign train of Republican presidential nominee General of the Army, Eisenhower, to pose for a news-reel parody of the Jerry Lewis-Dean Martin comedy. That’s My Boy.

“What do you think of General Eisenhower’s chances of being elected?” Gloucester asked condescendingly.

“On November 4, 1952, Republican nominee for President, five-star General of the Army, Dwight D. Eisenhower, will be elected President of the United States by an overwhelming landslide of 442 electoral votes and a popular vote of 33, 938, 285, the largest popular vote in the history of your Republic, thereby giving Senator McCarthy a mandate to rid the nation of its mentality,” the chimpanzee stated with extreme boredom. After all, this would bear no effect on chimpanzees—chimpanzees didn’t think. “Does that answer your questions?” he asked shortly, anxious to collect payment for his appearance.

Kriss stared at the chimpanzee in horror. “How can it say such things—and Roosevelt dead but seven years!” she thought indignantly.

The pill worked rapidly on an empty stomach. The tremendous physical stimulation provided by the five milligrams of dexedrine was levelled off at peak efficiency by the counter-opiate of thirty-two milligrams of amylobarbitone, holding the brain, which had been sharpened and alerted to almost supernatural brilliancy by the caffeine contained in two cups of strong black coffee, to an almost unbearable lucidity, like Hemingway writing a novel. By the time she had combed her short, curled hair, powdered her face smoothly white, painted her lips becomingly red, applied a light sheen of vaseline to her upper eyelids, and adorned herself with appropriate jewelry: two hollow gold matching serpentine bracelets on her right wrist; a gold wrist watch with leather band on her left wrist; a leaf-shaped gold pin containing a dark blue stone at her left breast; a gold rope-shaped necklace; two gold-plated, snap-on earrings; along with her wedding and engagement rings which she still wore for the same reason she still kept her married name, she felt capable and serene and alert and very secure. She loved her little pills for the security they gave her. Thus bedecked and ornamented to the wildest fancy of any savage, emotionally fortified by the latest in patent drugs, faintly amused by the early morning television antics of M.C.s and chimpanzees, her wits made keen by the essence of twenty-five milligrams of good, pure, American coffee, she felt herself an efficient executive, ready to face the day.

Now she could afford to think about Dave Levine. He hadn’t called her again, the son of a bitch! She had tried hard to marry Dave, and had almost gotten him, but his mother who was very orthodox, and incidentally held the purse-strings even though Dave maintained an apartment in Manhattan, had put her foot down. Since then she had hated him, but she couldn’t bear the humiliation of his breaking off before she did. “The Jewish son of a bitch!” she thought, trying vainly to arouse some inner racial prejudice to support her ego. But she didn’t have any racial prejudice, really, and most of the people whom she had ever deeply admired had been Jews and a few blacks, so it didn’t work. The tragedy was that she loved Dave’s warm, friendly, compassionate mother more than she had ever loved Dave, whose chief influence over her had been to make her feel inferior. “The chiseler! He’s practically lived off me this past year,” she told herself, trying another tactic to prod her anger. But her clean cool thoughts would not accept the lie. She wished, wryly, that it was true, so that when he called next time she could say, “Get out of my house, you bastard! Get out of my life! You’ve done nothing but sponge off me ever since you knew me. Go back and marry that girl in the Bronx, Susan or Vivien or whatever her name is!” She knew very well the girl’s name; it was Denise Rose; and she was a damn pretty girl whose parents had money; and she had graduated from Smith and travelled extensively in Europe, read good books and dabbled in art as a pastime, now wanted to get married like herself and bear her husband some fine sons, one to take over the business, another to study law at Harvard, a girl to marry one of their good friends. Secretly Kriss felt that Dave was a damn fool not to have married her a long time ago.

“The Brooks Brothers ass!” she thought, going quickly to turn off the television set. On the way out she made a quick cursory examination of the contents of her pocket book. She had three twenties, two tens, a five, and three ones, in a green billfold. She’d stop by Best & Co. at noon and pay her bill. In the change pocket were coins for carfare. The remaining contents consisted of the lacquered snuff box of pills; an enamelled lipstick case of saccharine tablets; a dollar lipstick of Chinese Red; a large, flat, round, gold inlaid, plastic compact; a long, flat, magnificent, solid-gold cigarette case given to her for a birthday present the year before by Fuller, and incidentally a letter from Fuller that had come to the office the day before, stating that he was making a quick hop to Los Angeles on business; a gold-plated Dunhill cigarette lighter given to her for a Christmas present by Dave; a ninety-eight cents ball-point pen from a Whelan’s drugstore; a book of special account checks from a midtown Manhattan & Company branch bank; two clean initialled linen handkerchiefs; a half-filled package of Chesterfield cigarettes from which she smoked unless she wished to make an impression with the solid case—but she never smoked before lunch; the three keys necessary to get into her apartment, another key to the side entrance of her office building, two small flat keys to the large Hartman suitcases in her storage closets which she had not used since her trip to Europe, all held securely in a snap-button red leather key case; and a small, red leather-bound address book, containing the addresses of nine couples, six single women, and two men, there being nothing to indicate whether single or married. One was a Jim Saxton from Dallas, Texas; the other a Kenneth McCrary from Hollywood, California. It was a neat, orderly, and comparatively uncluttered pocket book.

From one of the front closets devoted to coats she selected a soft plaid of medium weight and neutral shade. She pulled on black cotton gloves, picked up her purse and the morning paper, took a last sip of the now tepid coffee, leaving a smudge of lipstick on the cup, put out the lights behind her, and started to work. It was then exactly nine o’clock, at which time she was due in her office. But she’d gotten into such a habit of being late it was now practically impossible for her to be on time. “I’d better buck up,” she cautioned herself. Sooner or later her boss, Kirby, would get on her tail—in a nice way, of course; he was really a very nice guy—but she wouldn’t like it. She was extremely sensitive to reprimands, although, unlike many businesswomen who cry and sulk on such occasions, she became unreasonably furious.

On opening the door into the corridor, she met Mattie about to enter. Mattie was a very dark-complexioned woman who never wore makeup nor gave any other indication of an interest in her personal appearance. Her face always looked unwashed, her short, kinky hair uncombed, her old tattered garments as mussed as if she had slept in them. She weighed over two hundred pounds, but was as solid as a rock.

At the sight of Kriss her face lit with her professional grin, showing a row of sizeable pale yellow teeth with amalgam fillings here and there. “Mawnin’ Miz Cummons.” She seemed to have some manner of psychological block against pronouncing the name,
Cummings
, although once Kriss had heard her say distinctly, “Mister Drummings.” However, Kriss had no way of knowing that the gentleman to whom she referred was named
Drummond
.

Kriss grinned back at her, giving the little amused chuckle that made her so well-liked. “I’m late again, Mattie. It seems as if I just can’t get off in time.”

“Y’all needs tuh be ma’d, Miz Cummons. Dass wut y’all needs,” Mattie replied with easy familiarity. What she didn’t know about Kriss’s sex life, she had guessed. “Den y’all woud’n have tuh git up attall.”

Kriss was never quite certain during these exchanges whether Mattie was slyly poking fun or stating a profound conviction. She chuckled uncomfortably and hastened down the corridor, her hard heel taps echoing about her.

Outside she was greeted by a bright April morning. Her apartment building, an eight-storied, light brick structure erected during the middle nineteen-thirties, faced south on 21st Street, between Third Avenue and the south end of Lexington at Gramercy Park. To one side was an old blackened church: to the other a renovated brick residence, converted into apartments, with big, pleasant, modern windows catching the morning sun.

It was a pleasant street, she thought, as she walked briskly along in the sunshine. Expensive, sophisticated. To her left the old Irving Hotel, facing the Park; to her right a modern, yellow brick, high-rent apartment house with beautiful windows, all lit at night, revealing the many wondrous decors. Down here it was so rich and luxurious with a quiet, expensive exclusiveness. Rich in tradition, also. She loved it here. She loved New York. But she loved it here far more than any other place she had ever lived in New York. It made her feel confident and exclusive. Her telephone exchange was
Gramercy
—“Right up the street, a few doors from Gramercy Park,” she always said when directing friends to her address; never, “Right down the street a few doors from Third Avenue.” But she liked that part of Third Avenue, too; there were wonderful stores in that section.

The street had emptied since the eight-thirty rush; only the service people and executives hailing taxis from the stand facing Lexington were about at this late hour. A few nurses already had their charges in the park. “I must remember to get a key,” she reminded herself. It was a private park enclosed by a high, iron fence, and the gates were kept locked. But the neighbourhood residents could rent a key for twelve dollars annually—or was it twenty?—by applying to the Gramercy Park Association. The trees were already beginning to green, and red and yellow tulips were blooming in the well-tended plots. Although what she’d do with a key, frankly she didn’t know. No one she knew would be found dead spooning on a hard bench in a dark chilly park when there was her beautifully furnished apartment so near, equipped with television and bed. After a moment she thought, “
Spooning?
What an ancient word for it!”

She walked erectly, with long quick steps, but it was a feminine walk and very attractive. Most of the service people along the way knew her by sight. She always looked at them directly. “You’re late again. Miss,” a taxi driver said. She grinned. Another said, “Maybe she knows the boss.” The first one Replied, “Maybe she is the boss.” She passed on without commenting. “Probably means I sleep with the boss,” she thought; then, smiling sensually, “Wouldn’t mind if I did.” Across the street the doorman of the Gramercy Park Hotel saluted briskly. She gave him a smile. Dave had taken her there to dinner several times, and at other times she had dropped in the bar alone. It was a pleasant bar, dark and intimate, but with that complete safety of high-class American bars. A woman was as safe there as at home in bed—safer, really. New York being what it is.

She continued down 21st Street to Fourth Avenue, turned north to the subway entrance at 22nd Street. There was a smile on her lips. She felt very happy. Passers-by, even the surly printers and warehousemen of the neighbourhood, noticed her happiness and smiled at her. She smiled in return, suddenly recalling the Harlem saying she’d often heard at Maud’s:

I’d rather be a doggy lamp post in New York City

Than Governor General of the state of Mississippi
.

Chapter 2

H
e had dreamed fitfully.

At first he had dreamed he was skating somewhere in a crowd and had broken through the ice. “Help! Help!” he had called as the icy current tugged at him. He had a thin grip on the broken edge of ice but he couldn’t swim and the cold water tore at him, trying to pull him under. “Help! Help!” he had called again, desperately, as he felt his grip loosen. But none of the other skaters, all of whom were couples, boys and girls, men and women, looked in his direction or gave any indication that they had heard his cries. They skated about the hole, smiling and chatting, engrossed in each other. “Jesus Christ! They don’t even see me!” he thought as his grip broke and he went down beneath the icy water, clutched in an ice cold fear.

He awakened and went to the dresser and poured a water glass full of gin. The faint glow of the city night came through the two side windows, silhouetting his nude body in the dim mirror. His hand trembled and his teeth chattered against the glass as he forced the gin down his throat. He held his mouth open, gasping until he got his breath, then he went back to bed.

“That ought to knock me out,” he thought.

But he dreamed again.

He dreamed he was at a banquet, sitting near the end of the table where two very pretty young blonde women sat side by side. But there was an empty space between his seat and the end which hindered him from speaking to them. Then the man on his right stood up and moved because he didn’t like his neighbour on the other side, and that left him sitting at the banquet table between the two empty spaces. He felt suddenly isolated. He was vaguely aware that he was the only black at the banquet, but that didn’t have anything to do with the feeling of isolation until a very well-dressed, very handsome, very assured black magazine editor, whom he knew quite well, passed by without speaking and took a place at the head of the table. Then he thought, “Jesus Christ!—Even that son of a bitch ignores me!” But when the banquet was over and the guests began to leave, a black woman with a putty-coloured complexion, short straightened hair, and several strange embossed scars down her cheeks, but very well-dressed in a rose-beige evening gown and a black satin cape, stopped for a moment beside his chair and smiled at him. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll get one to go. Just keep on trying.” He felt so grateful he wanted to kiss her hand, but she had gone on down the stairs and he saw her getting into an expensive foreign car with the magazine editor who had ignored him.