Part 22 (2/2)
Oh yes. There was something else in my room that tipped me off I wasn't dead: a fine-looking, long-legged, high yellow black man, snoring softly, sitting on a hard chair, his big bare feet propped up at the foot of my bed. He wasn't wearing any pants. Gray T-s.h.i.+rt over matching briefs.
Lord-a-muzzy, I am still alive.
”How's it going, sleeping beauty?”
s.h.i.+t. He caught me staring at his shorts. How gross.
”I'm okay, I think. My nose hurts a little. Is it broken?”
”Nothing broken,” he said, a little patronizing.
There followed a long and awkward silence.
”Last night's still fuzzy to you, I guess,” he said, yawning and getting to his feet. He reached for his trousers and turned his back while he zipped up. ”I asked if you wanted to go to the hospital, but you wouldn't do it.”
”Yeah, one member of the family in trouble is enough,” I mumbled.
”What?”
”Doesn't matter. I remember now. You rescued me and got me back here.”
He didn't respond. Instead, he went over to the basin and began to splash water on his face.
”d.a.m.n nice of you,” I said, laughing a bit, too embarra.s.sed to do much else. ”After that scene I pulled-going out on you like that in the metro-you should have let them kill me.”
He shook his head. ”Forget it.”
”G.o.d, I haven't even asked, how are you? What are you-Hercules or something? There were two of those freaks. Did they hurt you?”
”Not really. I'm not much of a hero. I was screaming like a white lady and three or four other folks came running to help us out. The Aryan League didn't even manage to get your wallet.”
I suddenly buried my face in my hands and moaned.
”What is it?” he said, alarmed. ”Headache?”
”No, no, no. I'm just cursing my f.u.c.king karma. I don't know why I'm so surprised when stuff like this happens to me. You know what I mean?”
”Uh-”
”What's the story downstairs, by the way? Did you bring me in here all b.l.o.o.d.y and stuff? And what did they say-'Be out by tomorrow morning'?”
”I told them I witnessed two thugs trying to rob you. The madame is the one who supplied the sleeping pill for you.”
”Oh.”
”Why did you ask that?” I distinctly heard lofty censure in his voice. ”You think they figure anything that happens to a black person, it's gotta be his own fault? Some flour-faced n.a.z.is just tried to kill you. Why are you worried about how it looks to some white people? Think you're letting the race down?”
Oooh. Touched a nerve there. Big time.
She's a little middle-cla.s.s hypocrite playing the bohemian. Was that what he was thinking? What did we have here? A truly enlightened brother? Or was he mixing me up with himself? Was he talking about his own fears? Or had he really zeroed in on mine?
I decided discretion was the better part of etcetera and-for once-held my tongue.
”All right,” I said. ”You nailed me trying to be exemplary. I've been chastened, and you paid me back for what I said about you being bourgeois, okay? But it's a little more complicated than that. The management here is just not having the best luck with the coloreds from Elmhurst, Queens lately.”
He looked at me questioningly but didn't press for any explanations.
The silence fell again. ”How about handing me that mirror?” I finally asked.
He plucked my makeup mirror from the bureau top and gave it to me. He stood at the foot of the bed quietly examining me while I examined my face. He was right: nothing broken. The bridge of my nose was a bit tender and there was a little lump on the back of my head. That was all. I didn't look half as bad as I imagined. In fact, the tonic effect of a good night's sleep seemed to be right there on my face. Satisfied, I nodded and handed the mirror back.
”Think you're going to be okay now?” he asked.
”Fine.”
”Good. I just didn't want to leave you until I was sure.”
”Listen,” I called out to him as he prepared to leave, ”you do have a place to stay, right? I mean, you really are living-uh-somewhere?”
I saw that little smirk on his lips.
”Yes. I don't need any help.”
”Right, right,” I said quickly. ”I kind of forgot for a minute there. I'm the one who needs all the help.” You're Mr. Perfect, aren't you, you p.r.i.c.k? d.a.m.n, was there nothing I could do right with this guy? He just kept outcla.s.sing me. He was a living reminder of my incompetence. Bet if he was looking for his aunt Vivian she'd be cleaned up and firmly in hand by now, her a.s.s in a seat on TWA.
”What's your name?” he asked mildly.
I began to laugh then. That's right. We hadn't been introduced, had we?
”Nan.”
”My name's Andre.”
”Okay. Thanks again, Andre. I owe you one.”
”You really do speak French very well,” he said.
”I've got an idea, Andre. Why don't you start polis.h.i.+ng your accent, like you said yesterday. Why don't you pick up the phone there and order two breakfast trays with extra coffee.”
I got one thing right, at last. Cheerful little Marise, the maid, was sick that day. Her replacement was indeed called Josette. She had never served me before, so she didn't even raise an eyebrow at finding two of us in the room.
I carefully moved his violin case aside and opened the shutters wide to let in the morning air.
”Keep polis.h.i.+ng, Andre. Speak to me in French,” I said, pouring more coffee.
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