Part 24 (1/2)

”Morris Melon. That's it. He was a teacher. Anthropology, wasn't it? Or sociology. Yes, right. He wrote a book-one of those pioneering studies about the black community in Chicago. Or am I thinking of Black Metropolis? It was something like that, anyway. d.a.m.n, what was the name of that book? Or was it the study of the Gullah Islands? I should interview him sometime. Find out his story.”

He went on chattering. I was only half listening. I got up and began to walk around the room slowly, a sense of fear rising steadily inside me.

Andre had pulled himself out of his compulsive trip down memory lane. ”What's the matter, Nan? What are you doing?”

I began to open the bureau drawers then, checking, I'm not sure what for. I looked inside my sax case and all seemed well there. I could find nothing missing. But I knew that someone had been looking through my things. I just knew it: earrings placed at the right-hand corner of the bureau instead of the left; a tube of hand lotion set on its side rather than on end; pantyhose rolled up with the toes outside rather than in. But things disturbed so minutely that it was possible I was imagining the changes. I told Andre what I was thinking. Moreover, I said, I think it might have something to do with my aunt.

”What do you mean? It was probably just the maid.”

I shook my head. ”No. No, something's...”

”What? What were you going to say?”

”Something's happening.”

”Like what? What's happening?”

I had to shrug my shoulders. I had no idea what I meant.

He smiled at me and got me settled down again, almost convinced me that it was my imagination. I sat back at the window with him and finished my drink, but that weird feeling never went completely away.

”I'd better go,” Andre said a while later, his voice low. ”You need to get to bed.”

I nodded. ”So do you, friend.”

He nodded, too.

A darkness moved across his face then. I didn't understand it. We stood for a minute in the doorway, saying a final good night, and then he left.

Seconds later, there was a knock at the door. He had come back.

”Forget something?” I asked.

”No. Look-uh...”

I waited in silence. The darkening in his face was full-blown midnight by now. Something was very wrong.

He dropped the bomb then: ”You think I'm a f.a.g, don't you?”

”Of course not.” Oh yes, I did.

I hadn't known it before, but of course I did. What else could it mean for a handsome young man to be staying chez ”one of my profs.”