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Who Walk in Darkness
A Novel
By Chandler Brossard OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1952 Chandler Brossard
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1214-0
CHAPTER 1
People said Henry Porter was a "passed" negro. But nobody knew for sure. I think the rumor was started by someone who had grown up with Porter in San Francisco. He did not look part negro to me. Latin, yes. Anyway, the rumor followed him around. I suspect it was supposed to explain the difference between the way he behaved and the way the rest of us behaved. Porter did not show that he knew people were talking about him this way. I must give him credit for maintaining a front of indifference that was really remarkable.
Someone both Porter and I knew quite well once told me the next time he saw Porter he was going to ask him if he did or did not have negro blood. He said it was the only way to clear the air. Maybe so. But I said I would not think of doing it. I have always been quite willing to let people keep their secrets to themselves. I have never had the desire to uncover them. I felt that if Porter was part negro and ever wanted that publicly settled, he would one day do so. I was willing to wait.
The story went that his father had been a seaman turned jack-of-all-trades and his mother a hostess in a restaurant. They lived together for a few weeks and then one day the old man just pulled out. Porter was given to some of his mother's relatives to raise and she went back to what she had been doing before this interruption.
Porter had been living downtown, in New York City, in the section of the Sporting Club Bar for about three years when I knew him. He had come there right from San Francisco. Until he became literary-minded, Porter liked living in San Francisco. He was rather popular at school, he was a tennis champion, he was an accomplished dancer, and because he was good-looking and bold he had early successes with women. He had his first affair when he was sixteen. The woman was a professional singer, a Mexican. She had two abortions before they finally broke up. She paid for the abortions herself. They cost a hundred dollars each at that time.
Porter went to college—Berkeley—for three years, quit, and was drafted into the army. When he was mustered out he returned to San Francisco and married a local girl who was Spanish. Her father paid for a lively neighborhood-type wedding and many of her relatives gave them small presents of money.
Porter's best man was a boyhood friend, a Spanish boy. Five years later when this best man was in a hospital bleeding to death of knife wounds received in a street fight, Porter could not find the time to visit him.
The Porters had a child, a boy, but something was wrong with it and it died at three months. Porter and his wife went to the movies quite often and she spent a good deal of time in her kitchen preparing fine meals for him. He had a job in a publicity office. Soon after his child died Porter became very literary-minded. He decided that his wife was a burden to him and that the life he was leading in California was nowhere. So he left. He left his job and his wife and came to New York to begin his literary career.
I was told that his wife forgave him for leaving her. She knew that he was really very fond of her but that he was ashamed of her origin and thought she would interfere with his new career. I understand they wrote friendly letters to each other until the day she remarried.
It was odd, but Porter was occasionally quite talkative about his wife. Mostly he bitched her, but not vehemently. He laughed about her fondness for housekeeping, her ignorance of cultural matters, her confusion at the contradictory feelings he had about marriage. You would think that he would have kept all this to himself, too, because of the questions it might raise. But there you are.
Downtown Porter lived for a while on veterans' unemployment checks. He read a great deal and looked in nearly every bookshop he passed and he met as many people as he could. He worked hard to get rid of his Western accent. He did this by trying to "model" his accent. But the Western part was not so easily cut off, and the result of his labor on his speech was that it sounded slightly odd. Also, Porter began to dress like a Harvard man.
With what he had left of his share of his and his wife's savings, Porter bought a couple of Brooks Brothers suits. Those suits are the Harvard man's identification. Henry Porter wanted to be taken for a Harvard type. This was one of the contradictions in his character. Porter hated Harvard men. Whenever he got the chance he put them down. He always said they were exotic and over-mannered and inclined to be faggy. He always secretly envied and publicly put down Harry Lees.
Unfortunately, he did not have the style for dressing this way. You have to have a certain style to go with Brooks clothes, and Porter did not have it, that was all. And despite his hard understudying Porter missed a point here and there. He got the wrong kind of ties. His ties were nice-looking but they were the wrong kind. And he tied the knots too big. His shirts were never exactly right, either. So nobody took him for a Harvard man. He was looking hard for a style.
Along with the Brooks suits, Porter began to go after the kind of girls Harvard men usually go after.
One night at a big party Porter had got himself invited to he met a Bennington girl who was distantly related to Harry Lees. She was with a date and other men were following her around, but Porter, slightly tight, made use of his boldness and his expert dancing, and took her away from all of them. Later he took her home. He stayed with her for three months in her apartment. She was tired of over-mannered Harvard types and Porter seemed to be what she was looking for. She went for him in a big way. She wanted to marry him. But first she thought he could use a little psychoanalysis. She had four or five thousand dollars in the bank that she said she did not need and she told him he should use it for an analysis.
After some persuasion Porter finally went to an analyst, for five weeks, for kicks. He stopped going and at the same time left this girl. She never knew just why. She was quite a nice girl. Being with her had convinced Porter that he could make the grade with her type. It gave him confidence to know this. It made him feel he was beginning to acquire style.
When his money ran out Porter got a job writing promotion copy for a publishing company. On the side he pursued his literary career by writing fiction and book reviews. His fiction was not bad. It did not knock me out, but it was not bad. Three or four of his stories were accepted by small literary magazines. This gave him some literary status. His reputation with women gave him more status, though. I had to hand it to him. He could pick up almost any woman he saw.
Almost all of the people we knew well went to the Sporting Club Bar. We went there nearly every night. There were other bars around like it, but we did not go to them. I do not know why we all selected the Sporting Club instead of another place, but we did. None of the other bars felt the same to us afterward. We did not like the people who went to them. We did not think they were very hip.
I was not working at that time. I had recently been fired from a job because I had not been able to hide my feelings that the place was no good. I should have been smarter about it, I guess, but I was not interested in being smart that way.
It was early summer. I had finished working at home and decided to go to the Sporting Club to see who was around. It was about six o'clock. I left my third-floor apartment on Dover Street and went outside. Standing on the sidewalk in front of my building were several Italians. They belonged to the Sorrento Social Club downstairs next door. They shot pool there and played cards and made bets on the horses and watched the television screen. Some of them wore large-brimmed hats with the brim turned up all around. This made them look tough and like underworld characters. They wore splashy ties. They were arguing about the Dodgers.
I walked by them. They looked at me as they always did and I looked back. We did not speak although I had seen them every day for several months. I walked on up the street to the corner of Spring Street. It was warm out. Across the street in the candy store the juke box was playing loud. The owner was standing outside the store watching the street. You could hear the juke box all the way down the block. On the corner of Spring Street in front of the bar were the three bookies and their friends. They were in front of the bar all day long taking bets. One of them was holding a baby and talking to a woman with a baby carriage. They were all Italians.
I crossed Spring Street and walked to Prince. I passed the kids playing stoop ball against the side of a red brick warehouse and ducked when one kid threw the ball to home plate as I was passing through them.
Women were leaning out of the tenement buildings and talking from building to building. I walked by the vegetable pushcarts parked in the gutter facing the sidewalk, smelling the fresh, clean, fragrant smell of the fruit and the freshly watered lettuce and radishes and spring onions and dandelion greens in big boxes. Then by the fish market downstairs with the black-shelled mussels clinging in bunches and the spiraled scungili shells in bushel baskets and the big basin inside the window full of the small black live eels wriggling through the clear running water. The fish smell was strong and sharp.
I stopped to look downstairs into the store at all the different kinds of fish piled neatly in layers on the slanted shelves with chopped ice thrown over them. The store was crowded with fat women talking loud in Italian and broken English.
I crossed Prince and walked up Sullivan Street past the Jesuit school playground, past the Mills Hotel with the drunks leaning unsteadily, beaten-faced, against the walls, and the smell of piss and cheap wine hanging in the air, and on to the park.
The park was leafy green and full of children playing and their mothers sitting on the benches watching them and talking among themselves in groups. Walking by the benches I looked at all the young mothers. They were pretty and lightly dressed and looked cool and happy and desirable and I liked them very much. I wished I knew a couple of young mothers. I looked toward the big circle in the middle of the park. There had been a large fountain in the circle at one time but its flowing had been cut off and the circle was used now for sitting in. I did not see anyone I wanted to visit. A few easy-sitting hipsters and their girls were sitting on the periphery of the dry circle. I had seen them around but I did not really know them. One of them saw me and jerked his head back in a motion of hello. I did the same thing, and went on walking. Then I saw Cap Fields. He was sitting with a girl. I thought of going over to sit with them, but then decided not to.
I walked south through the park, looking at the people on the benches and enjoying it every time I passed one of the young models who were always walking in the park in their absolutely stylized way, walking haughtily but obviously liking very much being looked at. I came to the south side of the park. I crossed Elkin Street and walked up the block, turned the corner, and went into the Sporting Club Bar.
No one I knew was standing at the bar. I looked around the booths. Max Glazer and Henry Porter were sitting in a booth in the corner. They were with a girl I had never seen before.
"Hey, Blake!" Porter shouted, seeing me. "Come on over, old sport."
The girl looked at me, and away. I walked to the booth and sat down next to Glazer. Neither he nor I spoke to each other immediately. He always waited before greeting anybody he knew.
"What's new, man?" Porter asked me.
"Nothing," I said. The girl was quite nice-looking. Her hair was cut short like a boy's. She faced away.
"Everything is pretty dragged right now," Porter said.
"Hello, there, Blake," Max said, playing with his beer glass.
"Hello, Max."
I motioned with my head to one of the two waiters standing around. He came to the booth and I ordered a glass of beer. He did not say anything. I liked him less than any waiter I had ever seen. He looked deadpan at us, and went to the bar for my beer. The Italians who worked in the restaurants down there disliked all non-Italians. Some of them disguised it better than others.
Porter and Glazer kept looking around the place. A few more people had come in now. "This is Betty Graham, Blake," Porter said suddenly. "This is Blake Williams."
We said hello. She was slightly tight-faced but rather nice-looking. Max winked at her without smiling and sipped his beer and went on glancing around. The waiter brought my beer. I took a long drink of it. It stung my nose. The waiter stood there at the booth waiting to be paid for the beer. I gave him a dime and he left. I wondered who the girl was with, Porter or Glazer.
"What are you going to do for a vacation, Blake?" Porter asked me.
"I'm not sure. Maybe I'll go to Harry Lees's father's place up on the Cape. Maybe we could all of us go there. He has a whole beach house to himself."
"That so?"
"Yes. His old man went to Europe and left him the house for a couple of months."
"He'll miss his old man," said Porter.
"You're too hard on the guy," I said. "Why don't you lay off him?"
"I don't mean anything."
"I'll ask him what the chances are of our going up there."
"Sounds great. Work on it, man."
Just then Cap Fields came in. Max watched him with sudden interest. Cap nodded to us and took a chair from a near-by table and sat down with us.
"Did you get it?" Max asked him.
Cap nodded his head. "Listen, man," he said. "This is really great charge. The best. I know. But it will cost you."
"How much?" Max asked.
"An ace for two sticks."
Cap talked thick and strange. He was really high. He moved his head in a jerky way when he was lit up and talking.
"That's steep, man," Max said. "Are you getting anything out of this?"
"No, man. Not a thing. There's nothing in this for me. You can buy it or not. I'm doing you a favor. But you should really dig this charge. It's the best."
Max looked across the booth at Porter, squinting. I used to think this was an affectation, an irritating one to most people, until I found out that he was nearsighted. He looked at Porter for a couple of seconds before speaking.
"Can you lend me some gold?" he asked Porter.
"I'm low. How much do you need?"
"Can you lend me an ace?"
Porter took the money from his watch pocket. "I want this back," he said.
"You'll get it. You'll get it."
The girl watched Porter give the money to Max. Max now looked around the place. Cap did, too. Then Cap took a pack of Luckies from his shirt pocket. He offered the pack to Max. Max took the two thin sticks of marijuana from the Luckies and put them in his pocket. He slipped the dollar to Cap.
"You won't regret it," Cap said, his voice thick and funny-sounding. "It's the best in the city. You won't need more than half a stick each. I know. I've been on it for three days."
He laughed.
"You really like it, huh?" Max said, turning his head to look around the place again.
"That's what I've been saying," Cap said. He laughed again. He was really on.
Max sipped his beer, finishing it. "Want to blow this place now?" he said to the girl.
"I'm ready," she said, tight-faced.
"That was a fine pun, man," Cap said, laughing. "'Want to blow this place.'"
I stood up so that Max could get out of the booth. The girl got up quickly. She was about nineteen.
"We'll see you around," Max said to Porter.
"Okay. Call me. Take it slow."
He looked at me, smiling slightly. "So long, Blake."
"So long."
"Thanks," he said to Cap. "I'll remember this."
"Do that," Cap said.
Max and the girl left, the girl not saying good-by to any of us. The surly waiter came up to the booth. "You want anything more?" he asked, picking up the glasses.
"I want another beer," I said. "What about you?" I said to Porter.
"None for me. I don't like the stuff."
"Cap?"
"Sure. I'll drink anything. Beer. Wine. Whisky. I love it all, Jack." He smiled and jerked his head around. "I feel so good," he said, and laughed.
Porter smiled and shook his head. The waiter left.
"Who was the chick?" Cap asked Porter.
"A girl I used to know."
"Now Glazer knows her?"
"Yes. I got her for him."
"That's very lovely, man. You really look out for your buddies. Wish somebody would look out for me." He laughed. The waiter brought our beers. I paid him and gave him a tip. He picked up the money and left.
"He's cute," said Cap. "Don't you love these surly wops? You know something? I saw this guy beat up a man one night who had only one arm. And the man was drunk, too. What do you think of that?"
"They are the worst," I said.
"They're so far underground they don't need eyes any more," Porter said.
Porter waved at someone in another booth. I looked up to see who it was. It was the editor of a literary magazine Porter had done some reviewing for. I did not know him well enough to wave at him. At least that is the way I felt about it. Porter left us and went over to his booth to talk to him. Slapping the editor on the back and talking loud and laughing. Promoting something. A drunk radio writer sat down in the next booth with a girl. He began talking loud about his I.Q.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Who Walk in Darkness by Chandler Brossard. Copyright © 1952 Chandler Brossard. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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