Then Leona surprised him. “You talking about that boy? He’s just bored and lonely, don’t know no better. You could probably make friends with him real easy if you tried.”
He laughed.
“Well, that’s what’s the matter with most people,” Leona insisted, plaintively, “ain’t got nobody to be with. That’s what makes them so evil. I’m telling you, boy, I know.”
“Don’t call me boy,” he said.
“Well,” she said, looking startled, “I didn’t mean nothing by it, honey.” She took his arm and they turned to look for Vivaldo. The large girl had him by the collar and he was struggling to get away, and laughing.
“That Vivaldo,” said Rufus, amused, “he has more trouble with women.”
“He’s sure enjoying it,” Leona said. “Look like she’s enjoying it, too.”
For now the large girl had let him go and seemed about to collapse on the path with laughter. People, with a tolerant smile, looked up from the benches or the grass or their books, recognizing two Village characters.
Then Rufus resented all of them. He wondered if he and Leona would dare to make such a scene in public, if such a day could ever come for them. No one dared to look at Vivaldo, out with any girl whatever, the way they looked at Rufus now; nor would they ever look at the girl the way they looked at Leona. The lowest whore in Manhattan would be protected as long as she had Vivaldo on her arm. This was because Vivaldo was white.
He remembered a rainy night last winter, when he had just come in from a gig in Boston, and he and Vivaldo had gone out with Jane. He had never really understood what Vivaldo saw in Jane, who was too old for him, and combative and dirty; her gray hair was never combed, her sweaters, of which she seemed to possess thousands, were all equally raveled and shapeless; and her blue jeans were baggy and covered with paint. “She dresses like a goddamn bull dagger,” Rufus had told Vivaldo once, and then laughed at Vivaldo’s horrified expression. His face had puckered as though someone had just cracked a rotten egg. But he had never really hated Jane until this rainy night.
It had been a terrible night, with rain pouring down like great tin buckets, filling the air with a roaring, whining clatter, and making lights and streets and buildings as fluid as itself. It battered and streamed against the windows of the fetid, poor-man’s bar Jane had brought them to, a bar where they knew no one. It was filled with shapeless, filthy women with whom Jane drank, apparently, sometimes, during the day; and pale, untidy, sullen men, who worked on the docks, and resented seeing him there. He wanted to go, but he was trying to wait for the rain to let up a little. He was bored speechless with Jane’s chatter about her paintings, and he was ashamed of Vivaldo for putting up with it. How had the fight begun? He had always blamed it on Jane. Finally, in order not to go to sleep, he had begun to tease Jane a little; but this teasing revealed, of course, how he really felt about her, and she was not slow to realize it. Vivaldo watched them with a faint, wary smile. He, too, was bored, and found Jane’s pretensions intolerable.
“Anyway,” Jane said, “you aren’t an artist and so I don’t see how you can possibly judge the work I do—”
“Oh, stop it,” said Vivaldo. “Do you know how silly you sound? You mean you just paint for this half-assed gang of painters down here?”
“Oh, let her swing, man,” Rufus said, beginning to enjoy himself. He leaned forward, grinning at Jane in a way at once lewd and sardonic. “This chick’s too deep for us, man, we can’t dig that shit she’s putting down.”
“You’re the snobs,” she said, “not I. I bet you I’ve reached more people, honest, hard-working, ignorant people, right here in his bar, than either of you ever reach. Those people you hang out with are dead, man — at least, these people are alive.”
Rufus laughed. “I thought it smelled funny in here. So that’s it. Shit. It’s life, huh?” And he laughed again.
But he was also aware that they were beginning to attract attention, and he glanced at the windows where the rain streamed down, saying to himself, Okay, Rufus, behave yourself. And he leaned back in the booth, where he sat facing Jane and Vivaldo.
He had reached her, and she struck back with the only weapon she had, a shapeless instrument which might once have been fury. “It doesn’t smell any worse in here than it does where you come from, baby.”
Vivaldo and Rufus looked at each other. Vivaldo’s lips turned white. He said, “You say another word, baby, and I’m going to knock your teeth, both of them, right down your throat.”
This profoundly delighted her. She became Bette Davis at once, and shouted at the top of her voice, “Are you threatening me?”
Everyone turned to look at them.
“Oh, shit,” said Rufus, “let’s go.”
“Yes,” said Vivaldo, “let’s get out of here.” He looked at Jane. “Move. You filthy bitch.”
And now she was contrite. She leaned forward and grabbed Rufus’ hand. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” He tried to pull his hand away; she held on. He relaxed, not wanting to seem to struggle with her. Now she was being Joan Fontaine. “Please, you must believe me, Rufus!”
“I believe you,” he said, and rose; to find a heavy Irishman standing in his way. They stared at each other for a moment and then the man spit in his face. He heard Jane scream, but he was already far away. He struck, or thought he struck; a fist slammed into his face and something hit him at the back of the head. The world, the air, went red and black, then roared in at him with faces and fists. The small of his back slammed against something cold, hard, and straight; he supposed it was the end of the bar, and he wondered how he had got there. From far away, he saw a barstool poised above Vivaldo’s head, and he heard Jane screaming, keening like all of Ireland. He had not known there were so many men in the bar. He struck a face, he felt bone beneath the bone of his fist, and weak green eyes, glaring into his like headlights at the moment of collision, shuttered in distress. Someone had reached him in the belly, someone else in the head. He was being spun about and he could no longer strike, he could only defend. He kept his head down, bobbing and shifting, pushed and pulled, and he crouched, trying to protect his private parts. He heard the crash of glass. For an instant he saw Vivaldo, at the far end of the bar, blood streaming down from his nose and his forehead, surrounded by three or four men, and he saw the back of a hand send Jane spinning half across the room. Her face was white and terrified. Good, he thought, and felt himself in the air, going over the bar. Glass crashed again, and wood was splintered. There was a foot on his shoulder and a foot on one ankle. He pressed his buttocks against the floor and drew his free leg in as far as he could; and with one arm he tried to hold back the fist which crashed down again and again into his face. Far behind the fist was the face of the Irishman, with the green eyes ablaze. Then he saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. Then he heard running feet. He was on his back behind the bar. There was no one near him. He pulled himself up and half-crawled out. The bartender was at the door, shooing his customers out; an old woman sat at the bar, tranquilly sipping gin; Vivaldo lay on his face in a pool of blood. Jane stood helplessly over him. And the sound of the rain came back.
“I think he’s dead,” Jane said.
He looked at her, hating her with all his heart. He said, “I wish to God it was you, you cunt.” She began to cry.
He leaned down and helped Vivaldo to rise. Half-leaning on, half-supporting each other, they made it to the door. Jane came behind them. “Let me help you.”