We went outside together and I started running ahead, not looking back, just knowing she would follow me, willing her to. Into the park all the way to the pond and I didn’t hesitate, I ran straight in. My dress puffed up like a big balloon with me floating in the centre of it like a ballerina in a music box. It was so refreshing. I looked back at the bank and Rose was leaning forward with her hands on her knees, “You’re crazy!”
She stood there laughing at me, so I walked onto the bank streaming wet and I put my arms around her and soaked her. She tried to push me away but I thought of a vise and didn’t budge. She even walked a few steps but she took me with her like a boa constrictor. She tried tickling me but I know how to make myself dead. Finally she gave up and just stood there while I hugged her. My face was against her neck. She smells like a spice in Mumma’s rack at home but I can’t remember which one because I never did any cooking. She smells like she looks. A tall timber ship full of precious spices and silks from somewhere beautiful, bound for somewhere drab.
Finally she put her arms around me. I stopped squeezing the life out of her and we hugged each other for a long time. She was so warm. I said, “I love you.” But not out loud. I felt her breath rise against my chest, and feeling her heart beat made her so human that I didn’t know how I could ever have thought she couldn’t be hurt by me or anyone else. Dear heart. I felt her cheek against mine. I’ve never felt anything so soft. I kissed her lips. In my mind. It felt so natural, but I knew it couldn’t be right. Even a kiss on the cheek — and anyone’s allowed to kiss someone on the cheek — but even that wouldn’t be right because it would be an impostor for the kind of kiss I want to give her. For that matter, it wasn’t right to stand hugging each other for so long like that with other people around in broad daylight. She is so beautiful. My Rose. Finer than sculpture, softer than sand. Rose, I’m kissing you now. Oh God, I have to kiss her. I will die if I don’t kiss her, I know that now. It is a fact. I will die. It will kill me.
When the hug ended I told her I was sorry about everything and she said she had been worse than I had and I said no she hadn’t and let’s not fight about that too. She smiled — her smile is … genius.
We walked back to the gate arm in arm just like any other girlfriends would, except I was drenched and she was damp. I was afraid of electrocuting myself because of the shocks that leapfrogged up and down me every time I glanced at her. Could she see my skin jumping? What would she think if she knew what I was thinking? I remember Sister Saint Monica warning us against “overly strong attachments”. That doesn’t apply to Rose. Not to adore her is the sin.
And, because this is my Diary and I tell you everything: I felt like I did sometimes when I was with David. Wet. Not just from the pond. That’s how I know how bad I really am. Why can’t I just love her with a pure love?! Not drag in things that don’t belong? I am going to be normal with her from now on.
Because if I can never kiss her, that would be bad enough. But if I lost my first friend because of that, it would be even worse. If I don’t know how to have a friend, maybe I can find out how by pretending I do. And one other thing: no more mooning about her in this Diary.
12:17 am — I can’t sleep. I’m going over there.
1:03 am — Giles’s bike bloody flat. The cab driver didn’t want to let me off here. He’s Italian and kept rattling on about his horrible daughters back home in their beds and what kind of a girl was I anyway? Why, simply because I am awake while others are asleep, because I am white when the neighbourhood is black, need it follow that I am either in trouble or looking for it? If I were a boy, he wouldn’t look twice.
It’s finally cool. I’m sitting on the steps in the doorway across from her building and there’s no one here to shoo me away. Everything’s very quiet. There are no clubs around here, “this is a decent neighbourhood”. The street has been washed today, it’s glittering back at the moon like black diamonds, and windowboxes are giving off scent and scarlet. Harlem is cosy and dramatic at the same time. Rose’s building is of burnt grey stone with an ornate entrance arch that bears a Latin inscription: “Ora Pro Nobis.” Pray for whom? I wonder what the place was originally. Maybe a hospital of some kind. In the window of Dash Daniels Harlem Gentlemen’s Emporium there’s an empty suit and hat arranged like a jaunty scarecrow waving, a pipe stuck in his empty face. The butcher-shop window is full of upside-down carcasses, stripped of their skin and heads. In the dark it could be people hanging there. Pray for us. I just got a shiver. That’s silly. This window would be a good place to hide a body in a penny thriller — right out in the open along with all the other meat. Ghoulish. Ha ha. But I’m not scared. The sky is almost purple. The moon is wearing a yellow veil. There is a cart full of watermelons parked nearby, cool green I can feel against my face. No one’s afraid of it being stolen.
Someone just came out! I’ve tucked myself as far back into my doorway as possible. It was a man. I couldn’t see his face under his hat. He walked away briskly. Bouncily, you could say. Her boyfriend? I can’t imagine her with a boyfriend. I can’t imagine her with anyone. But me. I’m going round the back of the building. That’s where her bedroom must be.
4:53 am: — Giles is asleep, thank God. I’m not the slightest bit tired. I have a friend.
Glorious Sunday — I think the most beautiful sculpture in the world consists of fire escapes long-legging down buildings with their fancy fretwork, skinny black dancers creeping out their windows to the street below. By lamplight under a smoky moon. I’m on my favourite bench in Central Park. It’s raining but there’s a big chestnut tree over me, I have my umbrella perched on my shoulder and I’ve got my gumboots on. It’s a perfect place to talk to dear old Diary. Utterly private and the world smells wonderful.
LAST NIGHT!
I walked down a pitch-black alley to a little courtyard behind her building with clotheslines criss-crossing overhead. The windows were all dark. I looked up to wonder which was her room and there was a man sitting on the fire escape outside the open window! He was wearing a fedora and nothing else but his long striped night-shirt. I froze because he looked right at me and said, “What the hell are you doing here?” My eyes jolted in my head as Rose’s face took the place of the strange man under the hat, and I answered I couldn’t sleep and she said neither could she. And we just stood there for a moment looking at each other, not knowing if she would come down or I should go up or go home or what.
She stood up, walked down in her bare feet and swung the bottom steps to the ground for me so I climbed up. She was smiling. We didn’t hug or anything. We sat outside the church window. I peeked in. It has Bible sayings painted on the walls but otherwise it’s just chairs, a piano and, instead of an altar, a little stage with a pulpit in the centre. It’s her father’s hat. She wears it when she needs to think. I asked, “Think about what?” And she said, “It’s more like…. It keeps the world out so I can be in my own thoughts.” It’s a charcoal-coloured hat. Her father died before she was born. The hat suits her down to the ground. It brings out her cheekbones and her jaw-line. A hat can do that for you. She is not only beautiful, she’s handsome too, but I’m not going to gush any more, I have a friend and all wrong feelings are banished, they are not needed!
We talked for three hours, which sped by till I had to run halfway back downtown before I could find a cab. I don’t care. The more I run the less tired I get, the less I sleep the more awake I feel. Rose was classically trained on the piano by tutors from the New York Conservatory. I was right. Child prodigy. She started playing when she was three years old. Her father was a musician. That’s all she knows. And that he died of TB. Her mother has a friend who I guess is a quite prominent conductor who’s been paying for Rose’s lessons and connecting her to the right people since she was a kid. Rose is supposed to be the first coloured woman to play with the New York Symphony at Carnegie Hall. She wouldn’t tell me the man’s name, though, and she wouldn’t tell me why she wouldn’t tell, either, she’d just say “a friend of my mother’s”. That girl keeps her secrets, but one by one they will be mine. I had such a great time.