The Gorgon Festival by John Boyd

Author:John Boyd [Boyd, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Except for a single barrier, becoming a Negro was not difficult for Ward after Hattie immersed him in a dilute solution of tannic acid and liquid enzymes and matched his overall color to her own. His ease at crossing the color line he attributed to Anglo-Saxon adaptability and his previous grounding in theory; he was well versed in the poetry of Paul Dunbar and the essays of James Baldwin.

On Sunday, Freddie tested him with an outing along Central Avenue, and Ward enjoyed his new peer group’s informality, gusto, and mirth, which existed despite the depression of the 1930s which still lingered in the black community. Ward’s verbal sensitivity demanded a substitute for Freddie’s favorite expression, but he found such a wide range of speech that his expletive, “Fe-cees,” was merely considered a novelty.

Their evening ended on a note that would recur. Ward and a telephone operator with an A.B. in English from Morris Brown were discussing the poetry of Winthrop Mackworth Praed when Freddie came to the booth.

“Tarbaby, we got to split. I’m busted.”

They paid for their outing with a three-day diet of chili beans.

Confined as he was, Ward’s life might have been tedious had it not been for Hattie’s lessons in Afro rhythms given whenever Freddie’s absence and her work permitted. He became adept at the Senegalese Shimmy, the Simba Crawl, and the Congo Conga, but he never learned the Springbok Spin, even though he practiced alone with two pillows.

Hattie comforted him in his failure. No white man had ever performed a Springbok Spin, she told him, but he sensed her disappointment. Nevertheless, when she and her estranged husband were about to be reconciled, she granted him an unofficial diploma after he performed a medley of Afro rhythms to a record by Thelonius Monk.

The Springbok Spin was the only color barrier Ward could not break.

An old familiar dread returned to Ward in the apartment on Van Ness—poverty. Torn as he was between a growing nostalgia for Ester and his longing for Diana, the bonds that linked him to Freddie became both stronger and more galling. As household budget master, he began to wake up at Freddie’s return from the parking lot to count out the parking tips on the kitchen table. A massive pile of quarters yielded only a few dollars, at times as low as seven, and the look of defeat and harassment on Freddie’s face brought Ward memories of his father, counting out his W.P.A. wages with the same expression of defeat. Facing Freddie over the futile stacks of coins, Ward felt an unfocused anguish for the lad more profound than the pain he had felt from the Barber’s sprocket chain.

All Freddie’s talent for hustling was adequate for only one man’s survival, and Ward, a prisoner of time as well as of space, was helpless to assist his companion.

As his depression deepened, Ward’s loneliness grew stronger. At night, as he tossed on the couch in the living room, his hand would reach out for Ester, and unless his palm cupped the overstuffed arm rest of the sofa, he would awaken from loneliness.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.