286
PARTISAN REVIEW
what was implied or should have been, or what he had simply forgotten
-all that a shifting jumble soon impossible to distinguish from what
he had actually said. Moreover, it occurred to him that the board had
neglected to reply, i.e., to pass formally on the fate of Wiley Bey.
In
fact, since Simon was not repelled but rather tempted by the absurd, he
might have popped his head through the door and demanded his word
of decision, were it not that the policeman's broad back so thoroughly
blocked the doorway.... He hovered there for a moment, and at last
decided to go home.
But he could not go home. He carried with him through the crowded
streets an obscure feeling that this evening was not done. At the corner
of State Street he stood looking across at the dark and uninviting park.
until a little black boy, hurtling in pursuit of another, almost knocked
him over. Gasping for breath, he smiled feebly, patted the boy's head
and drew his hand back as though it had been bitten by the strange and
kinky hair. Passers-by turned to stare at this odd little figure in a black
cloak. Idlers on ·the corner moved closer. Simon, his eyes wary and
apprehensive, turned quickly and walked down State Street, moving–
with the bright lights and crowds and blare of sound receding, and the
park lying black and brooding across the street-into a different world.
As from the brightness and febrile joy of earthly perdition to the swirling
darkne!?S of hell. He walked along a number of warehouses, then past
a squat, redbrick building-an undertaking establishment-and an alley
which was half-blocked by an old dilapidated hearse. He moved out
into the street, skirted the car and found himself staring at Wiley Bey's
church.
It was a large store, with two show-windows, one of which bore
the multicolored legend: FIRST TEMPLE OF MOHAMMED COME
TO ISLAM. On the other window there was a cheap, hand-painted sign
in black and white: HEAR WILEY BEY!!! I WENT TO WASHINGTON
AND WHAT DID I SEE????
Simon went hesitantly to the door, which was open, and looked in.
Wiley Bey, his long arm thrashing the air above his turban, was describ–
ing the iniquities he had seen in Washington. For a moment, Simon
watched him, curiously and distantly, almost without a sense of recog–
nition. Wiley Bey's face was distorted. His speech, which had been
simple and even in tone, with at times a touch of pedantry, was now
wilfully and exaggeratedly
Negro,
high-pitched, full of special intention.
The audience, crowded on all the benches, standing two-deep along the
walls, participated in every phrase and intonation.
"N so I done tole dat ole govment clerk, now look heah man ..."
"Aymen," cried a shrill voice; and another rhythmically, the voice
of an ancient hag who squatted in the rear: "Whad you all done tole
dat man, son?"
"Why ah done tole the exac same thing ah done tole you!"
"Tell it, son!"
"Aymen, father!"
"Do,
Pasha Bey!"
"Ah tole urn, you kin beat a colud folks down! You kin take his
