38
PARTISAN REVIEW
it's another. It gits my head to spinning. I guess now it ain't nothing
but knowing how to say what I got up in my head. But it's a hard job,
son. Too much is done happen to me in too short a time. Hit's like I
have a fever. Ever' time I starts to walk my head gits to swirling and
I falls down. Or if it ain't that, it's the boys; they gits to laughing
and wants to kill up the white folks. They's bitter, thal's what they
is
...
JJ
«But what about freedom?"
«Leave me 'lone, boy; m)! head aches!"
I left her, feeling dizzy myself. I didn't get far.
Suddenly one of the sons, a big fellow six feet tall, appeared out
of nowhere and struck me with his fist.
«What's the matter, man?" I cried.
ay
ou made M a cry!"
«But how?" I said, dodging a blow.
«Askin' her them questions, thal's how. Git outa here and stay,
and next time you got questions like that, ask yourself!"
He held me in a grip like cold stone, his fingers fastening upon
my windpipe until I thought I would suffocate before he finally
allowed me to go. I stumbled about dazed, the music beating
hysterically in my ears. It was dark. My head cleared and I wandered
down a dark narrow passage, thinking I heard his footst eps hurrying
behind me. I was sore, and into my being had come a profound
craving for tranquillity, for peace and quiet, a state I felt I could
never achieve. For one thing, the trumpet was blaring and the
rhythm was too hectic. A tom-tom beating like heart-thuds began
drowning out the trumpet, filling my ears. I longed for water and I
heard it rushing through the cold mains my fingers touched as I felt
my way, but I couldn't stop to search because of the footsteps
behind me.
«Hey, Ras," I called. «Is it you, Destroyer? Rinehart?"
No answer, only the rhythmic footsteps behind me. Once I tried
crossing the road, but a speeding machine struck me, scraping the
skin from my leg as it roared past.
Then somehow I came out of
it,
ascending hastily from this
underworld of sound to hear Louis Armstrong innocently asking,
