Quicksand (Larsen)/Part 18
Eighteen
One November evening, impregnated still with the kindly warmth of the dead Indian summer, Helga Crane was leisurely dressing in pleasant anticipation of the party to which she had been asked for that night. It was always amusing at the Tavenors‘. Their house was large and comfortable, the food and music always of the best, and the type of entertainment always unexpected and brilliant. The drinks, too, were sure to be safe.
And Helga, since her return, was more than ever popular at parties. Her courageous clothes attracted attention, and her deliberate lure—as Olsen had called it—held it. Her life in Copenhagen had taught her to expect and accept admiration as her due. This attitude, she found, was as effective in New York as across the sea. It was, in fact, even more so. And it
was more amusing too. Perhaps because it was somehow a bit more dangerous.
In the midst of curious speculation as to the possible identity of the other guests, with an indefinite sense of annoyance she wondered if Anne would be there. There was of late something about Anne that was to Helga distinctly disagreeable, a peculiar half-patronizing attitude, mixed faintly with distrust. Helga couldn‘t define it, couldn‘t account for it. She had tried. In the end she had decided to dismiss it, to ignore it.
“I suppose,” she said aloud, “it‘s because she‘s married again. As if anybody couldn‘t get married. Anybody. That is, if mere marriage is all one wants.”
Smoothing away the tiny frown from between the broad black brows, she got herself into a little shining, rose-colored slip of a frock knotted with a silver cord. The gratifying result soothed her ruffled feelings. It didn‘t really matter, this new manner of Anne‘s. Nor did the fact that Helga knew that Anne disapproved of her. Without words Anne had managed to make that evident. In her opinion, Helga had lived too long among the enemy, the detestable pale faces. She understood them too well, was too tolerant of their ignorant stupidities. If they had been Latins, Anne might conceivably have forgiven the disloyalty. But Nordics Lynchers! It was too traitorous. Helga smiled a little, understanding Anne‘s bitterness and hate, and a little of its cause. It was of a piece with that of those she so virulently hated. Fear. And then she sighed a little, for she regretted the waning of Anne‘s friendship. But, in view of diverging courses of their lives, she felt that even its complete extinction would leave her undevastated. Not that she wasn‘t still grateful to Anne for many things. It was only that she had other things now. And there would, forever, be Robert Anderson between them. A nuisance. Shutting them off from their previous confident companionship and understanding. “And anyway,” she said again, aloud, “he‘s nobody much to have married. Anybody could have married him. Anybody. If a person wanted only to be married—If it had been somebody like Olsen—That would be different—something to crow over, perhaps.”
The party was even more interesting than Helga had expected. Helen, Mrs. Tavenor, had given vent to a malicious glee, and had invited representatives of several opposing Harlem political and social factions, including the West Indian, and abandoned them helplessly to each other. Helga‘s observing eyes picked out several great and near-great sulking or obviously trying hard not to sulk in widely separated places in the big rooms. There were present, also, a few white people, to the open disapproval or discomfort of Anne and several others. There too, poised, serene, certain, surrounded by masculine black and white, was Audrey Denney.
“Do you know, Helen,” Helga confided, “I‘ve never met Miss Denney. I wish you‘d introduce me. Not this minute. Later, when you can manage it. Not so—er—apparently by request, you know.”
Helen Tavenor laughed. “No, you wouldn‘t have met her, living as you did with Anne Grey. Anderson, I mean. She‘s Anne‘s particular pet aversion. The mere sight of Audrey is enough to send her into a frenzy for a week. It‘s too bad, too, because Audrey‘s an awfully interesting person and Anne‘s said some pretty awful things about her. You‘ll like her, Helga.”
Helga nodded. “Yes, I expect to. And I know about Anne. One night—” She stopped, for across the room she saw, with a stab of surprise, James Vayle. "Where, Helen did you get him?”
“Oh, that? That‘s something the cat brought in. Don‘t ask which one. He came with somebody, I don‘t remember who. I think he‘s shocked to death. Isn‘t he lovely? The dear baby. I was going to introduce him to Audrey and tell her to do a good job of vamping on him as soon as I could remember the darling‘s name, or when it got noisy enough so he wouldn‘t hear what I called him. But you‘ll do just as well. Don‘t tell me you know him!” Helga made a little nod. “Well! And I suppose you met him at some shockingly wicked place in Europe. That‘s always the way with those innocent-looking men.”
“Not quite. I met him ages ago in Naxos. We were engaged to be married. Nice, isn‘t he? His name‘s Vayle. James Vayle.”
“Nice,” said Helen throwing out her hands in a characteristic dramatic gesture—she had beautiful hands and arms—“is exactly the word. Mind if I run off? I‘ve got somebody here who‘s going to sing. Not spirituals. And I haven‘t the faintest notion where he‘s got to. The cellar, I‘ll bet.”
James Vayle hadn‘t, Helga decided, changed at all. Someone claimed her for a dance and it was some time before she caught his eyes, half questioning, upon her. When she did, she smiled in a friendly way over her partner‘s shoulder and was rewarded by a dignified little bow. Inwardly she grinned, flattered. He hadn‘t forgotten. He was still hurt. The dance over, she deserted her partner and deliberately made her way across the room to James Vayle. He was for the moment embarrassed and uncertain. Helga Crane, however, took care of that, thinking meanwhile that Helen was right. Here he did seem frightfully young and delightfully unsophisticated. He must be, though, every bit of thirty-two or more.
“They say,” was her bantering greeting, “that if one stands on the corner of One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street and Seventh Avenue long enough, one will eventually see all the people one has ever known or met. It‘s pretty true, I guess. Not literally of course.” He was, she saw, getting himself together. “It‘s only another way of saying that everybody, almost, some time sooner or later comes to Harlem, even you.”
He laughed. “Yes, I guess that is true enough. I didn‘t come to stay, though.” And then he was grave, his earnest eyes searchingly upon her.
“Well, anyway, you‘re here now, so let‘s find a quiet corner if that‘s possible, where we can talk. I want to hear all about you.”
For a moment he hung back and a glint of mischief shone in Helga‘s eyes. “I see,” she said, “you‘re just the same. However, you needn‘t be anxious. This isn‘t Naxos, you know. Nobody‘s watching us, or if they are, they don‘t care a bit what we do.”
At that he flushed a little, protested a little, and followed her. And when at last they had found seats in another room, not so crowded, he said: “I didn‘t expect to see you here. I thought you were still abroad.”
“Oh, I‘ve been back some time, ever since Dr. Anderson‘s marriage. Anne, you know, is a great friend of mine. I used to live with her. I came for the wedding. But, of course, I‘m not staying. I didn‘t think I‘d be here this long.”
“You don‘t mean that you‘re going to live over there? Do you really like it so much better?”
“Yes and no, to both questions. I was awfully glad to get back, but I wouldn‘t live here always. I couldn‘t. I don‘t think that any of us who‘ve lived abroad for any length of time would ever live here altogether again if they could help it.“
”Lot of them do, though,” James Vayle pointed out.
“Oh, I don‘t mean tourists who rush over to Europe and rush all over the continent and rush back to America thinking they know Europe. I mean people who‘ve actually lived there, actually lived among the people.”
“I still maintain that they nearly all come back here eventually to live.“
”That‘s because they can‘t help it,” Helga Crane said firmly. “Money, you know.”
“Perhaps, I‘m not so sure. I was in the war. Of course, that‘s not really living over there, but I saw the country and the difference in treatment. But, I can tell you, I was pretty darn glad to get back. All the fellows were.” He shook his head solemnly. "I don‘t think anything, money or lack of money, keeps us here. If it was only that, if we really wanted to leave, we‘d go all right. No, it‘s something else, something deeper than that.“
”And just what do you think it is?“
”I‘m afraid it‘s hard to explain, but I suppose it‘s just that we like to be together. I simply can‘t imagine living forever away from colored people.”
A suspicion of a frown drew Helga‘s brows. She threw out rather tartly: “I‘m a Negro too, you know.”
“Well, Helga, you were always a little different, a little dissatisfied, though I don‘t pretend to understand you at all. I never did,” he said a little wistfully.
And Helga, who was beginning to feel that the conversation had taken an impersonal and disappointing tone, was reassured and gave him her most sympathetic smile and said almost gently: “And now let‘s talk about you. You‘re still at Naxos?“
”Yes I‘m still there. I‘m assistant principal now.”
Plainly it was a cause for enthusiastic congratulation, but Helga could only manage a tepid “How nice!” Naxos was to her too remote, too unimportant. She did not even hate it now.
How long, she asked, would James be in New York?
He couldn‘t say. Business, important business for the school, had brought him. It was, he said, another tone creeping into his voice, another look stealing over his face, awfully good to see her. She was looking tremendously well. He hoped he would have the opportunity of seeing her again.
But of course. He must come to see her. Any time, she was always in, or would be for him. And how did he like New York, Harlem?
He didn‘t, it seemed, like it. It was nice to visit, but not to live in. Oh, there were so many things he didn‘t like about it, the rush, the lack of home life, the crowds, the noisy meaninglessness of it all.
On Helga‘s face there had come that pityingly sneering look peculiar to imported New Yorkers when the city of their adoption is attacked by alien Americans. With polite contempt she inquired: “And is that all you don‘t like?”
At her tone the man‘s bronze face went purple. He answered coldly, slowly, with a faint gesture in the direction of Helen Tavenor, who stood conversing gayly with one of her white guests: “And I don‘t like that sort of thing. In fact I detest it.“
”Why?” Helga was striving hard to be casual in her manner.
James Vayle, it was evident, was beginning to be angry. It was also evident that Helga Crane‘s question had embarrassed him. But he seized the bull by the horns and said: “You now as well as I do, Helga, that it‘s the colored girls these men come up here to see. They wouldn‘t think of bringing their wives.” And he blushed furiously at his own implication. The blush restored Helga‘s good temper. James was really too funny.
“That,” she said softly, “is Hugh Wentworth, the novelist, you know.” And she indicated a tall olive-skinned girl being whirled about to the streaming music in the arms of a towering black man. "And that is his wife. She isn‘t colored, as you‘ve probably been thinking. And now let‘s change the subject again.“
”All right! And this time let‘s talk about you. You say you don‘t intend to live here. Don‘t you ever intend to marry, Helga?“
”Some day, perhaps. I don‘t know. Marriage—that means children, to me. And why add more suffering to the world? Why add any more unwanted, tortured Negroes to America? Why do Negroes have children? Surely it must be sinful. Think of the awfulness of being responsible for the giving of life to creatures doomed to endure such wounds to the flesh, such wounds to the spirit, as Negroes have to endure.”
James was aghast. He forgot to be embarrassed. “But Helga! Good heavens! Don‘t you see that if we—I mean people like us—don‘t have children, the others will still have. That‘s one of the things that‘s the matter with us. The race is sterile at the top, Few, very few Negroes of the better class have children, and each generation has to wrestle again with the obstacles of the preceding ones, lack of money, education, and background. I feel very strongly about this. We‘re the ones who must have the children if the race is to get anywhere.“
”Well, I for one don‘t intend to contribute any to the cause. But how serious we are! And I‘m afraid that I‘ve really got to leave you. I‘ve already cut two dances for your sake. Do come to see me.“
”Oh, I‘ll come to see you all right. I‘ve got several things that I want to talk to you about and one thing especially.“
”Don‘t,” Helga mocked, “tell me you‘re going to ask me again to marry you.“
”That,” he said, “is just what I intend to do.”
Helga Crane was suddenly deeply ashamed and very sorry for James Vayle, so she told him laughingly that it was shameful of him to joke with her like that, and before he could answer, she had gone tripping off with a handsome coffee-colored youth whom she had beckoned from across the room with a little smile.
Later she had to go upstairs to pin up a place in the hem of her dress which had caught on a sharp chair corner. She finished the temporary repair and stepped out into the hall, and somehow, she never quite knew exactly just how, into the arms of Robert Anderson. She drew back and looked up smiling to offer an apology.
And then it happened. He stooped and kissed her, a long kiss, holding her close. She fought against him with all her might. Then, strangely, all power seemed to ebb away, and a long-hidden, half-understood desire welled up in her with the suddenness of a dream. Helga Crane‘s own arms went up about the man‘s neck. When she drew away, consciously confused and embarrassed, everything seemed to have changed in a space of time which she knew to have been only seconds. Sudden anger seized her. She pushed him indignantly aside and with a little pat for her hair and dress went slowly down to the others.