seen the desire flowing between them.
But when they danced he changed. The direct,
the inescapable way he placed his knees between hers, as if implanting the
rigidity of his desire. He held her firmly, so encompassed that every movement
they made was made as one body. He held her head against his, with a physical
finiteness, as if for eternity. His desire became a center of gravity, a final
welding. He was not much taller than she but held himself proudly, and when she
raised her eyes into his, his eyes thrust into her very being, so sensually
direct that she could not bear their radiance, their claim. Fever shone in his
face like moonlight. At the same time a strange wave of anger appeared which
she felt and could not understand.
When the dance ended, his bow was a farewell,
as finite as his desire had been.
She waited in anguish and bewilderment.
He went back to his singing and drumming but no
longer offered them to her.
Yet she knew he had desired her, and why was he
destroying it now? Why?
Her anxiety grew so violent she wanted to stop
the drumming, stop the others from dancing. But she checked this impulse,
sensing it would estrange him. There was his pride. There was this strange
mixture of passivity and aggression in him. In music he had been glowing and
soft and offered; in the dance, tyrannical. She must wait. She must respect the
ritual.
The music stopped, he came to her table, sat
down and gave her a smile mixed with a contraction of pain.
“I know,” he said. “I know…”
“You know?”
“I know, but it cannot be,” he said very
gently. And then suddenly the anger overflowed: “For me, it’s everything or
nothing. I’ve known this before…a woman like you. Desire. It’s desire, but not
for me. You don’t know me. It’s for my race, it’s for a sensual power we
have.”
He reached for her wrists and spoke close to
her face: “It destroys me. Everywhere desire, and in the ultimate giving,
withdrawal. Because I am African. What do you know of me? I sing and drum and
you desire me. But I’m not an entertainer. I’m a mathematician, a composer, a
writer.” He looked at her severely, the fullness of his mouth difficult to
compress in anger but his eyes lashing: “You wouldn’t come to Ile Joyeuse and be my wife and bear me black children and wait
patiently upon my Negro grandmother!”
Sabina answered him with equal vehemence,
throwing her hair away from her face, and lowering the pitch of her voice until
it sounded like an insult: “I’ll tell you one thing: if it were only what you
say, I’ve had that, and it didn’t hold me, it was not enough. It was
magnificent, but it didn’t hold me. You’re destroying everything, with your
bitterness. You’re angry, you’ve been hurt…”
“Yes, it’s true, I’ve been hurt, and by a woman
who resembled you. When you first came in, I thought it was she…”
“My name is Sabina.”
“I don’t trust you, I don’t trust you at all.”
But when she rose to dance with him, he opened
his arms and as she rested her head on his shoulder he looked down at her face
drained of all anger and bitterness.
Mambo’s studio was situated in Patchen Place, a street without issue. An iron railing half
blocked its entrance, like an entrance to a prison. The houses all being identical
added to this impression of an institution where all variations in the human
personality would be treated like eccentricities and symptoms of
disintegration.
Sabina hated this street. She always considered
it a trap. She was certain that the lie detector had seen her enter and would
wait at the gate to see her come out. How simple it would be for him to find
out who lived there, whom she visited, which house she came out of in the
morning.
She imagined him searching every house, reading
all the names on the letter boxes: E. E. Cummings, Djuna Barnes, Mambo of
Mambo’s Nightclub, known to everyone.
At dawn, the lie detector himself would see her
come out of the
But when they danced he changed. The direct,
the inescapable way he placed his knees between hers, as if implanting the
rigidity of his desire. He held her firmly, so encompassed that every movement
they made was made as one body. He held her head against his, with a physical
finiteness, as if for eternity. His desire became a center of gravity, a final
welding. He was not much taller than she but held himself proudly, and when she
raised her eyes into his, his eyes thrust into her very being, so sensually
direct that she could not bear their radiance, their claim. Fever shone in his
face like moonlight. At the same time a strange wave of anger appeared which
she felt and could not understand.
When the dance ended, his bow was a farewell,
as finite as his desire had been.
She waited in anguish and bewilderment.
He went back to his singing and drumming but no
longer offered them to her.
Yet she knew he had desired her, and why was he
destroying it now? Why?
Her anxiety grew so violent she wanted to stop
the drumming, stop the others from dancing. But she checked this impulse,
sensing it would estrange him. There was his pride. There was this strange
mixture of passivity and aggression in him. In music he had been glowing and
soft and offered; in the dance, tyrannical. She must wait. She must respect the
ritual.
The music stopped, he came to her table, sat
down and gave her a smile mixed with a contraction of pain.
“I know,” he said. “I know…”
“You know?”
“I know, but it cannot be,” he said very
gently. And then suddenly the anger overflowed: “For me, it’s everything or
nothing. I’ve known this before…a woman like you. Desire. It’s desire, but not
for me. You don’t know me. It’s for my race, it’s for a sensual power we
have.”
He reached for her wrists and spoke close to
her face: “It destroys me. Everywhere desire, and in the ultimate giving,
withdrawal. Because I am African. What do you know of me? I sing and drum and
you desire me. But I’m not an entertainer. I’m a mathematician, a composer, a
writer.” He looked at her severely, the fullness of his mouth difficult to
compress in anger but his eyes lashing: “You wouldn’t come to Ile Joyeuse and be my wife and bear me black children and wait
patiently upon my Negro grandmother!”
Sabina answered him with equal vehemence,
throwing her hair away from her face, and lowering the pitch of her voice until
it sounded like an insult: “I’ll tell you one thing: if it were only what you
say, I’ve had that, and it didn’t hold me, it was not enough. It was
magnificent, but it didn’t hold me. You’re destroying everything, with your
bitterness. You’re angry, you’ve been hurt…”
“Yes, it’s true, I’ve been hurt, and by a woman
who resembled you. When you first came in, I thought it was she…”
“My name is Sabina.”
“I don’t trust you, I don’t trust you at all.”
But when she rose to dance with him, he opened
his arms and as she rested her head on his shoulder he looked down at her face
drained of all anger and bitterness.
Mambo’s studio was situated in Patchen Place, a street without issue. An iron railing half
blocked its entrance, like an entrance to a prison. The houses all being identical
added to this impression of an institution where all variations in the human
personality would be treated like eccentricities and symptoms of
disintegration.
Sabina hated this street. She always considered
it a trap. She was certain that the lie detector had seen her enter and would
wait at the gate to see her come out. How simple it would be for him to find
out who lived there, whom she visited, which house she came out of in the
morning.
She imagined him searching every house, reading
all the names on the letter boxes: E. E. Cummings, Djuna Barnes, Mambo of
Mambo’s Nightclub, known to everyone.
At dawn, the lie detector himself would see her
come out of the
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