The Heart is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers [86]
Large tears trickled slowly down to the neck of his undershirt and he could not be comforted. At last he went to sleep, but Singer was awake in the dark a long time. They never saw Carl again.
Then years later there was the time Antonapoulos took the rent money from the vase on the mantelpiece and spent it all on the slot machines. And the summer afternoon Antonapoulos went downstairs naked to get the paper. He suffered so from the summer heat. They bought an electric refrigerator on the installment plan, and Antonapoulos would suck the cubes of ice constantly and even let a few of them melt in bed with him as he slept. And the time Antonapoulos got drunk and threw a bowl of macaroni in his face.
Those ugly memories wove through his thoughts during the first months like bad threads through a carpet. And then they were gone. All the times that they had been unhappy were forgotten. For as the year went on his thoughts of his friend spiraled deeper until he dwelt only with the Antonapoulos whom he alone could know.
This was the friend to whom he told all that was in his heart.
This was the Antonapoulos who no one knew was wise but him. As the year passed his friend seemed to grow larger in his mind, and his face looked out in a very grave and subtle way from the darkness at night. The memories of his friend changed in his mind so that he remembered nothing that was wrong or foolish--only the wise and good.
He saw Antonapoulos sitting in a large chair before him. He sat tranquil and unmoving. His round face was inscrutable.
His mouth was wise and smiling. And his eyes were profound.
He watched the things that were said to him. And in his wisdom he understood.
This was the Antonapoulos who now was always in his thoughts. This was the friend to whom he wanted to tell things that had come about. For something had happened in this year.
He had been left in an alien land. Alone. He had opened his eyes and around him there was much he could not understand.
He was bewildered.
He watched the words shape on their lips.
We Negroes want a chance to be free at last. And freedom is only the right to contribute. We want to serve and to share, to labor and in turn consume that which is due to us. But you are the only white man I have ever encountered who realizes this terrible need of my people.
You see, Mister Singer? I got this music in me all the time. I got to be a real musician. Maybe I don’t know anything now, but I will when I’m twenty. See, Mister Singer? And then I mean to travel in a foreign country where there’s snow.
Let’s finish up the bottle. I want a small one. For we were thinking of freedom. That’s the word like a worm in my brain.
Yes? No? How much? How little? The word is a signal for piracy and theft and cunning. We’ll be free and the smartest will then be able to enslave the others. But! But there is another meaning to the word. Of all words this one is the most dangerous. We who know must be wary. The word makes us feel good--in fact the word is a great ideal. But it’s with this ideal that the spiders spin their ugliest webs for us.
The last one rubbed his nose. He did not come often and he did not say much. He asked questions.
The four people had been coming to his rooms now for more than seven months. They never came together--always alone.
And invariably he met them at the door with a cordial smile.
The want for Antonapoulos was always with him--just as it had been the first months after his friend had gone--and it was better to be with any person than to be too long alone. It was like the time years ago when he had made a pledge to Antonapoulos (and even written it on a paper and tacked it on the wall above his bed)--a pledge that he would give up cigarettes, beer, and meat for one month. The first days had been very bad. He could not rest or be still. He visited Antonapoulos so much at the fruit store that Charles Parker was unpleasant to him. When he had finished all the engraving on hand he would dawdle around the front of the store with the watchmaker and the salesgirl or wander out to some soda fountain to drink a Coca-Cola. In those days being near any stranger was better than thinking alone about the cigarettes and beer and meat that he wanted.