Invisible man - Ralph Ellison [215]
"Boo'ful," she said as I came up. "Damn, boo'ful, you push me?"
"Get up," I said without anger. "Get up," taking her soft arm. She stood, her arms flung wide for an embrace.
"No," I said, "this isn't Thursday. I've got to get there . . . What do they plan for me, Sybil?"
"Who, boo'ful?"
"Jack and George . . . Tobitt and all?"
"You ran me down, boo'ful," she said. "Forget them . . . bunch of dead-heads . . . unhipped, y'know. We didn't make this stinking world, boo'ful. Forget --"
I saw the taxi just in time, approaching swiftly from the corner, a double-decker bus looming two blocks behind. The cabbie looked over, his head out of the window, sitting high at the wheel as he made a swift U-turn and came alongside. His face was shocked, disbelieving.
"Come now, Sybil," I said, "and no tricks."
"Pardon me, old man," the driver said, his voice concerned, "but you're not taking her up in Harlem are you?"
"No, the lady's going downtown," I said. "Get in Sybil."
"Boo'ful's 'n ole dictator," she said to the driver, who looked at me silently, as though I were mad.
"A game stud," he muttered, "a most game stud!"
But she got in.
"Just 'n ole dictator, boo'ful."
"Look," I told him, "take her straight home and don't let her get out of the cab. I don't want her running around Harlem. She's precious, a great lady --"
"Sure, man, I don't blame you," he said. "Things is popping up there."
The cab was already rolling as I yelled, "What's going on?"
"They're taking the joint apart," he called above the shifting of the gears. I watched them go and made for the bus stop. This time I'll make sure, I thought, stepping out and flagging the bus and getting on. If she comes back, she'll find me gone. And I knew stronger than ever that I should hurry but was still too foggy in my mind, couldn't get myself together.
I sat gripping my brief case, my eyes closed, feeling the bus sailing swift beneath me. Soon it would turn up Seventh Avenue. Sybil, forgive me, I thought. The bus rolled.
But when I opened my eyes we were turning into Riverside Drive. This too I accepted calmly, the whole night was out of joint. I'd had too many drinks. Time ran fluid, invisible, sad. Looking out I could see a ship moving upstream, its running lights bright points in the night. The cool sea smell came through to me, constant and thick in the swiftly unfolding blur of anchored boats, dark water and lights pouring past. Across the river was Jersey and I remembered my entry into Harlem. Long past, I thought, long past. I was as if drowned in the river.
To my right and ahead the church spire towered high, crowned with a red light of warning. And now we were passing the hero's tomb and I recalled a visit there. You went up the steps and inside and you looked far below to find him, at rest, draped flags . . .
One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street came quickly. I stumbled off, hearing the bus pull away as I faced the water. There was a light breeze, but now with the motion gone the heat returned, clinging. Far ahead in the dark I saw the monumental bridge, ropes of lights across the dark river; and closer, high above the shoreline, the Palisades, their revolutionary agony lost in the riotous lights of roller coasters. "The Time Is Now . . ." the sign across the river began, but with history stomping upon me with hobnailed boots, I thought with a laugh, why worry about time? I crossed the street to the drinking fountain, feeling the water cooling, going down, then dampened a handkerchief and swabbed my face, eyes. The water flashed, gurgled, sprayed. I pressed forward my face, feeling wet cool, hearing the infant joy of fountains. Then heard the other sound. It was not the river nor the curving cars that flashed through the dark, but pitched like a distant crowd or a swift river at floodtide.
I moved forward, found the steps and started down. Below the bridge lay the hard stone river of the street,