Pym_ A Novel - Mat Johnson [25]
It is at Tsalal that we get more of the richness that is a monument to Poe’s greatness. Where Dirk Peters sees mere “smelly water all dirty and with slimy stuff in it,” Edgar Allan Poe imagines liquid of a variety of shades of purple veins, each separate like the fingers on a hand yet similarly connected, inseparable. From “The guide that chief stuck us with was clearly a dimwit, his teeth rotting dark in his head,”‖ we get Poe’s vision of a people so black that—breaking with the rest of humanity—their very smiles were denials of whiteness.
It is certain that Dirk Peters read the first and procured the second selection of Poe’s early Pym narrative. It’s clear that Peters enjoyed them both, and excitedly considered the man worthy of helping him convey his own ongoing saga. What is less clear is what Dirk Peters made of the rest of the Southern Literary Messenger. It was, as one would expect of its period and location, a somewhat pro-slavery publication.a If in fact Dirk Peters took this fact into his assessment of Poe, he made no note of it. What, however, should be made note of here is one rather large and integral piece to the Peters puzzle: Dirk Peters was an Uncle Tom. This was a particularly impressive achievement, considering that Uncle Tom’s Cabin had not yet been written. But Peters managed it anyway.
While Peters did think Poe to be an important enough writer to sculpt his own life story, he didn’t bother to keep Poe’s corresponding letter for posterity. In Peters’s own record of the subsequent events, which like the Pym narrative alternates between first person and journal format, we are told that Poe was eager to hear more of his lost associate, giving thanks for the intriguing three pages included. Astutely, Peters also discerned that Poe might be even more interested in the chance at a paid commission. Poe was broke.
On April 17, 1837, Dirk Peters, now on the merchant ship the Armitage, landed in Philadelphia along the Delaware River. His meeting with Poe had been agreed upon months ago in their correspondence, only the exact date was uncertain. Peters found 1342 Pine Street a little more than a mile and a half from where his vessel was docking. When Peters reached the address and knocked, the door was answered by a man who declared himself landlord of the property. On mention of the name Edgar Allan Poe, the owner became immediately agitated and proceeded to lecture Peters on the lack of responsibility in the modern world and the interest that can accrue on a debt of eleven dollars and forty-three cents in a short time. From the grocer up on Spruce Street (owed $3.21 himself), Peters learned that Poe was rumored to be residing another two miles up the Delaware in a settlement known as Northern Liberties.
“How shall I know him?” Peters had the foresight to ask.
“Drunk as a bee in honey and a head like one of these melons,” the grocer said, holding up a particular round one and making bags under where the eyes would be with his fingers.
“And he’s got a mustache,” the merchant cried after Peters had turned the corner.
Once Peters made his way into Northern Liberties, it didn’t take long to locate his prey. The first public house he stopped at pointed him straight at the door in question, the bartender giving directions with the wearied confidence of a man who’d been forced on occasion to take some drunk home to that very address.
The door of 532 North Seventh Street was opened by a small, mousy young woman who seemed so frail that Peters’s immediate inclination was to step in the foyer and close the door behind him lest she be swept away by the breeze. It was a brazen move that must have alarmed the lady, for she began nervously repeating, “My husband is not on the premises, sir, and I assure you there is nothing for you here.”
Peters then did some assuring of his own, explaining he was not a creditor but a prospective