Books by JAMES BALDWIN Go Tex row mie Mowartans [Novas oF Nave Son Grovas’s Room [Notoor Knows Mi Nave ‘Avorien Coury ‘Tus Fie Newt Toa Nomi Penson ‘Buus or Mis Cuan Gow vo Meer mie Ma Tt Aven Consen ‘TeLL Me How Lone Tae Tean’s Bran Gone (Owe Dax, Winn Was Lost No Nawe ns ru Sraser Beau Sraser Coun Tak “Toe Dev sos Wonk Lire May, Lirrue Ma Just ABovE Mr Heap “Tue Evpencr oF Tes Nor See Jones Boss “Tu Pace oF Te Theset vend Babhe JAMES BALDWIN @ Giovanni's Room Delta Trade PaperbacksSeperate pnneniensiemneenenentinne mamemmenrneentenprennnte ren meres merorer er era ar oe window ofthis re house se sour of ance ae nig fl the igh wich eninge othe mo ere Towing of ie Thawed n my had he abode at alive Latch my reflection nthe darkening ofthe win dw pane. Myelin il, perp he an stow, my lon lems Myc ik ie you been many ines My ances conuced eonines, puting aoe dent ade ple nl hey cme oan ez wih cl ay fom Europe fo der ae ay be dak by moving be ht wl ot do any good. shal ak hc sine Par any The tin lbh ane he people noggin fo comfort an een, dignity onthe igh Fete wooden, thi las sea wile the ame and wl beth time We wl ide hough theme hanging county north sean evn eknd he le wea then an al oh ny‘ofthe stonmy southern sky, into the mist and eain of Pacis, Some- ‘one will offer to share a sandwich wich me, someone will fer me sip of wine, someone wil ask me fora match People will be roam- ing the corridors ouside, looking out of windows, looking in at us, ‘Ateach stop, recruits in their baggy brown uniforms and colored ‘has will open the compartment door to ask Compler? We wil all nod Yes, like conspirators, smiling finly a each othe as they con- ‘ine through the rain. Two or thee of them will end up before ‘our compartment door, shouting at eachother in their heavy, ib- ald voices, smoking thet dreadful army cigarettes. There will be a fl siting opposite me who will wonder why Ihave not been fet ing with her, who wil beset on edge bythe presence of the tetuis Teil ll be che same, only I wil be slr [And the councryside is still right, this countryside reflected through my image in che pane. This house is just outside a small summer resort—hich i sill pry, the season has not yet begun, I's om a small hill, one can look down on the lights of the ron and hear the chud ofthe sea. My gi, Hells, and I rented icin Pts, from photographs, some months ago. Now she has been gone a ‘week: She is on the high seas nv, on her way back to Amica can see er, very elegant, tease, and glivering, surrounded by the lighe which fills the salon of the ocean liner, drinking rather too fast and laughing, and watching the men. That was how I mt her, ina barin Saint-Germain-dee-rés, she was drinking and watching, and that was why I liked her, T thought she would be fun to have fun with. That was how ie began, that was allt meane co me; Tam not sure-now, in spite of evrything, that i eve relly meant mote than dha e me. And I don’ think ie ever ely meant more than that to her—at least not unc she made that trip Spain and, find ing herself chet, alone, began to wonder, pethaps, if lifetime of| ddinking and watching the men was exactly what she wanted. But it was too late by that time. Iwas already with Giovanni Thad asked her 10 marry me before she weat away wo Spain; and she laughed wvanni's Room & and I laughed but that, somehow all he same, made i more sei ‘ous for me, and I persisted and then she sid she would have to go sway and think about it. And the very last night she was here, the very as time I saw her, she was packing her bag, I tld her that | hha loved her once and I made myself believe it. But I wonder i hha, [was thinking, no dou, of our nights in bed, ofthe peculiar innocence and confidence, which will never cone agai, which had made those nights to delightful, so unrelated to past, presen, of anything to come, so unseated, finally, xo my life since ic was not necessary for me to tke any but the most mechanical responsibiicy for them. And these nights were being acted out under a foreign shy, with no one to watch, no penalties attached-—it was this lst fact which was our undoing, for nothing is more unbearable, once ‘one has i, than fcedom. I suppose this was why I asked her eo arty me: to give myself something to be moored to, Perhaps this ‘was why, in Spain, she decided that she wanted to marry me, But people cans, unhappily, invent their mooring posts, thee lovers and their fiends, anymore chan they can invent their pene. Life ives these and also takes them away and the great dfficlry is to say Yer oli 1 was thinking, when I old Hella that I had loved her, of chose days befoce anything awl, revocable, had happened rome, when an affuie was nothing more than an affair. Now, from this night, this coming morning, no matter how many beds I find myself in beeen nove and my final bed, I shall never be able to have any move of those boyish, zestfl aflsiee—which ar, really, when one thinks of, a kind of higher, or, anyway, more pretentious mastur- bation, People are ro various tobe treated so lghdy. Lam to vai- ‘ous to be ested, If thie were not so I would not be alone in this house ronight, Halla would not be on the high seas. And Giovanni ‘would note about ro perish, sometime between ths night and his ‘morning, on the guillotine.6 James Baldwin 1 repent now—fr all the good it does—one particular le among the many lies Te tod, old, lived, and believed. This isthe lie ‘which I wold to Giovanni bur never succeded in making him be- lieve, char had never slept with a boy before, I had. I had decided that [never would again. There is something fantsticin the speca- le T now presene co myself of having run so fi, so hard, acrss the ‘ocean even, only co find myself brought up short once more before the bulldog in my oven backyard—the yard, inthe meantime, hav- ing giown smaller and che bulldog bigger. TThave nor thought ofthat boy—Joey-—for many years; but I see ‘him quite clearly tonight. Ie was several yeas ago. I was il in my teens, he was about my age, give or ake a yer. He was a very nice ‘oy too, very quick and dack, and always laghing, Fora while he ‘was my best fiend. Late, the idea that such a person could have ‘been my best Fiend was roof of some horrifying tane in me. So 1 foxgor hie. But Ise him very wel eonigh Twas in the summer, there was no school, His parents had gone someplace forthe weekend and I was spending the weekend a is house, which was near Coney Island, in Brooklyn. We lived in Brooklyn too, in those days, but ina better neighborhood chan Joey's think we had been lying around che beach, swimming 2 liule and watching the nea-naked gis pass, whistling a them and laughing. Iam sure that if any of the girls we whistled a tha day tha shown any signe of responding, the ocean would not have been deep enough to drown our shame and tertor, But che girls, no doubs, had some intimation ofthis, possibly from the way we whie- ted; and they ignored us, As the sun was sctting we started up the boardwalk towards his house, with our wee bathing trunks on un- der our wouser ‘And 1 think i began in the shower. [know that I felt some- thing—as we were horsing around in that small, steamy room, stinging each other with wee towels—which T ad not fle before, Gi Which mysteriously, and yet aimlsly, included him. I remember in myself a heay reluctance co get dressed: I blamed it on the hex. Bur we did gee deesed, sor of, and we ate cold things out of bis jcebox and drank a lor of ber, We muse have gone ro the movies. I can't think of any other teason for our going out and I remember walling down the dark, topical Brooldyn streets with heat coming, up from the pavement and banging ftom the walls ofhouses with ‘enough force ro kill a man, with all the world’s grownups, ie scemed, sitting shrill and dichevelled on the stoops and all the ‘worlds children on the sidewalls orn che guters o hanging fom, fue escapes, with my atm around Jocy’s shoulder. I was proud, I think, becaue his head came just below my ca. We were walking long and Joey was making dry wicecracks and we were laughing (Odd ta remember, far the fs mein so long how good [fle hat ight, how fond of Jory ‘When we came back along those stces ic was quiet; we wete ice coo, We were very quie in the apartment and sleepily go wn- resco Joey's bedroom and went to bed. I Fell asleep—for quite while, [hink. Buel woke up co ind the light on and Joey exam- ining the pillow with reat, ferocious care, "What's the matter?” “Think bedbg bie me.” “You slob. You gor edb?” “think one bie me.” “You ever have a bedbug bite you befor? en “Wel, go back to sleep. You'e dreaming.” He looked at me with his mouth open and his datk eyes very big. Ie was a hog he had jase discovered that L was an expert on begs. laughed and grabbed his head a1 had done God knows how many times before, when Iwas playing with him or when he had annoyed me. But this time when T touched him something5 Jamen Baldwin happened in him and in me which made thi couch diferent from any touch ether of us had ever known, And he did not resist as he usually did, but lay where had plled him, against my chest, And I realized chat my heart was beating in an awful way and that Joey ‘was trembling against me an the light in the room was very bright and hot started to move and to make some kind of joke but Joey mumbled something and I put my head down ro heat. Joey raised his head as Tlowered mine and we kised, a it were, by accident, ‘Then, fr theirs time in ny life, 1 was relly aware of another per son's body, of another person’s smell We had our aims around cach other. It was like holding in my hand some rate, exhausted, nearly doomed bind which I had miraculously happened to find. I was very frightened; Iam sure he was frightened to, and we shut ‘our eyes. To remember ic s0 ces, so painfully ronighe ells me that Ihave never for an instane tly forgotten it.I fel in myself now a faint, a dreadfl string of what so verwhelmingly sired in ime chen great ciety heat, and embling, and tenderness so pain ful though my hear would bust. Bue out of thi astounding, in- tolerable pain came joy; we gave each other joy that night, It seemed, then, that a liferime would noe be long enough for me to acc with Joey the ct of love. But that lifetime was shore, was bounded by that aight —i ‘ended in the morning I awoke while Joey was sl sleeping, curled like « baby on his sie, coward me. He looked like a baby, his mouth half open, his check Aushed, his eal hair darkening the pillow and half hiding his damp round forehead and his long eye lashes glincng slightly in the summer sun, We were both naked and the sheet we had used a5 a cover was angled around ur feet. Joey's body was brown, was sweaty, the most beautfl creation I had ever seen il thea. I would have touched im co wake im up but some~ thing stopped me.I vas suddenly afraid, Pehaps twas because he looked so innocent Iyng thers with such perfect trsts perhaps ie Giovanni's Room 9 vas because he was so much smaller than mes my own body sud denly seemed gross and crushing and the desie which was rising in sme seemed monstrous. Bu, above all, I was suddenly afraid. was borne in on me: But Joy it by. Isa suldeny the power in his ‘highs, in his arms, and his losey curled fists. The power and the pomise and dhe mystery of dt body made me suddenly afraid, ‘Tha body suddenly seemed the black apening ofa cavern in which [would be tortured till madness came, ia which I would lose my ‘manhood. Precisely, I wanted to know that mystery and fel that power and have chat promise filled ehrough me. The sweat on my back grew cold. Iwas ashamed, The very bed, ints sweet disor- der, ested to vilenes. I wondered what Joey's mother would say ‘when she sw the sheets. Then I thought of my father, who had no ‘nein the world buc me, my mother having died when was lil ‘A cavern opened in my mind, black, fll oF rumor, suggestion, of haleheard, halfforgoten, half-understood stoves, full of ditty swords [thought I saw my fasure in that cavern. I was afd. 1 could have rid, cried for shame and cero, tied for not under- standing how this could have hppened to me, how this could have happened én me. And 1 made my decision, I got out of bed and took a shower and was dresed an had breakfast ready when Joey wake up, 1 didnot ell him my decisions that would have broken my will 1 dno we eo have breakfase with him bus only drank some cof- fee and made an excuse to gohome, I knew the excuse did noe fool Joey: bute did not know how to protest or insist he did aot know ‘that cis wasall he needed to have done, Then I, who had seen hima ‘that summer nearly every day till then, no longer went to see him. HE did not come to see me. would have been very happy to see hhim ihe had, bat the manner of my lesve-taking had begun a com stvicton, which neither of us knew how to atte, When I finally did se hie, more o lessby accent nae the end ofthe summer, 1ce Baldwin made up along and coully unuue story abot gil was going with and when school began again I picked up wich «rougher, older crowd and was very nasty wo Joey. And the sadder this made him, dhe nastier I became, He moved away at st out of the igh bthood, away fom our schoo, and I never saw him again 1 began, pethaps, co be lonely thac summer and began, that summer, the fight which has broughe me to dhis datkening wie dow. [And yet—ivhen one begins to seach fr the crucial, the defini- tive momeng, the moment which changed ll ochets, one finds one self pressing, in great pain, though a maze of false signals and abruptly locking doors. My flighe may, indeed, have begun that summer—which does nor tell me where to find che germ ofthe di Jemma which resolved itself, hat summer, inc light, OF couse, it is somewhere before me, locked in that reflection Iam watching in the window asthe night comes down outside fe is trapped inthe room wich me, always has been, and always will be, and iti yet more foreign to me than chose foreign hills ouside ‘We lived in Brootdyn then, as I says we bad also lived in San Francisco, where Iwas boen, and where my mother ies buried and ‘weve for awhile in Seat, and then in New York—for me, New York is Manhattan, Laer on, then, we moved from Brooklyn back to New You and by che vime I came to France my father and his 1néw wife had graduated to Connecticut. I had long been on ny own by then of course, and had been living in an aparement in the ‘We, in the days wien I was growing up, were my father and his sunmarted sister and myself. My mother had been carted tothe graveyard when I was five, [scarcely emember hee a all yet she figured in my nightmares, blind with worms, her hair as dry as metal and brite as a ewig, staining wo press me against her body thar body so purescent, s0 sickening soft, ehat ie opened, a¢ I Gi Reom ot clawed and tid, int a breach so enormous ast swallow me alive. ‘Buc when my father or my aune came rushing into my room co ind ‘out what had fightened me, I did noc dare describe this dream, which seemed disloyal to my mother. I sid that I had dreamed about a graveyard. They concluded that the death of my mother hha had this unseen eect on ey imagination and perhaps they thought that I was grieving for her. And I may have been, but i that isso, then Tam grieving sil, My father and my aune got on very badly and, without ever knowing how or why I felt I fel that thei long battle had exery- thing to do with my dead mother. I remember when I was very ‘yung how, inthe big ving room of the house in San Franciso, iy mothers photograps, which sood al by itself on the mantel- piece, scemed to rule the room, It was as though her photograph proved how her sprie dominated that air and controlled ws al. 1 emember the shadows gathering i the far corners ofthat rom in which [acer fel at home, and my father washed inthe gold light ‘hich spilled down on him feom the tall mp which stood bese his easy cir. He would be reading his newspaper, hidden from me behind his newspaper, 0 that, desperate to conquer his aetention I sometimes so annoyed him that our duel ended with me being ar- Fie from che oom in cats. Or I remember him sing bene for- ward, his elbows om his kes, staring cowards the great window which held back the inky aight. T used to wonder what he was thinking, In the eye of may memory he always weats «grey, seeve- less sweater and he has loosened his te, and his sandy aie ill fo ward over a square, ruddy fice. Hle was one of those people who, ‘quick eo laugh, ate slow to anger; so that cheir anger, when ie ‘comes, all he more impresive, seeming to leap fom some unsus pected crevice like ite which will bring the whole house down. ‘And his sister Ellen, alee older cha he, a ltd darker, always oveedessed, overmade-up, with a face and figure beginning.harden, and with roo much jewelry everywhere clanging and bang- ing inthe light, sits on che sof, reading; she read alo, ll the new books, and she used to goto the movies great deal. Or she knits. Ie seems to-me that she was always carrying a great ba fll of dangee ‘ous-looking knitting needles, orabook, or both. And I don't know what she knited,chough I suppose she mus, a least oceatonaly, have knitted something for my father, or me, But I don't emtember it, anymore than T remember the books she read. It might always hhave been the same book and she might have been working on the same scarf, or sweater God knows what al the years I knew her. Sometimes she and my father played cards—this was rare; some. times they talked together in friendly, teasing tones but this was dangerous. Their banter nealy always ended ina fight. Sometimes there was company and I vas often allowed to watch them drink their cocks Then my father was a his best, boyish and expan sive, moving about through the crowded room with a glass in his hand refilling people's drinks, laughing alo, handling all the men as though they were his brothers, and living with the women. Or to, no lrcing wich chem, srutng like a cock before chem. len always seemed to be watching him as chough she were aad he ‘would do something awfil, watched him and watched the women and, yes she fled with che men in a stnge, nerve-wracking kind of way. There she was dresed, a they say 10 kill with her mouth redder than any blood, dresed in something which was either the ‘wrong color, ot 100 tight, oF 100 young, the cocktail glass in her to be reduced to shards, spliners and that voice going on and on like aazoe blade on las, ‘When Iwas litle boy and I watched her in company, she fright. ened me. hand threatening, at any insta But no master what was happening in that room, my mother ‘was watching ic She looked out of he photograph fame, a pale, onde woman, delicately put together, dark-eved, and straight. browed, with # nervous, geale mouth, Bus something about the Gi fanni’s Room 18 sway the eyes were seein the head and stared straight ou, something ‘very fin sardonic and knowing the set ofthe mouth suggested that, somewhere beneath this tense Figity was a strength 35 vari- ‘ous a ie was unyielding and, lke my faher's weath, dangerous be- cause it was so ently unexpected. My father rarely spoke of her and when he did he covered, by some mysterious means, his fae; he spoke of her only as my mother and, in fic, as he spoke of her, he mighe have been speaking ofhis own. Ellen spoke of my mother fen, saying whara remarkable woman she had been, bur she made ‘me unconnfortable fle that I had no right ra be the son of such a smother, ‘Years ater, when Thad become a man, I red to get my father to talk about my mother, Bur Ellen was dead, he was about to marry again. He spoke of my mothe, then, a Ellen had spoken of het and he might, indeed, have been speaking of Ellen "They had a ight one night when I was abou there, They had great many fights, of course bur pethaps [remember this one #9 cleatly because it cemed to be about me. Twas in bed upstairs, asleep Ie was quite late. I was suddenly avwakened by the sound of my father’ footfall on the walk beneath ‘iy window, I could tel by the sound and the thythm thc he was ltele drunk and I remember that at that momenta certain disap pointment, an unprecedented sotrovr entered into me, I had seen him drunk many times and had never fle this way—on the con- trary, my father sometimes ad great charm when he was drunk bu hat nigh suddenly elt chac there was something int, him, tobe despised. heard him come in. Then, at once, I heard Ellen’ voice, “Aren't you in bed yee” my father asked. He was trying 10 be pleasant and eying eo avoid «scene, but there was no cordiality in his voice, only stain and exasperation. “1 ahought sak len, coldly, “thar sonicone ought oell you ‘what you'e doing to your son.”James Baldwin ““Whae I'm doing to my son?” And he was about to say some thing more, something afl buc he caughe himself and only suid, ‘ich 2 signed, drunken, despaiting calms “Wha are you aking about, Elen?” "Do you cell thik standing in the cener of the foom, with hee hands folded before her, sanding very saight and sill—“tha you're the kind of man Ihe ought co be when he grows up?” And, as my father sid nothing “He ss growing up, you know.” And then, spiveflly, “Which is smore than I can ay for you.” "Go to hed, Ele,” sid my father—sounding very weary. had che feeling since chey were talking about me, shat oughe to go downstairs and tll len tha whatever was wrong between ‘my father and myself we could work out berweea us wichout her help. And, peshaps—which seems odd—I fle that she was dste- spectful of me. For I had certainly never sid a word to her about any father. {heard his heavy, uneven foes as he moved acrss the room, towards the airs, "Don't think,” said Ellen, “that I don’t know where you've nas ve been out —drinking—" sid my father, to gec litle seep. Do you mind?” "You've been with chat girl, Beatrice,” sid Elles, “That's where you always are and that's where all your money goes and all your ‘manhood and self-respect, 0.” She had succeded in making him angry. He began co samme “If you think —if you think—thae Vim going to stand—etand— sand here—and argue with you abou my private life—my private lie —ityou think Pm going t argue with ou sboue it, why, you're ‘oat of your mind.” “1 certainly don't care,” sal Ellen, “what you do with yours Ikan’ ou 'm worted abou. e's only that you'e the only person she asked 1 was cerein that she was ‘and now Fd like Giovanni's Room 15 ‘who has any authority over David. I don't. And he hasn'e gor any mother. And he only listens to me when he thinks i pleases you Do you realy think it's «good ide For David to see you staggeving home drunk the kime? And don’t fool yousel” she added, ater ‘a moment, in voice thick with passion, “don' fol yourself hae he doesn’t know whete you'te coming fom, don’ think he doesn't know about your women!” She was wrong. I don't chink I did know about them—or Thad vgh abour thea, Bur from that evening [thought about ermal he time. I could scarcely ever face a woman without won- dering whether oF noe ay Ether had, in Flen’s phrase, been “inter- fering” wid hee. “Think i barely posible.” said my father, “that David has 2 cleaner mind thaa yours, in which my father climbed che seats was by far the worst silence my life had ever known, I was wondering what they were thinking each of them. I wondeted how they looked. I ‘wonslered what I wold see when [saw them inthe morning. "And listen,” suid my father suddenly, from the middle of the staircase, in a voice which frightened me, “all L wane for David is that grow upto bea man. And when I saya maa, Ellen, I don’t ‘mean a Sunday schoolteacher.” A man,” said Ellen, shortly, “is not che same ching as a all, Good-night.” "Good-night," he suid, after « moment. [And [heard him stagger past my door rom that time on, with the mysterious, cunning, and dreadful intensity ofthe very young, I despised my father and I hated Elle, Ikishard cosy why. I don't know why. But ie allowed all of Fllen’s prophecies sbout me to come er. She ha sid shat there would ‘come a time when nothing and nobody would be abe to rule me, ‘or even my father. And that time cereinly came. Te ws afer Joey. The incident with Joey had shaken me pro- ‘The silence, chen10 James Baldwin founaly and is effect was to make me secretive and cruel. I could not discuss what had happened to me with anyone, I could not even admit i to myself and, while [never thought abour it it r= mined, nevertheless, at the bottom of my mind, sill and as aw- falas a decomposing corpse. And it changed, i thickened i soured the atmosphere of my mind: Soon it was I who came staggering home late a night, ic was I who found Ellen waiting up for me, Filen and [who wrangled night in and night out [My fathers attude was tha his was but an inevitable phase of ‘my growing up and he affected to take ie lightly. But beneath his jocular, bos-together air, he was a loss, he was ftightened, Pee- haps he had supposed that my growing up would bring us closer together—wheteas, now that he was tying ¢o find out something, bout me, I was in fl ight from him, I didnot wane him to know sme, I did noc want anyone to know me. And then, again, L was un dergoing with my father what the very young ineveably undergo with thei elders I was beginning judge hen. And the very harsh- ness of this judgment, which broke my heart, revealed, though I ‘ould not have said i then, bow much I had loved him, how that love, along with my innocence, was dying, My poor father was baled and afraid. He was unable to believe that there could be anything seriously wrong beeween us. And this vas not only because he would nor then have known what to do about it: twas mainly because he would then have had to face the knowledge that he had left something, somewhere, undone, some- thing ofthe utmost importance, And since neither of us had an ide of wha this so significant omission could have been, and since we were fored to remain in tai league agai Ellen, we took ref ‘ge in being hearty with each other. We were no like father and son, my Father sometimes proudly sid, we were like buddies. | thimke my Father sometimes actually belived this. I never did, dd not wane tobe his buddys I wanted t0 be his son. What passed be- Giovanni ‘oven us as masculine candor exhausted and appalled me. Fathers ‘ought co avoid utter nakedness before their sons did not want to kknow—not, anyway, fom his mouth—ha his lesh was as unse- generate as my own, The knowledge did not make me fel more like his son—or buddy—i only made me feet like an inerloper, anda fiightened one a that. He chought we wet alike I did not ‘want to think so, I did noc want to think that my life wo be ike bis, or chae my mind would ever grow so pale, so without hard places and sharp, shocr drops. He wanted no distance between ws Ihe wanted me to look on him ass man like myself, Bu I wanted the merciful distance of fther and son, which would have permit- ted me t love him, (One night, drunk, with several other people on. the way back fiom an out-of-town party, the cat 1 was driving smashed up. Kewas emtzely my fault, Twas almost too drunk to walk and had no busi- ness driving; but the others did not know this since Tam one of those people who can look and sound sober while practically in a state of callapsc. On a straight, level piece of highway something ‘wei happened to all my reactions, and the ci sprang suddenly ‘out of my control, And a telephone pole, foam-white, came crying st me out ofthe pitch darkness I heard seams and then a heavy, routing, tearing sound, Then everything tuned absolutly scalet and then as bright as day and I went into a darkness [had never known before mst have hegun 0 wake up a5 we were being moved to the hospital I dimly remember movement and voices, but they seemed ‘ery far away, they seemed to have nothing todo with me, Then, Jater, I woke up in a spot which seemed to be the very heart of win- ‘et, high, whice ceiling and white walls, anda hard paca win= dove, ent, a5 it seemed, over me.I must have tried to rise, for T remesaber an awful ossing in my head, and then a weight on my’ chest and 3 luge fice ver me. And as thi weight, this face, beganames Baldwin vo push me under again, I screamed for my mother. Then ie wat dark again, “When T came co myself at last, ny father was standing over my bed. knew was chere before Isa him, before my eyes focused and I carefully urned my head. When he saw tha Iwas awake, he careflly stepped closer tothe bed, motioning wo me whe sil And he looked very old. I wanted o cry. Fora moment we jst stared at cach other “How do you fel” he whispered, finaly Tews when I tried eo speale chat I realized I was in pain and immediscely [was fightened, He must have sen this in my eye, for he sid in alow voice, with 2 pained, a marvellous intensiy, “Don'e worry, David. You'e going to be all ight. You'te going to be al right.” 1 sill could noe say anything. I simply watched his Face “You kids were mighty lucky,” he sid, tying o smile, “You'te the one gor smashed up the most.” “was deunk,” I said at last. I wanted co ell him everth bu speaking wa such agony. “Don’t you know,” he asked, with an sir of extreme bale ‘ment—for this was something he could allow himself o be bafled abour—"better than to go ‘driving around like that when you're Arun? You know better chan that.” he sid, severly, and pursed hislips. "Why you coulda have been killed.” And his voice shook, “Pm sory,” L sid, suddenly, “Vim sore." I didnot know how ro say what ie was Iwas sony for. "Det he sorry,” he sid, “Just be cael nexe rime.” He had been patting hic handkerchief berween his palms now he opened his handkerchief and reached out and wiped my forehead, “You're all 've got.” he said then, witha shy, pained grin. “Be careful.” “Daddy.” I sad. And began to ery. And if speaking had been agony, this was worse and yet I could nor stop. [And my father’s fice changed. Te became tersbly old and ar the same time absolutly, helplesly young. I remember being abso- Iutely astonished, atthe stil, cold center ofthe storm which was ‘occurring in me, ro ealze chat my father had been suffesing, was sulering il “Don’t ery,” he said, "don't xy." He stroked my forehead wich that absurd handkerchief as though ie possesed some healing hares, “Thete's nothing to cry about. Everything’ going ro be all, right.” He was almost weeping himself. “There's nothing wrong, is there? I haven't done anything wrong, bave 2” And all the time he was suoking ny face with that handkerchief, smothering me "We were drunk,” sid. “We were drunk.” For this seemed, somehow, to explain everything, “Your Aunt Ellen say it’s my ful,” he sid. “She says I never raised you right.” He pue away, thank heaven, that handkerchief, and weakly scraightened his shoulders, “You got nothing agains me, have you? Tell meif you have” My teats began eo dry, on my face and in my breast “No,” I ssid, “no, Nothing. Hones.” “1 the best | could,” hesai. “I ealy did the bes Leould." I looked a him, And a asthe grinned and sid, “You're going vo be ‘on your back for awhile but when you come home, while you're Iying around the house wel all, hub? and ty to figure out what the hell we're going t0 do with you when you get on your fee. OK" "OK," Is. For I understood, a the bortom of my heart that we had never talked, that now we never would. T understood that he mast aever| know this. When I came home he talked with me about my future bbueI had made up my mind. Iwas nor going co go ro college, Iwas ‘ot going to remain in that house with him and Elen. And I ma- cued my father so well that he acully began to believe chat my20 James Baldwin finding ajob and being on my own was the direct result of his ad vie anda tribute to che way he had eased me. Once Iwas ou of the house ofcourse, it became much easier to deal with him and he never had any reason to fel shuc out of my life For Iwas always able, when talking abourit, tell him what he wished to hear, And ‘we got on quite well, really, forthe vision I gave my father my ie ‘was eactly che vision in which I myself mos desperatly needed to belive. For Iam—orl was-—one of those people who pride themselves, ‘oa hei wllpowe, on ther ability to make a decision and cary it though. This vnte, like most vreues, is ambiguity isl People ‘bo belive that they are strong-willed and the masters of their destiny can only continue to believe this by becoming specialists in self-deception. Thee decisions are nt telly decisions at lla real decision makes one humble, one knows that eis a che mercy of -mce things than can be named —but elaborate stems of evasion, ofillsion, designed ro make themselves and the world appear to be wha they and he world are not. Tie is certainly what my deci- sion, made so long ago in Joy's bed, came co. I had decided to al- low mo room in the universe for something which shamed and fiightened me.I suoceeded very well—by not looking atthe uni- ‘verse by not looking at myself, by remaining, in elect, in constant ‘motion. Even constant motion, oF course, does not prevent an a casional mysterious drag, a drop, Hike an airplane histing an air pocket. And there were a umber of chose all drunken, all sordid, fone very fighting such drop while was inthe Army which in volved a fry who was later court-matisled out, The panic his punishment caused in me was as cose at T ever came to facing in myself the terorsIsometimes saw clouding another man's eyes. What happened was that all unconscious of what this enn meant, I wearied of the motion, wearied of che oyless seas of aloo: hol, weatied of the blunt, Muff, hearty, ana eoally meaningless Gi Room 21 fiendships, weared of wandesing through the forests of desperate women, weared ofthe work, which fod me only in che most br tally liceral sense. Peshap, as we say in America, I wanted to find myself. This san incezestin phrase, noc curent a far as Lknow in the langusge of any other people, which certainly does not mean what ie says bue betrays a nagging suspicion that something has bboenaniepaced. I think now cha f [had al any icimation thar the self | wae going ro find would tuen out tobe only che same sel from which [had epent so much time i flight, would have sayed hone. But, agai, I thnk knew, atthe very bottom of my hear, ‘exacly what was doing when I took che boat for France.TWO Ter o1ovannt oonne my eon yearn asi when had 9 money. On te morning ofthe evening that et ha een fumed outof my tom il not onan nfl tof money. oly trond sit hound es bat Priam hep hte + ey tfomeling pve nd hen thy do wat ayy des ho trate fsb nl hy teow hacer ink uni ‘Myfither hal money inca wich bonged me but he wat wry ecu send beens he wanted ne come ome come hme he id and scl dn, and hence esi he ough ofthe slime atthe bam af aga oad dnt, en hao muy ep Parand Hel sin Spain Mow af th pepe Thaw Tr wees Pian ome. ts pti mean hile his mille was crn aso ough clin me int on proving totem an omy ‘eh was not fi company. i hsb Bing in eh company a great del and manifesting toward al of chem a tler- ance which placed me, I belived, above sspicion. Thad writen to fiiends for money, of course, but the Atlantic Oceanis deep and ‘wide and money doesn's hurry from the other side. ‘So wene through muy address book, siting over tepid coffe in 1 boulevard caf, and decided to call up an old acquaineance who vas always asking me ro eal, an aging, Begian-born, American businessman named Jacques. He had a big, comfortable apartment and lors of things to drink and lot of money. He was, as knew he ‘would be, suprised to hear fom me and before the surprise and the charm wore of, giving him time to become ary, he ad in- sited ane for supper. He may have been cursing ashe bung up, and reaching for his wale, but it was too late. Jacques is nor too bad. Perhaps he sa fool anda coward but almost everybody isone or the other and most people are both, In some ways liked him. He was silly bt he was so lonely: anyway, understand now thatthe con- tempt felt for him involved my selconcempt. He could be unbe- Tievably generous, he could be unspeskably stingy. Though he ‘wanted eo trast everybody, he was incapable of erstng 2 living soul to make up for this he drew his money away on people inev= italy, hen, he was abused, Then he buttoned his walle, locked his door, and eetired into that strong selF-pity which was, perhaps, he only thing he had which really belonged 0 him. [thought for & long while that he, with his big apartment, his wellmeant prom- ines, his whiskey, his marijuana, his ones, had helped to kill Gio- ‘anni. As, indeed, perhaps he had. But Jacques’ hands ae certainly no bloslie than mine. save Jacques, asa matter of fact, just after Giovanni was sen~ tenced, He was sitting bundled up in his greatcat on the cerrae of a cafe, drinking vin cheud, He was alone on the terrace. He called sme as I passed, Hee did not look well is face was mold, his eyes, behind hisPy lasses, were lke the eyes ofa dying man who looks everywhere fot healing, "You've heard,” he whispered, as I joined him, “shout Gio- nodded yes, T remember the winter sun was shining and I Fle as cad and distant as the sun, “I's terbl, crib, erible,” Jaques moaned. “Terrible "Yes." [said ould noe say anything more. "I wonder why he dit” Jacques pursued, “why he didn’t ase his fiends to help him.” He looked at me. We both knew thatthe last time Giovanni had asked Jacques for money, Jacques had te- fised. 1 said nothing, “They say he had sarted caking opium,’ Jacques ssid, “that he needed the money for opium. Did you hear the” Thad head i Ievasa newspaper speculation which, however I had reasons of my ow for believing, remembering the extent of Giovanni's desperation, knowing how fr this tertor, which was so ‘vast that ic had simply become void, had driven hitn. "Me, want to escape,” he had told me, "Je seu mienader—this ditty world, this dirty body. never wish to make love again with anything more than the body,” Jacques waited for me eo answer. 1 stared out into the tect 1 ‘eas beginning wo think of Giovanni dying-—where Giovanni had been there would he nothing, nothing forever, ‘Thopeit’s not my fault” Jacques said at ae. “I didn’ give him the money. IFTd knows —I would have given him everything I we Bat we both knew this was not ru, "You owo together,” Jacques suggested, "you weren't happy to- gether?” "No," [sid I stood up. “le might have been better,” [sad “if he'd stayed down there ia dat village of isi Kalyan planed his Giern + Room a5 olive toes and had lot of children and beaten hie wife, He used ro love to sng,” I remembered suddenly, “maybe he could have tayed oven chere and sung his life away and ded in bed." “Then Janqus ssid something tha suprised me. People are fll cof surprises, even for themcves, if they have been sired enough, ‘Nobody can stayin the garden of Fen,” Jaques said. And then: “Lwonder why.” [sid nothing, [ssid goodbye aid left him, Hella had long since enurned fom Spain and we were aleady arranging to cent this house and I had a date to meet her. [have thought about Jacques’ question since. The question is ‘banal but one ofthe teal eoubles with ving that ving iso bie nal. Everyone after all, goes the same dark road—and the road has tick of being most dark, most weacherous, when it seems most Dright—and i's uue char nobody stays in che garden of Eden. Jacques garden was not the sume at Giovanni’, ofcourse. Jacques sgacden was involved with football players and Giovanni's was in ‘volved with maidens-—but tha seems to have made so litle difler- ‘ence. Perhaps everybody has a garden of Eden, I don't knows but they have scarcely seen thie garden before they see the flaming sword, Then, perhaps, life only offers che choice of remembering, the garden of frgerting ic Eicher, oi takes strength to remem ber, it aes another kind of strength 1 forge, takes a ers to do both. People who remember court madaess though pa, the pain cof the perpetually recurring death of thee innocence; people who forge court another kind of madness, the madnes of the denial of pain and the hatred of innocence and the world is most divided berwcen madmen who remember and madmen who forget. Heroes Jacques had noc wanted to have supper in his aparment because has cook had rn away, His cooks were always rinning away. He vas alsays geting young boys fom the provinces, Gad knows2% mer Baldwin how, come up and be cooks and they, ofcourse, a soon as they ‘wete able to find their way around the capt, decided har cooking ‘was the lst ching they wanted todo. They unully ended up going, back o the provinces, those, that is, who did not end up on the street, ot in jail, in Indochina T met him ae rather nice estauranton the rue de Greelle and asranged to borrow ren thousand francs From him before we had fished our spr. Hewas ina good mood and I, of course, was ina good mood too, and this meant that we would end up drinking in Jacques fivorite bar, a nosy, crowded, il-lie sort of tunnel, of