# Nigger Heaven (Van Vechten)/Book 1/Chapter 7

When Olive came home, just as the grey dawn was spreading its pale, disagreeable light through the window, Mary was still awake, but she did not call out to her friend. She heard Olive tiptoe into her room and softly close the door. Later, she dozed a little. Before retiring, she had thought it safer to set the alarm-clock and she turned drowsily to its buzz at a quarter after eight. Then she tumbled out of bed to turn on her tub. Olive, she discovered, had already departed for the city.
As Mary started forth, the sun was shining brightly, and it seemed to her, walking rapidly down Edgecombe Avenue, that she descried happiness in every face. 'Tired as she was, after her sleepless night, her blood tingled with a warm glow of joy; she felt an uplifting, elating excitement. And Ollie had called her cold! Long in awakening, she had awakened vibrantly. Once from one of the high galleries of the Metropolitan Opera House she had listened to Siegfried, and she now recalled the glorious music that accompanied Brünnhilde's awakening in the last act. Like Brünnhilde, Mary too had been awakened by a kiss.
​Nothing else mattered now; nothing else counted: she knew that. I'd steal for him; I'd kill for him! she admitted to herself. For him I'd give up my family, my friends, my position, everything!
At the library she had the sensation that every one was staring at her.
Why, Mary, what is the matter? Miss Langley, one of the white assistants demanded.
Realizing the implications of this query, Mary was slow to reply. Apparently, the world was aware when one was in love.
What do you mean, Alice? she parried.
You look as happy as a humming-bird who has found a new flower, Alice explained.
My Lord, what a morning! was the refrain which ran through Mary's head, a refrain with a new meaning. The stars, indeed, had begun to fall!
I am happy, Alice! she confessed. I am happy. I don't know why; I'm just happy.
Alice's glance, Mary noted, was quizzical. However, she took up her position behind the desk, and said nothing more.
Mary, too, began her morning's work. Automatically, without argument, she passed One Increasing Purpose over the counter to a young girl who had inquired for it. So far as Mary's present mood was concerned, it might just as well have been a copy of A Passage to India or Those Barren Leaves. She repeated this carefree gesture with many more books for which on another occasion ​she would have felt slight respect. In her subconsciousness, as a matter of fact, Mary began to harbour a slight suspicion in regard to the reliability of the literature of disillusion.
Byron's name, sung over and over again in her mind, began also to weave contrapuntally a pattern of pain in her heart. He had promised to telephone. Why didn't he keep this promise? She could not tolerate the knowledge, she was beginning to realize, that he should be somewhere else while she was here. She wanted him near her always. Was love like this, that you began to suffer the moment you experienced it? Why didn't he telephone? Was he so indifferent that he could sleep? Several times she heard the bell tinkle in the adjoining room. Twice, she sped across the floor to answer it, in spite of the fact that the instrument was on the wall two steps from the principal librarian's desk.
You must be expecting a call, Mary, was Alice Langley's comment.
After this remark, although it cost her an agony of impatience, Mary permitted the bell to ring until some one in the inner office lifted the receiver, but this happened so frequently that it seemed incredible that not one of the calls should be for her. Presently a new anxiety beset her: considering the unisolated location of the telephone, she' would be unable to speak freely, to say what she wanted to say. What she principally wanted to say, she was now ​aware, was in the nature of a complaint: she desired to upbraid Byron for not calling her earlier. Was he, her succeeding despairing inner voice demanded, going to call her at all?
At noon she was so completely occupied with the irksome requirements of an offensively precise youth—he had brought in a long typewritten list of obscure volumes dealing with tribal magic, and it was almost with shame that Mary had to confess, after considerable searching in the card-catalogue, that the library could not supply a single one of them—that when the bell rang again she did not hear it.
Alice Langley prompted her: Miss Silbert has been calling you for some time. Telephone.
Mary hastily returned the list to the obnoxious youth, gave a vicious stamp to a girl's card on the desk before her, and slipped from her stool. She walked, conscious that Alice's curious eyes were following her, the length of the room. Her brow was molten lava, her hands were ice. In Miss Silbert's room she lifted the receiver to her ear.
Hello!
Is that you, Mary?
Yes.
My adored one, can't you say any more than that?
No, not now.
What's the matter? The voice became more importunate, even a trifle petulant. Don't you feel the same way you did last night?
​Yes.
Then, what's the matter? Don't you love me, Mary?
Yes.
Then, why don't you say something?
I can't.
At last he seemed to comprehend. You're not alone?
No. How she hated this! Never again would she permit him to telephone her at the library. She felt Miss Silbert's accusing eyes creeping up and down her back. She knew what Miss Silbert was thinking: she knew what white people thought about Negroes under such circumstances. I'm going to Craig's to lunch at one o'clock, she added.
I'll join you there, he promised. Good-bye.
Good— Wait a minute! . . . but he had already hung up the receiver.
She returned to her position behind the counter. Alice was frankly staring at her now, making no slightest effort at dissimulation. A little later she saw Alice whisper to one of the other girls. The girl listened, giggling. Mary believed she was about to faint. She loathed Byron. In her present mood she felt she never wanted to see him again.
Miss Silbert was passing her desk. You don't look well, Mary, the librarian remarked sympathetically.
I've got a headache.
Alice, overhearing, grinned.
​It must be the air in here, Mary hurried on. It's very close. I felt fine when I came in.
Miss Silbert's glance sought the secret in Mary's eyes, searched deep into her soul, Mary felt, but the librarian said nothing more.
One o'clock at last. Craig's. The same crowd. The same gossip, but today it seemed to have a new and unpleasant significance. They seemed to be talking about her. She caught phrases without names:
He went to see her last night. . . .
. . . creeper. . . .
Some sheik! Ha! Ha!
One-fifteen. Still Mary waited. As Byron had not arrived at one-thirty, she ordered lunch, only to discover when it was served that she was not hungry. The food revolted her, choked her. The vague chorus continued to buzz around her. The laughter bubbled.
At a quarter of two, as she was arising from her seat preparing to draw on her cloak, he came in. Her expression reproached him.
Hello, Mary, he greeted her.
I thought you were coming to lunch with me.
He seemed bewildered.
I didn't understand it that way. I'msorry. Did you wait? I thought you meant for me to look in on you here.
You said you'd join me.
​I couldn't eat anything. I only had my coffee about an hour ago.
She felt the tears rising, her gorge tightening. Here he stood before her, and yet she was not happy. She wanted. . . . What did she want?
I was talking from the librarian's room, she explained. It was difficult to say very much.
I got that after awhile, he said. At first I couldn't understand why you were so cold.
I must have sounded that way. I think, Byron, she went on, it would be just as well if you didn't telephone me at the library again.
All right, he replied. It was you who suggested It. Why didn't you call me up earlier? she demanded almost fiercely.
Why, I didn't think you'd be around earlier. It was so late when I left last night.
I was at the library at nine. I'm always there by nine.
I didn't get up at nine. Say, are we quarrelling already?
I'm sorry, Byron dear. I guess I'm tired. I'm feeling very nervous this morning.
You poor darling! He squeezed her arm affectionately.
Don't do that here, Byron, she begged.
Well, what can I do? When and where can I see you?
​Mary smiled wanly. I must seem like a fool, Byron.
Can I come around tonight?
Oh, what will Ollie think?
Do you care what Ollie thinks?
No—oo. Yes, come around tonight, Byron.
What time?
Oh, about eight-thirty.
I'll be there.
Mary felt happy and warm again.
Are you looking for work yet, Byron? she inquired.
He laughed uneasily. Why, I just got up. How could I look for a job this morning? Besides I want to take a little time to look around. I don't want to take the first thing that offers.
Later, after he had left her at the door of the library, she was frightened. Her inexperience, her prior lack of desire for experience, had tricked her. She had been, she assured herself, too forthright. She had permitted him to know at once that she loved him. In this respect, at any rate, she had been perhaps a daughter of her race, but vague doubts clouded her mind, forcing her to be uncertain whether she had been wise to yield so easily to this warm emotion. Could she never be simple? Apparently not. This troublesome brain of hers, standing a little apart and judging with calm dispassionate logic all that she did, informed her that she had allowed him to know too soon that she loved ​him; she had let him see her jealousy too soon, permitted him to learn how much she missed him when he was not with her. He must now, she mused, be fully aware of his power over her. Yet she understood that in the future she could hold herself no more in check. In yielding to her first passionate emotion, she had apparently forfeited her peace of spirit. She had been in love consciously less than twenty-four hours—she realized that although something important had happened to her the day she met Byron at Adora's it was nothing like what had happened to her now—and already she was tasting all the anguish and bitterness of this condition. She was no longer the mistress of her emotions. To all intents and purposes, she admitted, she was their slave.
Olive had not yet returned when Mary entered the flat that evening. Repairing to the kitchen she lifted the lid from several canisters—flour, sugar, spices, dried mushrooms, kidney beans: all mysterious ingredients. What did one do with them? In the ice-box she discovered half a cold roast of lamb reposing on a platter, a curious mixture with a pungent aroma in a bowl, a dish of pyrex glass twothirds full of cold, scalloped potatoes. Olive, she knew, would be able to convert these substances into an appetizing meal, while she, Mary, was helpless. Sinking into a chair, she sighed.
​The outer door opened and closed as Olive entered.
Mary! she called. Then, What on earth are you doing in the kitchen?
I thought I'd like to try to get dinner, but I don't seem to know what to do.
Olive regarded her silently for a moment: astonishment shone from her eyes. It was obvious, too, that she was amused.
You set the table, she commanded half-humorously, and I'll get dinner as usual.
But Ollie, I really want to learn how to cook. Please let me help.
Well, Olive remarked, as she tied an apron over her dress, the sheik is pretty good, I guess. Studying up on domestic science already, eh?
Mary could not resist a smile. The sheik is pretty good, she echoed, altering the stress. I thought that some night when he came here to dinner I'd like to prepare it.
You thought . . . ! Say, Mary, don't scare the man away. You prepare your first meal for him after you're married. It will be too late for him to leave you then.
Ollie, do you think I'll be as bad as all that?
I'll say you'll be rotten. . . . Olive's increased amazement was clearly written on her countenance. . . . When you get started, Mary, you're certainly a fast worker, unless you've been holding this sheik out on me. You haven't been meeting him in ​the Park for the past few months, have you?
Ollie! You know I haven't.
How late did he stay last night?
Oh, he must have left right after you went out.
Well, if he did, he's a fast worker too! What time is he coming in tonight?
Why, how . . . ? Eight-thirty.
Well, run along and get ready. It will take you at least two hours.
Howard was dining 'with them again. He and Olive were going to the theatre. They were merciful to Mary, sparing her further references to the subject on which she was sensitive.
I wish you'd been with us last night, Mary, Howard said.
Where did you go?
Atlantic City Joe's. We felt like slumming.
I never heard of the place. You know I'm not very crazy about cabarets.
I'd never been there before, said Olive. It seems to be a favourite dive of Dick's. There's a loose dancer called Zebra.
What a belly-wobble! cried Howard with enthusiasm. She sang a song which goes:
The whole place is about as big as this room, Olive went on, but there's really more space for dancing than there is at the Black Venus because ​they keep more of the floor clear. Dick is certainly a bear at the Black Bottom.
When, some time later, they arose from the table, Mary suggested to Olive, Please leave the coffee in the pot. I'll warm it up when I want it.
Company, eh? Howard murmured interrogatively.
Yes, Olive replied, in a tone that prohibited further inquiry.
After they had departed, Mary returned to her room to put on a clinging, blue silk dress, with no sleeves, and a skirt that fell only to her knees. She rearranged her hair. She made up her face and lips more carefully. Seeking the bottle of carbona from the bathroom cupboard, she removed a minute spot from one of her satin shoes. Then she looked at the clock. It was quarter to nine.
Mary discovered that she was sleepy. She had enjoyed so little rest the preceding night. She went to the kitchen and lit the fire under the coffee-percolator. Fancying the place was too warm, she opened the kitchen window. Then she lounged rather listlessly in a chair until the brown bubbles began to dance merrily in the glass dome of the percolator when she poured herself out a large cup of the stimulant and returned with it to the sitting-room.
She sipped the hot liquid with a spoon. Still restless, she went back to her room in search of cigarettes and a book. She examined the labels of many ​volumes on her table before she eventually chose David Garnett's The Sailor's Return. Back in the sitting-room, she slowly sipped her coffee, lighted a cigarette, and opened the book. Perfection is in unity; prefer one woman first, and then one thing in her: so read the first lines. She laid the book aside. What, after all, did she know about this man? Did Byron, she wondered, prefer one woman first? Was she first? Had there been others? Were there others now? Mary's blood pumped furiously from her heart as she thought what it would mean to her if he cared for another woman. She wanted him for herself and for herself alone. She wanted to possess him.
She permitted herself to slip into a half-somnolent meditation in which she gave herself over to the bliss of imagining what life with him would be like. Suddenly, with a start, she became wide-awake. Consulting her watch, she discovered that it was a quarter of eleven. There was a draught in the room. She remembered the open window and closed it. Then she returned to her chair and began to read: The Duke of Kent came safe into Southampton Docks on the tenth of June, 1858. On board of her was a mariner named William Targett, returning to his own country as a passenger, having shipped at Lisbon. He was . . . Mary ​jumped at the sound of the bell. Then she sat quite still for a moment until she had regained some slight control of her twitching muscles. At last, she opened the door.