Invisible man: читать книгу онлайн полностью и бесплатно

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Aw, let the woman go in to pray," a voice called from the crowd. "You got all their stuff out here on the walk -- what more do you want, blood?"

"Sure, let them old folks pray."

"That's what's wrong with us now, all this damn praying," another voice called.

"You don't go back, see," the white man said. "You were legally evicted."

"But all we want to do is go in an' kneel on the floor," the old man said. "We been living right here for over twenty years. I don't see why you can't let us go just for a few minutes ..."

"Look, I've told you," the man said. "I've got my orders. You're wasting my time."

"We're go'n in!" the woman said.

It happened so suddenly that I could barely keep up with it: I saw the old woman clutching her Bible and rushing up the steps, her husband behind her and the white man stepping in front of them and stretching out his arm. "I'll jug you," he yelled, "by God, I'll jug you!"

"Take your hands off that woman!" someone called from the crowd.

Then at the top of the stairs they were pushing against the man and I saw the old woman fall backwards, and the crowd exploded.

"Get that paddie sonofabitch!"

"He struck her!" a West Indian woman screamed into my ear. "The filthy brute, he struck her!"

"Stand back or I'll shoot," the man called, his eyes wild as he drew a gun and backed into the doorway where the two trusties stood bewildered, their arms full of articles. "I swear I'll shoot! You don't know what you're doing, but I'll shoot!"

They hesitated. "Ain't but six bullets in that thing," a little fellow called. "Then what you going to do?"

"Yeah, you damn sho caint hide."

"I advise you to stay out of this," the marshal called.

"Think you can come up here and hit one of our women, you a fool."

"To hell with all this talk, let's rush that bastard!"

"You better think twice," the white man called.

I saw them start up the steps and felt suddenly as though my head would split. I knew that they were about to attack the man and I was both afraid and angry, repelled and fascinated. I both wanted it and feared the consequences, was outraged and angered at what I saw and yet surged with fear; not for the man or of the consequences of an attack, but of what the sight of violence might release in me. And beneath it all there boiled up all the shock-absorbing phrases that I had learned all my life. I seemed to totter on the edge of a great dark hole.

"No, no," I heard myself yelling. "Black men! Brothers! Black Brothers! That's not the way. We're law-abiding. We're a law-abiding people and a slow-to-anger people."

Forcing my way quickly through the crowd, I stood on the steps facing those in front, talking rapidly without thought but out of my clashing emotions. "We're a law-abiding people and a slow-to-anger people ..." They stopped, listening. Even the white man was startled.

"Yeah, but we mad now," a voice called out.

"Yes, you're right," I called back. "We're angry, but let us be wise. Let us, I mean let us not ... Let us learn from that great leader whose wise action was reported in the newspaper the other day ..."

"What, mahn? Who?" a West Indian voice shouted.

"Come on! To hell with this guy, let's get that paddie before they send him some help ..."

"No, wait," I yelled. "Let's follow a leader, let's organize. Organize. We need someone like that wise leader, you read about him, down in Alabama. He was strong enough to choose to do the wise thing in spite of what he felt himself ..."

"Who, mahn? Who?"

This was it, I thought, they're listening, eager to listen.