Invisible man: читать книгу онлайн полностью и бесплатно

"Of course, of course," she said, going to a cabinet and removing a decanter and a set of glasses in which she poured about an inch of clear liquid.

"Here you are, Brothers," she said.

Taking his, Brother Jack raised it to his nose, inhaling deeply. "To the Brotherhood of Man ... to History and to Change," he said, touching my glass.

"To History," we all said.

The stuff burned, causing me to lower my head to hide the tears that popped from my eyes.

"Aaaah!" someone said with deep satisfaction.

"Come along," Emma said. "Let's join the others."

"Now for some pleasure," Brother Jack said. "And remember your new identity."

I wanted to think but they gave me no time. I was swept into the large room and introduced by my new name. Everyone smiled and seemed eager to meet me, as though they all knew the role I was to play. All grasped me warmly by the hand.

"What is your opinion of the state of women's rights, Brother?" I was asked by a plain woman in a large black velvet tarn. But before I could open my mouth, Brother Jack had pushed me along to a group of men, one of whom seemed to know all about the eviction. Nearby, a group around the piano were singing folk songs with more volume than melody. We moved from group to group, Brother Jack very authoritative, the others always respectful. He must be a powerful man, I thought, not a clown at all. But to hell with this Booker T. Washington business. I would do the work but I would be no one except myself -- whoever I was, I would pattern my life on that of the Founder. They might think I was acting like Booker T. Washington; let them. But what I thought of myself I would keep to myself. Yes, and I'd have to hide the fact that I had actually been afraid when I made my speech. Suddenly I felt laughter bubbling inside me. I'd have to catch up with this science of history business.

We had come to stand near the piano now, where an intense young man questioned me about various leaders of the Harlem community. I knew them only by name, but pretended that I knew them all.

"Good," he said, "good, we have to work with all these forces during the coming period."

"Yes, you're quite right," I said, giving my glass a tinkling twirl. A short broad man saw me and waved the others to a halt. "Say, Brother," he called. "Hold the music, boys, hold it!"

"Yes, uh ... Brother," I said.

"You're just who we need. We been looking for you."

"Oh," I said.

"How about a spiritual, Brother? Or one of those real good ole Negro work songs? Like this: Ah went to Atlanta -- nevah been there befo'," he sang, his arms held out from his body like a penguin's wings, glass in one hand, cigar in the other. "White man sleep in a feather bed, Nigguh sleep on the flo' ... Ha! Ha! How about it, Brother?"

"The Brother does not sing!" Brother Jack roared staccato.

"Nonsense, all colored people sing."

"This is an outrageous example of unconscious racial chauvinism!" Jack said.

"Nonsense, I like their singing," the broad man said doggedly.

"The Brother does not sing!" Brother Jack cried, his face turning a deep purple.

The broad man regarded him stubbornly. "Why don't you let him say whether he can sing or not ... ? Come on, Brother, git hot! Go Down, Moses," he bellowed in a ragged baritone, putting down his cigar and snapping his fingers. "Way down in Egypt's land. Tell dat ole Pharaoh to let ma colored folks sing! I'm for the rights of the colored brother to sing!" he shouted belligerently.

Brother Jack looked as if he would choke; he raised his hand, signaling. I saw two men shoot from across the room and lead the short man roughly away. Brother Jack followed them as they disappeared beyond the door, leaving an enormous silence.

For a moment I stood there, my eyes riveted upon the door, then I turned, the glass hot in my hand, my face feeling as though it would explode. Why was everyone staring at me as though I were responsible? Why the hell were they staring at me? Suddenly I yelled, "What's the matter with you? Haven't you ever seen a drunk --" when somewhere off the foyer the broad man's voice staggered drunkenly to us, "St. Louis mammieeeee -- with her diamond riiiings ..." and was clipped off by a slamming door, leaving a roomful of bewildered faces. And suddenly I was laughing hysterically.

"He hit me in the face," I wheezed. "He hit me in the face with a yard of chitterlings!" -- bending double, roaring, the whole room seeming to dance up and down with each rapid eruption of laughter.

"He threw a hog maw," I cried, but no one seemed to understand. My eyes filled, I could barely see. "He's high as a Georgia pine," I laughed, turning to the group nearest me. "He's abso-lutely drunk ... off music!"

"Yes. Sure," a man said nervously. "Ha, ha ..."

"Three sheets in the wind," I laughed, getting my breath now, and discovering that the silent tension of the others was ebbing into a ripple of laughter that sounded throughout the room, growing swiftly to a roar, a laugh of all dimensions, intensities and intonations. Everyone was joining in. The room fairly bounced.

"And did you see Brother Jack's face," a man shouted, shaking his head.