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to see。 Carl was small with fear。 At last the big Greek ground
his teeth and rose from his chair。 Hurriedly Carl picked up his
cap and left the room。 Singer followed him down the stairs。
He did not know how to explain his friend to this stranger。
Carl stood hunched in the doorway downstairs； limp； with his
peaked cap pulled down over his face。 At last they shook
hands and Carl went away。
Antonapoulos let him know that while they were not noticing；
their guest had gone into the closet and drunk up all the gin。
No amount of persuasion could convince Antonapoulos that it
was he himself who had finished the bottle。 The big Greek sat
up in bed and his round face was dismal and reproachful。
Large tears trickled slowly down to the neck of his undershirt
and he could not be comforted。 At last he went to sleep； but Singer was awake in the
dark a long time。 They never saw Carl again。
Then years later there was the time Antonapoulos took the
rent money from the vase on the mantelpiece and spent it all
on the slot machines。 And the summer afternoon
Antonapoulos went downstairs naked to get the paper。 He
suffered so from the summer heat。 They bought an electric
refrigerator on the installment plan； and Antonapoulos would
suck the cubes of ice constantly and even let a few of them
melt in bed with him as he slept。 And the time Antonapoulos
got drunk and threw a bowl of macaroni in his face。
Those ugly memories wove through his thoughts during the
first months like bad threads through a carpet。 And then they
were gone。 All the times that they had been unhappy were
forgotten。 For as the year went on his thoughts of his friend
spiraled deeper until he dwelt only with the Antonapoulos
whom he alone could know。
This was the friend to whom he told all that was in his heart。
This was the Antonapoulos who no one knew was wise but
him。 As the year passed his friend seemed to grow larger in
his mind； and his face looked out in a very grave and subtle
way from the darkness at night。 The memories of his friend
changed in his mind so that he remembered nothing that was
wrong or foolish—only the wise and good。
He saw Antonapoulos sitting in a large chair before him。 He
sat tranquil and unmoving。 His round face was inscrutable。
His mouth was wise and smiling。 And his eyes were profound。
He watched the things that were said to him。 And in his
wisdom he understood。
This was the Antonapoulos who now was always in his
thoughts。 This was the friend to whom he wanted to tell things
that had come about。 For something had happened in this year。
He had been left in an alien land。 Alone。 He had opened his
eyes and around him there was much he could not understand。
He was bewildered。
He watched the words shape on their lips。
We Negroes want a chance to be free at last。 And freedom is
only the right to contribute。 We want to serve and to share； to
labor and in turn consume that which is due to us。 But you are
the only white man I have ever en…174
countered who realizes this terrible need of my people。
You see； Mister Singer？ I got this music in me all the time。 I
got to be a real musician。 Maybe I don't know anything now；
but I will when I'm twenty。 See； Mister Singer？ And then I
mean to travel in a foreign country where there's snow。
Let's finish up the bottle。 I want a small one。 For we were
thinking of freedom。 That's the word like a worm in my brain。
Yes？ No？ How much？ How little？ The word is a signal for
piracy and theft and cunning。 We'll be free and the smartest
will then be able to enslave the others。 But！ But there is
another meaning to the word。 Of all words this one is the most
dangerous。 We who know must be wary。 The word makes us
feel good—in fact the word is a great ideal。 But it's with this
ideal that the spiders spin their ugliest webs for us。
The last one rubbed his nose。 He did not come often and he
did not say much。 He asked questions。
The four people had been coming to his rooms now for more
than seven months。 They never came together—always alone。
And invariably he met them at the door with a cordial smile。
The want for Antonapoulos was always with him—just as it
had been the first months after his friend had gone—and it
was better to be with any person than to be too long alone。 It
was like the time years ago when he had made a pledge to
Antonapoulos （and even written it on a paper and tacked it on
the wall above his bed）—a pledge that he would give up
cigarettes； beer； and meat for one month。 The first days had
been very bad。 He could not rest or be still。 He visited
Antonapoulos so much at the fruit store that Charles Parker
was unpleasant to him。 When he had finished all the engraving
on hand he would dawdle around the front of the store with
the watchmaker and the salesgirl or wander out to some soda
fountain to drink a Coca…Cola。 In those days being near any
stranger was better than thinking alone about the cigarettes
and beer and meat that he wanted。
At first he had not understood the four people at all。 They
talked and they talked—and as the months went on they talked
more and more。 He became so used to their lips that he
understood each word they said。 And then after
175
a while he knew what each one of them would say before he
began； because the meaning was always the same。
His hands were a torment to him。 They would not rest。 They
twitched in his sleep； and sometimes he awoke to find them
shaping the words in his dreams before his face。 He did not
like to look at his hands or to think about them。 They were
slender and brown and very strong。 In the years before he had
always tended them with care。 In ihe winter he used oil to
prevent chapping； and he kept the cuticles pushed down and
his nails always filed to the shape of his finger…tips。 He had
loved to wash and tend his hands。 But now he only scrubbed
them roughly with a brush two times a day and stuffed them
back into his pockets。
When he walked up and down the floor of his room he would
crack the joints of his fingers and jerk at them until they
ached。 Or he would strike the palm of one hand with the fist of
the other。 And then sometimes when he was alone and his
thoughts were with his friend his hands would begin to shape
the words before he knew about it。 Then when he realized he
was like a man caught talking aloud to himself。 It was almost
as though he had done some moral wrong。 The shame and the
sorrow mixed together and he doubled his hands and put them
behind him。 But they would not let him rest。
Singer stood in the street before the house where he and
Antonapoulos had lived。 The late afternoon was smoky and
gray。 In the west there were streaks of cold yellow and rose。 A
ragged winter sparrow flew in patterns against the smoky sky
and at last came to light on a gable of the house。 The street
was deserted。
His eyes were fixed on a window on the right side of the
second story。 This was then…front room； and behind was the
big kitchen where Antonapoulos had cooked all their meals。
Through the lighted window he watched a woman move back
and forth across the room。 She was large and vague against
the light and she wore an apron。 A man sat with the evening
newspaper in his hand。 A child with a slice of bread came to
the window and pressed his nose against the pane。 Singer saw
the room just as he had left176
it—with the large bed for Antonapoulos and the iron cot for
himself； the big overstuffed sofa and the camp chair。 The
broken sugar bowl used for an ash tray； the damp spot on the
ceiling where the roof leaked； the laundry box in the corner。
On late afternoons like this there would be no light in the
kitchen except the glow from the oil…burners of the big stove。
Antonapoulos always turned the wicks so that only a ragged
fringe of gold and blue could be seen inside each burner。 The
room was warm and full of the good smells from the supper。
Antonapoulos tasted the dishes with his wooden spoon and
they drank glasses of red wine。 On the linoleum rug before the
stove the flames from the burners made luminous reflections
—five little golden lanterns。 As the milky twilight grew darker
these little lanterns were more intense； so that when at last the
night had come they burned with vivid purity。 Supper was
always ready by that time and they would turn on the light and
draw their chairs to the table。
Singer looked down at the dark front door。 He thought of them
going out together in the morning and coming home at night。
There was the broken place in the pavement where
Antonapoulos had stumbled once and hurt his elbow。 There
was the mailbox where their bill from the light company came
each month。 He could feel the warm touch of his friend's arm
against his fingers。
The street was dark now。 He looked up at the window once
more and he saw the strange woman and the man and the child
in a group together。 The emptiness spread in him。 All was
gone。 Antonapoulos was away； he was not here to remember。
The thoughts of his friend were somewhere else。 Singer shut
his eye