you going home?" he asked.
Jester, who was still feeling sorry for Sherman, did not want to take the hint. "Have you ever heard Marian Anderson sing 'Were You There When They Crucified My Lord'?" he asked.
"Spirituals, that's another item that makes me blow a fuse."
"It occurs to me your fuses blow awfully easy."
"What's that to you?"
"I was just commenting how I love 'Were You There When They Crucified My Lord' sung by Marian Anderson. I practically cry every time I hear it."
"Well, cry ahead. That's your privilege."
"...in fact, most spirituals make me cry."
"Me, I wouldn't waste my time and trouble. However, Marian Anderson sings a creepy species of German lieder."
"I cry when she sings spirituals."
"Cry ahead."
"I don't understand your point of view."
Spirituals had always offended Sherman. First, they made him cry and make a fool of himself which was mortally hateful to him; second, he had always lashed out that it was nigger music, but how could he say that if Marian Anderson was his true mother?
"What made you think up Marian Anderson?" Since that worry-wart Jester wouldn't take the hint and go home to let him daydream in peace, he wanted to talk about her.
"On account of your voices. Two golden, once-in-a-century voices are quite a coincidence."
"Well, why did she abandon me? I read somewhere where she loves her own old mother," he added cynically, unable to give up his marvelous dream.
"She might have fallen in love, passionately, I mean, with this white prince," Jester said, carried away with the story.
"Jester Clane," Sherman's voice was mild but firm, "never say 'white' just out like that."
"Why?"
"Say Caucasian, otherwise you would refer to my race as colored or even Negro, while the proper name is Nigerian or Abyssinian."
Jester only nodded and swallowed.
"...otherwise you might hurt people's feelings, and you're such a tenderhearted sissy, I know you wouldn't like that."
"I resent you calling me a tenderhearted sissy," Jester protested.
"Well, you are one."
"How do you know?"
"Little Bo-Peep told me so." Jester's admiration for this remark was not lessened because he had heard it before.
"Even if she had fallen for this Caucasian, I wonder why she left me in a church pew at the Holy Ascension Church in Milan, Georgia, of all places."
Jester, who had no way of sensing the anxious, fallow search which had lasted all Sherman's childhood, was worried that a random suggestion on his part could have been blown up to such certainty. Jester said conscientiously, "Maybe she wasn't exactly Marian Anderson; if it was, she must have considered herself wedded to her career. Still it would be a kind of crummy thing to do and I never thought of Marian Anderson as the least bit crummy. In fact, I adore her. Passionately, I mean."
"Why are you always using the word 'passionately'?"
Jester, who had been drunk all evening and for the first time with passion, could not answer. For the passion of first youth is lightly sown but strong. It can spring into instant being by a song heard in the night, a voice, the sight of a stranger. Passion makes you daydream, destroys concentration on arithmetic, and at the time you most yearn to be witty, makes you feel like a fool. In early youth, love at first sight, that epitome of passion, turns you into a zombie so that you don't realize if you're sitting up or lying down and you can't remember what you have just eaten to save your life. Jester, who was just learning about passion, was very much afraid. He had never been intoxicated and never wanted to be. A boy who made A grades in high school, except for a sprinkling of B's in geometry and chemistry, he daydreamed only when he was in bed and would not let himself daydream in the morning after the alarm clock went off, although sometimes he would have dearly liked to. Such a person is naturally afraid of love at first sight. Jester felt that if he touched Sherman it would lead to a mortal sin, but what the sin was,
Jester, who was still feeling sorry for Sherman, did not want to take the hint. "Have you ever heard Marian Anderson sing 'Were You There When They Crucified My Lord'?" he asked.
"Spirituals, that's another item that makes me blow a fuse."
"It occurs to me your fuses blow awfully easy."
"What's that to you?"
"I was just commenting how I love 'Were You There When They Crucified My Lord' sung by Marian Anderson. I practically cry every time I hear it."
"Well, cry ahead. That's your privilege."
"...in fact, most spirituals make me cry."
"Me, I wouldn't waste my time and trouble. However, Marian Anderson sings a creepy species of German lieder."
"I cry when she sings spirituals."
"Cry ahead."
"I don't understand your point of view."
Spirituals had always offended Sherman. First, they made him cry and make a fool of himself which was mortally hateful to him; second, he had always lashed out that it was nigger music, but how could he say that if Marian Anderson was his true mother?
"What made you think up Marian Anderson?" Since that worry-wart Jester wouldn't take the hint and go home to let him daydream in peace, he wanted to talk about her.
"On account of your voices. Two golden, once-in-a-century voices are quite a coincidence."
"Well, why did she abandon me? I read somewhere where she loves her own old mother," he added cynically, unable to give up his marvelous dream.
"She might have fallen in love, passionately, I mean, with this white prince," Jester said, carried away with the story.
"Jester Clane," Sherman's voice was mild but firm, "never say 'white' just out like that."
"Why?"
"Say Caucasian, otherwise you would refer to my race as colored or even Negro, while the proper name is Nigerian or Abyssinian."
Jester only nodded and swallowed.
"...otherwise you might hurt people's feelings, and you're such a tenderhearted sissy, I know you wouldn't like that."
"I resent you calling me a tenderhearted sissy," Jester protested.
"Well, you are one."
"How do you know?"
"Little Bo-Peep told me so." Jester's admiration for this remark was not lessened because he had heard it before.
"Even if she had fallen for this Caucasian, I wonder why she left me in a church pew at the Holy Ascension Church in Milan, Georgia, of all places."
Jester, who had no way of sensing the anxious, fallow search which had lasted all Sherman's childhood, was worried that a random suggestion on his part could have been blown up to such certainty. Jester said conscientiously, "Maybe she wasn't exactly Marian Anderson; if it was, she must have considered herself wedded to her career. Still it would be a kind of crummy thing to do and I never thought of Marian Anderson as the least bit crummy. In fact, I adore her. Passionately, I mean."
"Why are you always using the word 'passionately'?"
Jester, who had been drunk all evening and for the first time with passion, could not answer. For the passion of first youth is lightly sown but strong. It can spring into instant being by a song heard in the night, a voice, the sight of a stranger. Passion makes you daydream, destroys concentration on arithmetic, and at the time you most yearn to be witty, makes you feel like a fool. In early youth, love at first sight, that epitome of passion, turns you into a zombie so that you don't realize if you're sitting up or lying down and you can't remember what you have just eaten to save your life. Jester, who was just learning about passion, was very much afraid. He had never been intoxicated and never wanted to be. A boy who made A grades in high school, except for a sprinkling of B's in geometry and chemistry, he daydreamed only when he was in bed and would not let himself daydream in the morning after the alarm clock went off, although sometimes he would have dearly liked to. Such a person is naturally afraid of love at first sight. Jester felt that if he touched Sherman it would lead to a mortal sin, but what the sin was,
Similar Books
