shining at a certain angle—the faded imprint of the Greek letters AΔΦ. They had been there in bas-relief for decades, and no amount of sand blasting or student damage could eradicate them completely. The fraternity house of Alpha Delta Phi had gone the way of other such buildings at Carlyle. Its holy order of directors could not find it within themselves to accept the inevitable. The house had been sold—lock, stock, leaking roof, and bad mortgage—to the blacks.
The blacks had done well, even extremely well, with what they had to work with. The decrepit old house had been totally refurbished inside and out. All past associations with its former owners were obliterated wherever possible. The scores of faded photographs of venerated alumni were replaced with wildly theatrical portraits of the new revolutionaries—African, Latin American, Black Panther. Throughout the ancient halls were the new commands, screeched in posters and psychedelic art:
Death to the Pigs! Up Whitey! Malcolm Lives! Lumumba the Black Christ!
Between these screams for recognition were replicas of primitive African artifacts—fertility masks, spears,shields, animal skins dipped in red paint, shrunken heads suspended by hair with complexions unmistakably white.
Lumumba Hall wasn’t trying to fool anyone. It reflected anger. It reflected fury.
Matlock didn’t have to use the brass knocker set beside the grotesque iron mask at the edge of the doorframe. The large door opened as he approached it, and a student greeted him with a bright smile.
“I was hoping you’d make it! It’s gonna be a groove!”
“Thanks, Johnny. Wouldn’t miss it.” Matlock walked in, struck by the proliferation of lighted candles throughout the hallway and adjoining rooms. “Looks like a wake. Where’s the casket?”
“That’s later. Wait’ll you see!”
A black Matlock recognized as one of the campus extremists walked up to them. Adam Williams’ hair was long—African style and clipped in a perfect semicircle above his head. His features were sharp; Matlock had the feeling that if they met in the veldt, Williams would be assumed to be a tribal chief.
“Good evening,” Williams said with an infectious grin. “Welcome to the seat of revolution.”
“Thanks very much.” They shook hands. “You don’t look so revolutionary as you do funereal. I was asking Johnny where the casket was.”
Williams laughed. His eyes were intelligent, his smile genuine, without guile or arrogance. In close quarters, the black radical had little of the firebrand quality he displayed on the podium in front of cheering supporters. Matlock wasn’t surprised. Those of the faculty who had Williams in their courses often remarked on his subdued, good-humored approach. So different from the image he projected in campus—rapidlybecoming national—politics.
“Oh, Lord! We’re lousing up the picture then! This is a happy occasion. A little gruesome, I suppose, but essentially joyful.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Matlock smiled.
“A youngster from the tribe reaches the age of manhood, the brink of an active, responsible life. A jungle Bar Mitzvah. It’s a time for rejoicing. No caskets, no weeping shrouds.”
“That’s right! That’s right, Adam!” said the boy named Johnny enthusiastically.
“Why don’t you get Mr. Matlock a drink, brother.” And then he turned to Matlock. “It’s all the same drink until after the ceremony—it’s called Swahili punch. Is that O.K.?”
“Of course.”
“Right.” Johnny disappeared into the crowd toward the dining room and the punch bowl. Adam smiled as he spoke.
“It’s a light rum drink with lemonade and cranberry juice. Not bad, really.… Thank you for coming. I mean that.”
“I was surprised to be invited. I thought this was a very ‘in’ thing. Restricted to the tribe.… That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”
Williams laughed. “No offense. I used the word. It’s good to think in terms of
The blacks had done well, even extremely well, with what they had to work with. The decrepit old house had been totally refurbished inside and out. All past associations with its former owners were obliterated wherever possible. The scores of faded photographs of venerated alumni were replaced with wildly theatrical portraits of the new revolutionaries—African, Latin American, Black Panther. Throughout the ancient halls were the new commands, screeched in posters and psychedelic art:
Death to the Pigs! Up Whitey! Malcolm Lives! Lumumba the Black Christ!
Between these screams for recognition were replicas of primitive African artifacts—fertility masks, spears,shields, animal skins dipped in red paint, shrunken heads suspended by hair with complexions unmistakably white.
Lumumba Hall wasn’t trying to fool anyone. It reflected anger. It reflected fury.
Matlock didn’t have to use the brass knocker set beside the grotesque iron mask at the edge of the doorframe. The large door opened as he approached it, and a student greeted him with a bright smile.
“I was hoping you’d make it! It’s gonna be a groove!”
“Thanks, Johnny. Wouldn’t miss it.” Matlock walked in, struck by the proliferation of lighted candles throughout the hallway and adjoining rooms. “Looks like a wake. Where’s the casket?”
“That’s later. Wait’ll you see!”
A black Matlock recognized as one of the campus extremists walked up to them. Adam Williams’ hair was long—African style and clipped in a perfect semicircle above his head. His features were sharp; Matlock had the feeling that if they met in the veldt, Williams would be assumed to be a tribal chief.
“Good evening,” Williams said with an infectious grin. “Welcome to the seat of revolution.”
“Thanks very much.” They shook hands. “You don’t look so revolutionary as you do funereal. I was asking Johnny where the casket was.”
Williams laughed. His eyes were intelligent, his smile genuine, without guile or arrogance. In close quarters, the black radical had little of the firebrand quality he displayed on the podium in front of cheering supporters. Matlock wasn’t surprised. Those of the faculty who had Williams in their courses often remarked on his subdued, good-humored approach. So different from the image he projected in campus—rapidlybecoming national—politics.
“Oh, Lord! We’re lousing up the picture then! This is a happy occasion. A little gruesome, I suppose, but essentially joyful.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Matlock smiled.
“A youngster from the tribe reaches the age of manhood, the brink of an active, responsible life. A jungle Bar Mitzvah. It’s a time for rejoicing. No caskets, no weeping shrouds.”
“That’s right! That’s right, Adam!” said the boy named Johnny enthusiastically.
“Why don’t you get Mr. Matlock a drink, brother.” And then he turned to Matlock. “It’s all the same drink until after the ceremony—it’s called Swahili punch. Is that O.K.?”
“Of course.”
“Right.” Johnny disappeared into the crowd toward the dining room and the punch bowl. Adam smiled as he spoke.
“It’s a light rum drink with lemonade and cranberry juice. Not bad, really.… Thank you for coming. I mean that.”
“I was surprised to be invited. I thought this was a very ‘in’ thing. Restricted to the tribe.… That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”
Williams laughed. “No offense. I used the word. It’s good to think in terms of
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