Читать книгу All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator - Henry Scott Harris - Страница 12

E: That old sailor was right. Liverpool was a big seaport and any seaport brought me closer to France.

H: Well Gene, you are what 15-16 years old, in another strange city?

How did you survive or shouldn’t I ask?

E: Henri, you are right. Wondered if my father’s luck would hold out. I headed for the docks, sure there would be work and ships. Perhaps one destined for France? Unfortunately it wasn’t to be.

H: What did you do?

E: To work, I had to join the union. They weren’t interested in my age, just my membership dollars. Became a loader and dockhand carrying large, sometimes almost too heavy, crates. Didn’t make too much money. Barely paid my room and board, but did make me stronger. Though I grew, couldn’t keep up with the loads. Took odd jobs. One of the strangest was “Dunk the Darkie”.

H: Dunk the Darkie?

E: That’s right. There was an amusement park on the outskirts of Liverpool. I was hired, paid a couple of pounds each weekend to sit on a wooden platform. Reminded me of my bunk aboard ship. There I was, holding a bull’s-eye target on my chest. The sign over my head read, “Hit the target and Dunk the Darkie, three tries to sink him.” People paid to throw balls at me and if they hit the target right, I was dumped into a tub of water. I sang, laughed at their misses and whistled to attract more customers. The more customers, the more I got paid. Wasn’t the greatest job; but better than begging on street corners, and it paid for my room. Henri, I was very clean, taking so many baths each day! The people enjoyed the fun and someone always yelled, and the crowd laughed at, “Darkie, take another dump and your color will wash off.”

Then on this Monday, I was tired and weary of the weekend at the amusement park and decided to walk. Turned down a street I had never been on before. Saw a sign, “Baldwin’s Gymnasium.” Being curious, I opened the door and was hit by the musk aroma of male sweat and the sights and sounds of men lifting weights, punching bags, and some punching each other. All this activity was to various rhythms…crack, crack, whack, leather gloves thudding against hanging stuffed bags, skip-ropes smacking the floor and boxers’ dancing feet.

H: This is where your boxing career started?

E: Right. I felt strangely at home and looked around. Lots of noise and movement. There was a ring in the center of the room where boxers were trading punches. A big, gruff, bald-headed man was screaming orders to the fighters, “Ryan, hit with your left. Hey Davey, work on the big bag. Frankie, carry your right higher, jab, jab!” The gym became silent, the activity stopped. All heads turned and faced me. The big guy, wondering why, turned and looked at me. He wasn’t happy and demanded, “Hey, you little bastard, what the hell do you want? What are you doing here? Get your black ass out of here before I boot you out.” I answered, “Hold on mister, I need a job. I’ll work cheap if you let me. I think, looking at the boxers, I can do what they are doing ‘cause I can dance. “Kid, are you crazy? First you want a job, now you want to be a prize fighter. This is one tough racket. You would get killed. Go home. Go to school. Git out now! Go home, that’s best for you.” “Mister, I got no real home, no folks over here. So how about us making a deal?”

He appeared stumped and then surprisingly, with an immense laugh that shook the building, shouted, “Hey boys, this black wants to work here and learn to fight. What do you say?” The fighters had stopped, watched and listened to our conversation. Like a chorus they yelled back, “Come on Chris, give the kid a break,” They agreed and so did he. “Okay kid, as a starter, everyday you’ll clean up, dump the buckets, wash and sweep down the floors and the ring. You’ll fill the water bottles and wash the towels. Now, what do we call you?” “You can call me Sparrow.” I looked him in the eye and asked, “Okay then, what do I call you?” “You shit-head, you got guts. The name is Mister Baldwin. Got it? Not Chris! Mister Baldwin!” He was Chris Baldwin, the owner.

I cleaned and carried and when my chores were done, used the equipment and listened to Mr. Baldwin’s instructions to each fighter. I was learning and working everyday except the weekends. For months, worked and trained in my off hours, lifting weights, punching the bag, becoming stronger. Now and then Mr. Baldwin would put me in the ring with the professionals. He and they were impressed with my agile dancing footwork to duck their punches. “Okay Sparrow, I taught you the moves, now I’ll train you to hit. Feet spread, shoulders squared, when you punch, lean in.”

Every day, high society men, in their long day coats, came to select fighters for their private club bouts. They weren’t alone. Gamblers came to see if they could get an edge by seeing the fighters’ conditions. Promoters came to judge boxers for possible matches. But there were others, more interesting: the women and girls who came to watch. They seemed to be attracted to men in good physical condition, wearing shorts, sweating and breathing hard. Mon dieu, the women were pretty and friendly. One group came almost every day, and this one time there was a new girl. Wow! She was slim, her skin almost teak, her deep dark eyes reminded me of my mother. From the minute she arrived, she stared at me. I was in the ring, and turned to take a good look and our eyes met.

She nodded her head. I was entranced and didn’t notice my sparring partner’s left cross to my head. Bam! Down I went. Went down, but got up with a smile.

“Damn Sparrow, you weren’t concentrating!” yelled Mr. Baldwin. At the end of the evening session, she winked, waved, walked over and said, “S’il vous plait (please) meet me when you are done.” I showered quickly, my hair was still wet, rushed to dress and headed out wondering, “Will she be there?” Miracle!! She was waiting. We reached out and took each other’s hand, walked, chatted. “I hear you are called Sparrow and you are an American. Why are you here?” “Because this is the way to Paris,” I told her. She listened as I explained my dream of France.

She took me to a small pub, where we had dinner. I looked into those eyes and this Sparrow listened to a nightingale’s voice. The sweet smell of her perfume was captivating. When her palm caressed my face, fires burned inside of me. “You are so young, so strong and untouched. Why do they call you Sparrow? Were you a slave?” “No, never a slave and never will be. My name was given to me a long time ago by a wonderful woman who was sure I would fly,” I answered. Didn’t know what she meant about being young and strong, but untouched. Being with her was breathtaking. I knew I was in love.

Cherie was a little older than I. She told me she did special hair dressing and cosmetics for wealthy customers. She knew so much about everything. Dinner ended. It was after midnight. Don’t remember what I ate. At her boarding house I started to say goodnight. She put her fingers to my lips, whispered, “Hush. Hush. The night is not over little bird.” With her leading the way, we walked quietly up the stairs and Cherie unlocked the door to her room. “S’il vous plait, come in”. I was never in a woman’s room before and was shy. She started to hum and slowly undressed. Her naked body was like a goddess, soft, maple-teak color, smooth and gleaming clean. Ah, not a hair anywhere. Her breasts, perfect mounds, firm and tan nipples pointing. She danced, moving every part of her body. It was a ballet all her own, controlled by her rhythm reacting to magic music. She paused, sat on my lap and gently and tenderly removed my clothes. We stood and our naked bodies touched, her flesh was cool, mine torrid. I was transfixed.

“My Sparrow, now let me show you love.” Her mouth, arms, hands and supple legs taught me diabolique delights. It was my first time. I became a man and it was beyond wonderful! Henri, a woman’s touch can be enthralling, her kiss was an electric charge sending raptures that took me to pinnacles of pleasures.

It was morning when I awoke and dressed. Looked in the mirror and announced to myself, “Good morning, MISTER Bullard’. I was proud and exhausted. Cherie was still lounging in bed when I kissed her goodbye. I said, “Must get to the gym. Will I see you tonight?” “Of course,” she agreed. We saw each other every night for a week and on Sunday, walked the Flea Market at Petticoat Lane. “Silly,” she said, “that you must return to your room. Come, be with me.” Later that day, carrying my duffle bag, I moved into her flat. Her flat? No, our flat. It had a small kitchen and a draped area which hid our bed of delights. She laughed and smiled, with an almost lyric, childish voice, but with a body that became a demon when aroused. After one intensive session, she looked at me and laughingly said, “Merci, you are now my Eagle.”

I don’t remember how, but we were madly in love, and each night was a glorious evening of experimentations. She oiled our bodies with exotic, warming, mystic, Moroccan lotions, increasing sensual delights! Each morning we had breakfast and I dressed to go to the gym. Must admit, I was tired, worn, exhausted with the physical love. She relaxed under her “Special from the Casbah,” Arab sheet that became our dream desert tent. Usually, at the end of my work, she would be waiting at the entrance to the gym. We kissed, couldn’t wait to hold each other.

There were times she wasn’t waiting and I would rush to the flat to find a note that she had a client. I never suspected or realized why her “special assignments” were at odd hours, afternoons and some nights. Alas, it is true that love is blind, especially for a first time love. I would lie on our bed, awake, waiting, and knew when she was approaching by the fragrance of her perfume. My heart would squeeze in anticipation. Henri, she was in better condition than I was. She was insatiable. There were nights she returned with Champagne and covered our bed with flowers. Ah, she introduced me to Champagne. It was easy to swallow. The first time I enjoyed four or five or more glasses. The bubbly made me feel light. Oh, what a morning headache. I struggled at the gym, couldn’t keep pace. Yes, the nights were full of sensations, feelings wrought from my very soul.

H: A beauty so devoted, sounds like Romeo and Juliet. Did it continue?

E: Henri, It was a time of great happiness. Of course, those at the gym and Mr. Baldwin knew what was going on. “Sparrow, listen to me. You’re not as sharp as you were or could be. You tire too easily, getting sloppy. Here it is kiddo, cut down on playing around or give up being a fighter. Dames and fighters don’t mix while training. Don’t disappoint yourself or me. We’ve come too far. I have plans for you and have lined up your first fight. Your choice, Sparrow.”

H: You actually became a professional fighter. Your new career was in England, certainly not in France.

E: Ah, you are wrong. A real fighter could earn enough money to get to France.