Читать книгу All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator - Henry Scott Harris - Страница 15

E: I danced my way out of the gym to the shouts of encouragement from the other boxers, knowing my dreams of Paree were about to come true. Now, where is the nearest bookstore? I needed a French dictionary. Bought it, dashed to the boarding house, out of breath, skipped dinner, rushed to my room, turned on the lamp next to the bed. Didn’t undress, propped up the pillow, got comfortable and excitably, opened the book. Turned pages, read and tried to pronounce and memorize French words. It was wonderful. Non, it was fantastique. Thinking the words, over and over, saying them out loud, and sometimes singing them. “Bon jour, bon jour, un, deux, trois, mercie, parlez-vous anglais, bon soir, madame, s’il vous plait,” on and on until my mind tired and my eyes closed.

Hours later, laying there in the dark, heard a sound and awoke. What was it? There was a familiar, sweet, musky, aroma of a man’s sweat engulfing the room. Hadn’t smelled it for many years, but recognized it and almost knocked the lamp over as I clicked it on. In the rush, I scratched my hand. Standing at the foot of my bed was a giant black man, his white shirt open, as usual, unable to button it because of his massive chest muscles. “Daddy, Daddy!” Henri, I was awake. Rubbed my eyes, “Daddy is that you?”

H: Come on Gene. You expect me to believe that you saw your father. Must have been a dream.

E: Henri stop! Mon dieu, stop! There is no question; he stood there and smiled. Non, not a dream. Astonished, I shouted, “Daddy, I’m going to France. I made it Daddy.” Looking carefully, I saw in the shadows behind him, a group of smiling, gesturing and laughing people. But I heard no sound. How could they all fit in my small room? There was my Gypsy Queen, who named me Sparrow, in her flowing colorful dress and wearing a bright head scarf, her hand signaling flight; the little Jewish baker, in his dark long coat, was dusting flour from his white apron and then clapping his hands; the black barber with his towel around his neck, who sacrificed so much to save my life, was doing a two-step; the German bosun, who jokingly threatened to throw me overboard, saluted; Chris Mathews with his jovial smile, holding his hand high with his fist clenched pretending to throw a punch and, ah, almost alone, coyly, sitting in the corner, was the exotic, beautiful Cherie, her dark eyes glistening and her palm pressed against her lips, as she threw a kiss. Daddy raised his great arms and clasped his hands over his head like a winning prizefighter. It was a signal. Everyone was delighted. I rose and stood next to the bed, reached out and my hands gathered only air. Looking to each, I said, “Thank you, all of you. You have all given me life.” Each nodded and slowly turned and faded from sight. Daddy was the last to go. He glanced back over his shoulder and waved.

“Daddy, Gypsy Queen, Mr. Sam, Cherie please don’t go. Stay. I need you, love you. I beg you, stay with me.” They were gone and I was alone once more, leaning against the bedpost, tears streaming down my face, thanking God that they knew, and wherever the Big Ox was he forgave me and would never leave me. I went back to bed, closed my eyes and felt a comforting warmth drawn from love and understanding and gratitude. Henri, it was not a fantasy or a dream. It was real. There was the scratch on my hand. They were there and they would be with me in Paree.