Читать книгу All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator - Henry Scott Harris - Страница 6

H: Midtown Manhattan was bright and clean; the shimmering windows of the tall buildings glistened, reflecting the morning sunlight. Well-dressed people hurried along the avenues, rushing to offices or to become customers at upscale designer stores. Rush, rush, you could feel the pulse of the city. Tourists lined up to take pictures in front of the brilliant golden statue of Atlas at Rockefeller Center. Traffic, almost solid, was bumper to bumper on Fifth Avenue. Drivers slammed fists on their blaring horns or sat impatiently waiting for a green light as others cursed the delays.

I moved away from the crowd and hailed a cab, and got in quickly. The driver questioned, “Where to buddy?” “Uptown, East 116^th Street, Harlem.” The cabbie slammed down the meter flag and muttered loud enough for me to hear, “Damn son of a bitch.” He wasn’t happy about my destination.

We drove past the lush manicured lawns, iron fences and walls that guarded and signaled entrances to the mansions of the wealthy that lined Fifth Avenue. It was mid-morning when we reached Harlem - the streets were filled with empty store fronts covered by wood planks, and long shadows from once graceful, now ugly, tall apartment buildings with crumbling facades. Sidewalks were cracked, concrete missing. Traffic was noisy. Corner gangs shouted and fingered each other from one side of the avenue to the other. The taxi driver hurried his search.

“Here’s your address. Pay me and get out, now!” the cabbie ordered. He took the cash, made change, silently accepted the tip, and gunned the motor. The taxi‘s tires squealed as he raced away.

I was at 80 East 116^th Street, a dilapidated apartment house probably built forty years ago when Harlem was a haven for the rich white. Gaps were apparent in the brick work, caulking gone, and the doors’ wood framing worn and cracked. Windows without glass were covered by cardboard, supported by tape. With a foreboding feeling, I opened the set of ancient beaten doors. The foyer door locks were missing. Quickly checked the bell panel listings and pushed the button for EJB. The bell did not work. My thoughts: “Why didn’t I arrange to meet somewhere else, somewhere clean and safe?” Slowly and carefully, I mounted the creaking stairs not knowing if they would hold, stepped over and bypassed the litter. Instantly withdrew my hand from the banister railing that was slick with nameless filth. Every bit of wall space was decorated with bright graffiti, clever colorful paintings, vulgar attempts at pornography, and names and symbols claiming recognition or ownership of a building or stairwell. The red painted metal apartment doors were dented and scratched, the knobs rough from rust. The stairs were uneven. I gagged on the stinking aroma of garbage. Found the apartment and knocked; a pause and then heard a bolt slide, and then a second lock click. The door opened. An elderly, slim black man smiled and offered his hand. “Bon jour, Monsieur Harris.”

The handshake was strong. He was shorter than I expected. His face, weathered with high cheekbones. was clean-shaven; deep wrinkles marred his forehead. His eyes were dark and friendly, and his receding hairline was grizzled gray. There was a slight aged slope to his shoulders; but there was grace, and his bearing was military. An American black man with a French accent? Why not? He lived most of his life in France.

I closed my eyes for a moment, realizing I was seeing the remnant of the heroic figure I envisioned: the runaway who became a gypsy, a boxer, an entertainer, a hero in two wars, a Paris nightclub owner who married French royalty, a spy, a member of the Resistance, and the first Black American Military Aviator. The one-room apartment was gray, Spartan and clean. A little sliver of sunlight appeared through the shabby curtains that covered the view of the alley. In the center of the room, an uncovered light bulb hung above a barren, highly polished wooden table. The floor had been swept. His few dishes were washed and stacked neatly on the old discolored sink. The small single bed was against the wall. A worn dark blue wool blanket was firmly tucked in tight to meet military regulations.

He directed me to a tattered, over-stuffed chair placed at one side of the table. The walls were covered with thumb tacked old French and American flags and newspapers from 1914-1918: “We Are At War,” “Germans Attack France,” “American Enters the War,” “Doughboys at the Front,” “US Air Ace Rickenbacker Gets 26^th Kill.” And more from 1939 to 1945: “War with Nazis,” ”Germans Capture Paris,” “Allies Invade Europe,” “War in Europe Ends,” “De Gaulle Marches in Paris.”

Models of World War One warplanes, held by strings, were dangling and swaying from the ceiling. There were French, German and American miniatures - exact in every detail. The largest model was a blue Spad, decorated with an insignia of a large red heart with a dagger running through it. Eugene Jacques Bullard, an authentic hero, sat facing me on a plain wooden chair. His arthritic trembling fingers, ever-so gently, brought that particular biplane to the table. “This was mine. Bang, bang, and bang,” he smiled, making sounds of a machine gun as he lifted the plane and pretended to have it dive, loop and then softly cradled it to a landing on the table. You could see he was reliving those days. His actions were hypnotic.

E: It was just like that. You flew high in the clouds; you were free until you realized you were only free to kill the enemy. When I lived and fought in the trenches and later flew over them, I saw more than war; I saw hate, murder, a savagery not thought possible. The world has still not changed. Curious why I had rouge-coeur, a red-heart, on my plane? It was to show that all blood runs red. Would you like some wine before we begin?

H: Yes, thank you.

I felt myself being inexplicitly drawn into the life of Eugene Jacques Bullard.