We were already on our second round of drinks, and Howard had shown no sign of calming down. In fact, I think his indignation was rising along with his voice. At least we were sitting outside. That way the noise floated up and away rather than bouncing off the walls and driving the other patrons crazy. The International Sky Café has a nice little patio where you can drink and smoke unmolested and thats where we had been encamped for the last hour and a half, almost two. The outdoor seating promised that the pungent smell of world-class ganja would gently surround anyone passing by, and practically guaranteed a contact high if you lingered. Marijuana and hashish are legal in Amsterdam, and it is not uncommon to see people sitting in outdoor cafés, reading newspapers and having a little smoke with their morning coffee, but Howard and I werent smoking today. We were ordering champagne by the glass and trying to make sense of what had just happened. “Ive been thrown out of places for being too black, too queer, too loud, too drunk, too hip, and too
too, but I have never,
ever been tossed out on my ass for being
too American!” Howard was working himself up into a pretty good rant, but we were entitled. We had been asked to leave the funeral of an Iraqi director who had been a close friend and collaborator of ours for years. The problem was that Halimas relatives were there from Baghdad and the war wasnt just a blurb on the six oclock news to them. It was real. Even though she died in a boating accident, nowhere near a war zone, her family was still outraged at the presence of Americans,
any Americans, soldiers or not. “It wasnt a question of degrees, Howard,” I said. “It was a question of citizenship. They were pretty clear about that.
No Americans. Period.”
Thirty years ago, our pain at the loss of our friend and our general sorrow about the fucked-up state of the world around us might have spun us into a long afternoon of passionate, awkward, just need to feel alive sex, ending in a good long cuddle, maybe a nap, and an evening out laughing too loud, drinking too much, and not giving a damn. The fact of Howard being unapologetically gay would not have been part of the equation. At those times, it wasnt about gender. It wasnt really about sex. It was about comfort, connection, and an unequivocal affirmation of life. This happened frequently when too many of my friends were dying of AIDS in the early days of the epidemic. Being a practical sort, even in the midst of panic and confusion, I learned to put my diaphragm in and pack condoms before funerals, just in case.
Howard was still fussing. “Ill tell you one thing, missy, this is my first and last time being tossed out of somewhere for being an American. An American! Can you believe that?”
His voice rang with equal parts incredulity and indignation. The very idea that he, Howard William Denmond, Jr., born and raised on the south side of Chicago, Illinois, could be mistaken for a first-class American citizen was beyond the scope of Howards experience or comprehension. We were black Americans, after all, not the other kind, and we were not used to being held accountable for their sins.
“So I look like John Wayne to you?” Howard was on a roll. “Cant they see that were niggas?”
We spend so much time defining ourselves as outsiders when we do get invited to the party, sometimes we cant remember why we even wanted to go. I raised my eyebrows at him.
“Oh, excuse me, missy. Were Negroes, okay? African Americans! Jigaboos! Take your pick! All Im saying is, were not real Americans!”
It suddenly occurred to me that in all the confusion, I hadnt had a chance to share my other bad news. It never rains but it pours.
“Try telling that to François,” I said.
“What are you talking about? François knows it. Hes been around black folks so long hes practically an honorary spook himself. If it wasnt for that damn accent, we could pass him off as a Louisiana Creole and nobody would be the wiser.”
“He fired me.”
Howard was waggling his long, slender fingers at the waiter to indicate we were ready for another round. My words didnt register at first.
“He what?”
The waiter, gliding between the tables like a dreadlocked Fred Astaire, nodded to acknowledge Howards gesture and disappeared.
“Fired me,” I said, draining the last of my champagne in preparation for another. When I turned fifty, I decided that the only alcoholic beverage I would consume would be champagne. Now I can spend all that time I used to waste looking at the wine list looking for a new job.
Howard frowned at me across the tiny table. “He cant fire you!”
“Well, he took me into his office, closed the door, took my hand, and told me the board didnt want me to open the season. What would you call it?”
“The board?” Howard snorted derisively. “Thats absurd! Beyond absurd! Since when does the board make artistic decisions? They wouldnt even have a theater if it wasnt for you! And François would still be directing those wretched little pieces he used to do in that awful space by the train station.”
It was an awful space, and most of the work that was presented there was distinguished by its passionate intensity, not its artistic excellence.
“I did some good work there.”
“Exactly! You did! Not François and the rest of that crowd. You! ”
Howard snapped his fingers for emphasis as the waiter appeared with our drinks, scooped up our empties, and then stopped to peer at me quizzically. I knew that look. He just realized that hed seen me in a movie, or at a film festival, or on a stage somewhere. The idea that I could have stopped in to have a few too many glasses of champagne in the café where he happened to be working was not something he had ever considered. In New York or L.A., I could walk down the street stark naked and not get the time of day, but here in Amsterdam, or London, or Paris, even Rome on a good day, Im a recognizable face if not a household name.
“You are a bona fide star, missy. What possible reason could he give for firing you?” Howard said, not even noticing the waiter.
“Would you believe for being an American?”
Howard choked on his drink and started coughing like a maniac.
“Excuse me,” the waiter said, seeing his break and jumping in before Howard could catch his breath.
“Yes?”
“Im sorry, but . . .” The waiter was ignoring the presence of other thirsty customers as if we were alone in the room. “But are you...are you Josephine Evans? The actress?”
As opposed to Josephine Evans the pig farmer. I nodded, smiled, reached out to shake his free hand. “Yes, I am.”
“Thank you,” he said, his eyes filling up with tears. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Well, youre very welcome,” I said, wondering what I had done to deserve such unabashed adoration.
Howard, fully recovered, was grinning at me like the Cheshire cat. “So you know Ms. Evanss work?”
The waiter nodded. “Oh,yes! Ive seen every play youve done since 1992. Youre the reason I became an actor.”
An actor-slash-waiter, I thought. “How old were you in 1992?” He looked like he was barely old enough now to be legally serving us drinks.
“I was ten,” he said, sounding breathless and amazed. “We were in a play together.”
That could mean only one thing. The only play Ive ever done with children was Medea and I got to kill them at the end. A lot of actors will tell you never to work with kids or animals because theyre too cute or too fidgety, and in either case, you cant compete. I thought that was good advice the first time I heard it and I still do, but the kids are on stage for only a minute or two in Medea, and shes so wonderfully crazed by then, there is no way any kid, even a seriously cute or terminally twitchy one, can compete with that.
“Medea, right?”
He nodded.
“Were you my son?”
“Yes!”He almost gasped in his delight.“I was the older one.The one she stabs first. I cant believe you remember me after all these years.”
“She never forgets a line or a face,” Howard said, reaching in his pocket for a pen and a piece of paper which he slid across the table to me. He knew the drill. Smile, acknowledge, autograph, say goodbye.
“Well, my son, you grew up nice,” I said, teasing him gently, pen poised above the scrap Howard had provided. “Would you like an autograph?”
“Oh, would you mind?” he said, still ignoring the increasingly impatient people nearby, hoping to catch his eye for a refill.
“Whats your name?” I said, unprepared for the crestfallen look my question elicited. Oh, my God, I thought. This sweet baby actually thinks I remember his name after fifteen years!
I twinkled at him in a way that once would have been flirtatious but, since Im old enough to be his mother, was only sweetly conspiratorial. “You know how we theater people are,” I said apologetically. “I only remember your characters name. Do you want me to sign it that way?”
His smile returned. “Yes, of course, that would be fine. Oh, no, thats not good. Then no one will know its for me. You better go on and make it to Julian.”
“To Julian,” I wrote, “a great actor and a wonderful son, your loving mother, Medea-slash-Josephine.”
He read it, smiled as if we now had an official private joke, bowed slightly, and backed away as if he were leaving the presence of royalty.
“See? Thats just what I mean,” Howard said, taking a sip of his champagne.
“About what?” The exchange had been pleasant, even routine, but suddenly I felt exhausted. The events of the last two days had finally caught up with me. I considered going back on my resolution and ordering up a vodka on the rocks with a splash of lime, but I dont want to be unemployed and drunk on the same day.
“About the idea of them firing you being beyond absurd.”
“They fired you.”
He snorted dismissively. “They fired me for destroying those hideous costumes, not for being an American.”
He was right about that. Six months ago, a guest director with more ego than experience had clashed mightily with Howard about his designs from the first day of rehearsal. Nothing pleased the guy, and although he had no talent or experience as a costumer, he demanded changes up until the day before the official opening. After a while, Howard gave up trying to reason with the man and just did whatever was requested. If the director said he wanted a bustle on a miniskirt, Howard whipped it up and handed it over. The actors were mortified.
“What are you going to do?” I said the night before the opening after Id watched a dress rehearsal and realized the costumes were even worse than anyone could have imagined. “Your name is still listed on the credits.”
“Dont I know it,” Howard said calmly, hand-stitching a piece of pink silk with great concentration. “Pick me up at seven thirty tomorrow, okay?”
The next night, Howard dawdled around so long getting ready that by the time we got there, they were halfway through act one. I figured he was just putting off looking at those terrible costumes as long as he could, but when we crept up to the balcony to sneak a peek at the show, I was amazed to see the actors going through their paces, beautifully dressed in Howards original designs. Seeing my surprise, he put his fingers to his lips and led me outside around to the back of the theater. There in a pile of ugly orange, yucky yellow, and inappropriate purple were the hideous costumes the director had requested, neatly cut to ribbons.
Of course, François had to fire him for unprofessional conduct, but his costumes were so fabulous, and the story was so good, hed been working nonstop ever since.
“Tell me Françoiss exact words.”
“Your firing makes a much better story than mine,” I said, trying to move on.
Howard raised one eyebrow in a way that people who didnt know him found intimidating. “His exact words, missy.”
I couldnt resist trying to lighten the moment by doing the accent. François was a Frenchman, raised in Spain, who had been living in Greece for a decade before we arrived in Amsterdam on the same rainy afternoon almost thirty years ago. He walked up to me at the airport, looking very hip and European, told me he was a director, and asked if I was an actress. Of course I was. I fell in love with him immediately. We lived together off and on for five or six years. At that point, we decided to stop driving each other crazy and just be friends.
In an attempt to be all things to all people, not one of his finer qualities, François deliberately rolled all his accents into one so that nobody could quite figure out where he was from. “Im a citizen of the world” was his habitual response to direct questions, and most people let it go at that. Thats one of the best things about theater people. Its our job to make stuff up. Characters, accents, costumes. The specifics of real time, real place are less important to us than the integrity of heart and sweetness of soul. Nobody held Françoiss accent against him. We had all come from somewhere else. Many of us had come from someone else. But once we found each other, we became members of the same tribe.
The most passionate relationships we ever had occurred in the context of rehearsal and performance. Our lives outside the theater often seemed flamboyant and extravagant, but that was only because when you spend three hours a night doing Shakespeare, Ibsen, Sophocles, Wilson, Hansberry, you have to live your real life at that emotional level, too, or risk boring yourself to death until showtime. If anyone appreciated the necessity of reinvention, Howard and I did. Plus, we both loved François, even after he had sent us packing. You cant forget all those years of friendship, love, struggle, collaboration, and sex just because the world was going stone crazy and there wasnt a damn thing you or your friends could do about it.
“ ‘Josephine, ” I said, exaggerating the famous accent until I sounded like a combination of Pepé Le Pew, the cartoon skunk who thinks hes Charles Boyer, and Arnold Schwarzenegger, the actor who thinks hes the governor of California. “ ‘You know I love you... ”
Howard groaned. “He didnt go there, did he?”
I plowed ahead. “ ‘But weve gotten some calls at the theater. Some letters. The board just thinks this isnt a good time to have an American actress open the season this year. Theyre afraid it sends the wrong message. ”
“The wrong message to whom? Do they think you set American foreign policy in between performances?”
I was still doing François, but it wasnt as funny as I had hoped it would be. “ ‘You know, Josephine, I would not be where I am today if it hadnt been for you. ”
“At least he had the guts to say it.”
“But he didnt have the guts not to do it,” I said in my own voice, amazed to feel my eyes filling up.
“Fuck em,” Howard said, pretending he didnt see me blinking back the tears.
“Be sure you tell François that the next time you see him, will you?”
“This is all the work of that little Cuban floozie if you ask me.”
Françoiss new girlfriend was a Cuban actress who had joined the company two years ago and was both talented and beautiful.
“Shes not a floozie and she hasnt got that kind of influence over the board anyway.”
“They dont deserve you.”
I took another swallow of champagne to soothe my frazzled nerves. “He took great pains to tell me that they were prepared to let me keep the apartment and pay me half salary even though I wouldnt be playing such a visible role.”
When I said that about the apartment, Howard looked as shocked as I had felt. Id been living there so long, I had almost forgotten it technically belonged to the theater. Apparently, Françoiss memory was a lot better than mine.
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I wanted all of it in writing so I could show it to my lawyer.”
“Good for you! I didnt even know you had a lawyer.”
“I dont. No job. No lawyer. Im batting a thousand.” I could never remember whether a big number or a small number was better in baseball. “Is that the bad one?”
Howard smiled and patted my hand. “Im not a big sports fan, sweetie. I couldnt tell you.”
“Well, whatever is the worst, thats what Im batting.”
We just looked at each other. This was bad and we both knew it.
“Should I act like a real American and go over there and kick his ass for him?” Howard said.
“Would you?”
“With pleasure. All you have to do is say the word.”
“Im not there yet,” I said, “but hold yourself in readiness.”
“Cant you teach classes or something?”
I looked at him.
“What? Youd be a fabulous teacher.”
“Im a fabulous actress, remember? I dont have the patience to teach.”
“Maria Callas gave private lessons.”
Callas was Howards favorite opera singer of all time, but the legendary divas voice classes were famous for making mincemeat of those who came to worship her.
“She made people cry and slash their wrists,” I reminded him.
“Nobody slashed their wrists.”
“Thats because they had to leave all sharp objects at the door.”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I get it. Teaching is out. So what are you going to do?”
The truth was, the funeral had come up so quickly on the heels of my demotion that I hadnt had time to really consider the question. It would take me a minute to process the possibilities and come up with a plan that would feed me creatively and put champagne on the table.
“I have no idea.”
“You still going to do your trip?”
I was leaving for Atlanta in two days. My granddaughter had been on the periphery of a high-profile murder case that consumed Atlanta gossips for months and exposed her to a level of scrutiny and speculation for which she was unprepared. Shell-shocked, she had withdrawn from college in the middle of her senior year. Her mother was worried and so was I. Howard loved Zora almost as much as I did. Almost. Hes the one who taught her to speak French and took her to her first Paris fashion show. Shed been flying to Europe to spend part of the summer with me for almost ten years, but this year she told me she just wasnt up for the trip.
“Of course.”
“Good for you,” Howard said. “Strategically, its absolutely the right move. Leave your outrage hanging in the air and haul ass back to Atlanta until I can sort things out here.”
Is that what I was doing? Hauling ass? “Ive never run from a fight in my life.”
“This isnt running, sweetie. This is a strategic withdrawal.”
“What is there to sort out?”
“Everything,” he said. “Did you not participate actively in the conceptualization and actualization of the Human Theatre Company?”
“François had the theater when I met him. You know that. Technically, its his. He can do anything he wants to with it.”
“Fuck technically. Im talking about truth. Did you or did you not?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Were you planning to stop performing before Françoiss surprising announcement?”
“Of course not. Not yet anyway.”
“Not yet? Not ever. Great actors are ageless, sweetie. Youre just hitting your stride.”
“I cant see myself doing Medea when Im sixty.”
“Then do Clytemnestra. Do Rose Maxson. Do Lena Younger or that three-hundred-fifty-year-old voodoo girl in August Wilsons last opus.”
“Second to last. Theres one more after that.”
“Youre missing my point, sweetie. Our board used to be like us. Artists and a few rich eccentrics and, if we were lucky, somebody who owned a café close by. Now theyre a bunch of stone-faced bean counters who wouldnt know a piece of art if it hit em in the face.” Howards voice was rising again.
“Calm down,” I said. “We dont need to be thrown out of anyplace else today.”
Howard ignored my suggestion. “Just because its no longer me and you and François and Halima sitting up in my funky little apartment, dreaming and drinking and smoking bad dope, doesnt mean this thing we created now belongs to them. Fuck that! Lets fight for it!”
“How are we supposed to do that?”
“Who knows? For now, you go to Atlanta. Spend time with Miss Zora and help her get that lovely little head screwed on right again. Rest and play and have fun while I figure out our next move. How are your finances?”
“Im okay,” I said, but the question set off alarm bells in my head. Im okay only in the sense that as long as I had my regular stipend coming in from the theater and my beautiful little rent-free apartment, I could live at the level to which Id become accustomed and continue to follow what Jack Nicholson called the universal rule of show business: the one whos working pays. Since Id been working regularly for the last thirty years, Id paid for hundreds of meals, rivers of wine, oceans of beer. Id loaned money for rent knowing Id never get it back, paid for round-trip tickets home on the only working credit card in the group, and been glad to do it. That was the beauty of the rule. It gave those of us in a notoriously fickle profession a way to handle emergencies without having to humble ourselves to outsiders with straight jobs who always feel obligated to lecture you on the precariousness of your financial situation, like you dont already know it.
The fact of the matter is, my finances are nothing to write home about. I havent got any savings to speak of. I own a duplex in Atlanta that my mother left me, but I have no idea what its worth, and Ive got a couple of thousand bucks stashed here and there as a hedge against being a broke old lady, depending on the kindness of strangers. I always kind of figured that Id add more to it later so Id wind up with a bigger nest egg, but I just never got around to it. It occurred to me in a sickening flash that if I couldnt work this out with François, I might have to start auditioning for parts again, which would be a nightmare. An audition at twenty-five is one thing. An audition at fifty-eight is something else altogether. Thats why those Hollywood girls cut their faces up and shoot them full of Botox like that. Trying to turn back time.
“Come to Atlanta with me,” I said, feeling suddenly more vulnerable than I wanted to. “Well only stay a couple of months, I promise. François will come to his senses and well be back by spring.”
Howard shook his head. “I refuse to visit any country where you cant smoke a joint with your morning cappuccino without getting hauled off to jail. Its not civilized. Besides, I promised the ghost of Langston Hughes that if I ever got my black ass out of Chicago, they wouldnt have to worry about Howard Denmond setting foot on American soil ever again. As long as I stay here, Im living the life I dreamed about. Back there, Im just one more black faggot with a little style.”
“You could never be just one more anything.”
“Could you?”
“I dont know,” I said. “How about one more glass of champagne.”
“Your wish is my command.” He waved at Julian, our waiter-slashactor, who was already hovering with a bottle of something French, which he said was on the house.
“Why are you so good to me?” I said when Julian had poured us two glasses, made another small bow, and disappeared.
It was a rhetorical question, but Howard answered it anyway. “Because youre my best friend and I cant bear to see them treat you this way. Plus, youre a star, sweetie. Youve opened and closed the season every year for the last decade. George Bush doesnt cancel all that out by being the biggest fool on Gods green earth.”
“All right. I will leave myself in your capable hands.”
“Good! This shouldnt take long, I promise.”
“Do you already have a battle plan?”
“Of course. First, Im going to remind them of who you are. I may also let slip that youve had a very attractive offer from The Red Bird Workshop.”
The Red Bird was the new kid on the block, and François was already worried about them stealing his audience. “I have?”
Howard smiled. “Leave everything to me, sweetie.”
“I guess at this point, I dont have much choice.”
He leaned over and patted my hand. “Have I ever let you down?”
“Never.”
“Well, Im not about to start now.”
“Good.”
“I know one thing.”
“Whats that?”
“Im going to miss you like crazy,” he said, his voice cracking just a little. “Jesus! I didnt even cry at the damn funeral!”
“You didnt have time,” I said. “We got tossed out too fast.”
Howard grimaced. “What a day! That already seems like a hundred years ago!”
“A hundred years and counting.”
Over the next two hours, what had started off as an angry drowning of our sorrows evolved into a wonderfully teary bon voyage party and a picture-perfect ending to an absolutely terrible day. All I needed to do now was call Zora and tell her I was on my way.
“Well, lets have one last toast before we drag our drunk asses home,” Howard said, dividing the last corner of the dark green bottle between us.
“Good idea,” I said. “What are we toasting?”
“Heres to being real Americans.” He raised his glass and grinned across the table at me. “Who knew?”