The Healing Read online

  I mean at the racetrack, I explain. I didn’t see him at the racetrack.

  Yes, he was at the racetrack. He knows how to be invisible.

  Now that’s a virtue for a bodyguard, but I can’t imagine that Nicholas Love who one of the tallest men I ever seen outside of the National Geographic or maybe on a basketball court no invisible man, though. I remember when I was in high, school we had to read that book about the invisible man. I couldn’t even imagine the invisible man himself being the invisible man, though that was the name of the book. I told the teacher that I always felt too visible myself, but someone else, one of them little shy-type girls, said she felt invisible, but it were invisibility because of her shyness not because of the ethos of race. And then after everybody laughed at the word ethos even though most people didn’t know its meaning and thought it was a made-up word and thought she meant ethics then people was talking about the virtues and the vices of invisibility, and one of the boys said that the point of the book was the paradox, that the invisible man was supposed to be a paradox, ’cause he’s supposed to be visible and invisible at the same time, that he the visible invisible man or the invisible visible man. Then we started talking about whether invisibility was pertinent to modern African Americans, especially in modern America where there wasn’t as much overt Jim Crowism, at least there wasn’t as much overt Jim Crowism as covert Jim Crowism. Still, I ain’t seen him, that Nicholas Love, whether he the visible invisible man or the invisible visible man.

  I wanted you to meet him, though, say Josef. So there’d be no surprises.

  I glance across Josef at that Nicholas Love, who sit impassive, but it a alert impassivity. And like I said, I don’t think he inarticulate, I just think he taciturn. He gotta be taciturn ’cause he don’t have the disposition of a shy man. And that probably in his job description, that he supposed to be taciturn.

  Will he disappear again? I ask.

  When we want him to, says Josef.

  Nicholas frown, though it almost imperceptible. At the entrance to the track, we wait for a man crossing the road with a wheelbarrow, then roll into the racetrack parking lot. Nicholas and the chauffeur, who a little man, kinda look like maybe he a former jockey, though he middle-aged now, get out, while Josef extend his hand to help me out. As I step out, my dress climb up to my thighs. A peculiar look from Nicholas, but one I know. I ain’t no whore, I ain’t no trollop, if that what he thinking. Mens they’s always thinking shit like that about a woman, and especially us womens of color. Don’t care what woman of color, Asian, African, Native American, African American or one of them islanders, the first thing they think is you’s a trollop. Even mens of color thinks that about they own women. And it don’t matter what sorta woman you are. I might be a scavenger maybe and a gambler, but I ain’t no whore. I ain’t no trollop. I just pull my dress down and climb out.

  Nicholas comes with us as far as the betting windows. I place a bet and when I turn he ain’t there. Finally, I puzzle him out, like a chameleon at the edge of the crowd. It’s strange. At his height he should be the most visible person at that racetrack, but that’s probably why Josef had hired him, ’cause he’s a big man but know how to be invisible when he need to be. Like them detective books say about being able to hide in plain sight. That the first thing them detectives is supposed to learn is how to hide in plain sight. They’s the original invisible men. The best bodyguards like the best detectives is probably them that know how to hide in plain sight.

  Josef lead me to one of them boxes. I ain’t never watched a race from one of them boxes, you know with the wealthy people, them VIPs. I always sat with the anybodies in the stands.

  This is really something, I say.

  What? ask Josef.

  I explain that I ain’t never been in one of the boxes with the celebrities and the rich and famous.

  You mean you haven’t charmed your way in?

  I say nothing. I ain’t like the way he ask that question, you know, but I ain’t say nothing. We watch the post parade of thoroughbreds to the gate.

  Who’d you bet on? he ask.

  Creole Beauty. Got to bet on my own people.

  I look around, looking for my own people. A high-browed man, serving what looks like mint juleps. Must think this is Churchill Downs, Kentucky, not Saratoga, New York.

  He don’t say who he bet on. After the race, though, I go to collect my winnings. Creole Beauty had ridden unhurried from the beginning, like the man say, while them other horse outran early, then in a flash of speed Creole Beauty edged up and ran hard in a good position near the rail; Creole Beauty! I stuff my winnings in my purse, take out my sunglasses and autograph book, then shove through the crowds to the fence to get the winning jockey’s signature. Thanks. Around back, under the trees, you can observe the horses up close. A groom’s leading one of them horses around a copper beechwood tree. Which is number six and which is number seven? I can’t tell six from seven, a woman complain. One of them wealthy socialite-type women. Then she pencil something onto a folded newspaper, onto the racing form. Look like one of them types who addicted to gambling. One of them prime candidates for Gamblers Anonymous.

  Which one did you bet on this time? Josef ask when I come from the window.

  Previous Condition. Not to win, just to show.

  Josef ain’t say who he bet on, ’cause he ain’t bet on them horses. He owns thoroughbreds, but he don’t usually bet on none of them horses. He just mostly likes to watch them run. And he likes to watch them horses to test his skills at judging good horses. Seem like he’d better test his skills at judging them horses if he bet on one of them horses. And I know people that don’t bet on them horses, they bet on the jockey. They don’t bet on them horses, they just bet on the jockey. They don’t bet on the winning horses, they bet on the winning jockeys. When my horse—runs with a steady speed, but always follows the winners—show, Josef held my waist and laugh.

  Do you always win? he ask.

  On horses, I answer.

  I bet you always win, he say. I bet you bet to win. You should’ve been with me at the Fasig-Tipton sales. Help me buy a winner.

  Oh, yeah, I say. I coulda done you proud.

  Guarantee me a Triple Crown?

  At least one. At least a contender, I say. I like a winning horse, but I also like them that’s good contenders.

  Now you know I ain’t never been to them Fasig-Tipton sales neither. Ain’t even know what the Fasig-Tipton sales was when I first come to Saratoga. Then heard people talking about the Fasig-Tipton sales, where they sell them prime thoroughbreds.

  Aged and aging jockeys sit on the leather sofas and oak chairs reading newspapers and racing forms. Upstairs in my hotel room I turn on my tape of Miles’ “Bitches Brew” while I pack—a few clothes, my tapes, hiking boots, raincape, one of them poncho-type raincoats, souvenirs of Tropical Park, El Camino Real, Santa Catalina, San Vicente, Mountain Valley, Fountain of Youth, San Rafael, Swift, Florida, Remington, Louisiana, San Felipe, Tampa Bay, Bay Shore, Jim Beam, Rebel, Cherry Hill Mile, Santa Anita, Gotham, Garden City, Blue Grass. Mostly jockeys’ autographs and pictures. I ain’t been to all of them races myself, but jockeys and friends of jockeys and just other gambling people who met me in Saratoga would send me things for my scrapbook. Then I shower and put on blue jeans and a banana yellow sweatshirt. I struggle downstairs with the heavy bag, riding the boogey, as Michael Jackson sings. In the lobby, I turn in my key, pay the exorbitant bill. It a second-rate hotel, but in August, when the horses run, even them second-rate hotels take advantage. But I got my exorbitant winnings. I head toward the door.

  You try your luck at the track? one of them old jockeys ask.

  I pushed it.

  Are you leaving town?

  Yeah. I blow him a kiss. See you next year.

  You’re on the ball, he say, as I go out the door. He one of the few colored jockeys. African-American jockeys. But if you think of yourself as colored, ain’t you colored? And tell me about how i
n the old days all the colored jockeys they usedta have. They’s still got colored jockeys, he say, except nowadays they imports them from Latin America, from places like Colombia and Panama, and they don’t call theyselves colored. Now you know they have got as much boogie in ’em as me and you have. But he said he knew a certain colored man from East St. Louis who went around the jockey circuit pretending to be Latino, ’cause he thought that would help him get more work. He’s rode in a coupla races, nothing spectacular. He wouldn’t tell me the name of the jockey, though.

  Josef’s car is waiting. The driver puts the bag in the trunk and opens the door for me. Josef, out of his business suit, sits in the back in blue jeans just like me. Except mine is them flea market blue jeans and his is Bill Blass. Nicholas in the front with the driver. But Nicholas look like he more the owner of thoroughbreds than Josef. When I get in, the wheels start rolling.

  The bed king-sized and as luxurious as the Mediterranean, Ain’t that Alexandria in the Mediterranean? I enter a land of the most ancient of rivers, and then I’m now lying toward the window. The shadow of a guard stand on the railing and beyond rows of black fences where them thoroughbreds graze at night and exercise in the mornings. Beyond that them fabulous black stables, and Kentucky bluegrass everywhere. Grass that was so green, the saying is, that it look blue. But I seen greener grass in Africa and wonder what color they could call grass beyond green and blue. I heard somebody say once that you could tell people that been to Africa and people who ain’t. ’Cept all the time I told folks I been to Africa, they don’t believe me. They say I don’t look like somebody who been to Africa. He ain’t got no expensive paintings on his wall, except he got a color printout of what he say is one of them holopoems by a avant-garde artist name Eduardo Kac. I think he a Brazilian, ’cause that name got a Brazilian-type pronunciation.

  The shadow of a guard parade near the window. I give a short laugh. I kiss Josef’s chin. He tell me that window of his is bulletproof, then he kiss the edges of my hair. I turn back toward the window and watch the moving shadow. Josef kiss the back of my neck.

  I ain’t never been in the company of anyone who needed bodyguards before and no bulletproof windows, or even thought he needed them. But I been with others, ordinary people, who played games of who do you trust. Perhaps in they own way, everyone does. I even know people who put other people on probation till they prove theyself. People you’s got to prove yourself to. Maybe even I’m that sorta person. Why do I keep going to Saratoga? I told Josef that I always won. But I merely win enough to keep me hooked, to keep me in the game.

  He kiss the back of my neck again and I wonder what tune I’m stepping to. I remember the first time I come to Saratoga I went to this dance hall, this little restaurant that had itself a dance floor, and some man asked me to dance, and I’m dancing, and he say, What tune you stepping to? ’Cause don’t seem like I’m stepping to the music. I always like that modern music, but seem like I can’t dance to it. Or when I dance to one modern music, they got them a new modern music. Were they ever playing my tune? When I was married, though, sometimes, sometimes it felt like they playing ours.

  I win enough to keep me hooked, I say.

  What?

  You asked me whether I always win and I said yes. I lied. The truth is, I only win enough to keep me hooked.

  I sit with my legs folded yogi-like, you know them yogis. Through his mirror I see myself. I look like one of them bottled genie. I spring up off the bed and stand in the center of the room. I watch the shadow outside the window watching me. That paranoid fool even got the guard watching me, I’m thinking. I ain’t mean to call him a paranoid fool, ’cause I’m a paranoid fool myself, and they say a lot of people in the modern day and age is more paranoid, but that guard watching me. Josef too watching me. With that cold-type curiosity. Somebody say that the curiosity of a rational man. Then he hold out his hand and I enter the river again.

  Do you want to go horseback riding? he ask when he come out the bathroom. One towel draped about his shoulders and the other worn around his waist and knotted. Remember the Mae West line when she asks Cary Grant, Is that a pistol you’re packing or are you glad to see me? He seem still glad to see me. Look like he saluting.

  I don’t ride.

  Come on, I’ll teach you. I’ll start you with the gentlest mare.

  I reach onto the night table and turn on my tape player. I still used a tape player, not a CD. Rod Stewart sing about hearts on fire. Do you think I’m sexy? I sing along with Rod.

  Is that how you make your living? Josef ask matter-of-fact.

  What, sex? I ask. My feathers ruffle up like a pouter bird’s. I look at him sideways.

  No, he explain. The horses. Gambling?

  Naw, I’m a business manager.

  What kind of business? he ask. Maybe now he think I’m a madam?

  I manage a rock star, Joan Savage, Her name usedta be Joan Sage, then Joan Savage. You know, one of them rock stars keeps changing her name. Her real name’s Joan Scribner, or some shit like that, but she say that don’t sound like a rock star. Her ex-husband is name Savage, so she uses the name Savage. He ain’t in show business hisself, though. Don’t believe in show business. Have you heard of her? Joan Savage, I mean? She says a lot of people think she’s named after Joan Crawford, ’cause she kinda reminds people of the early Joan Crawford, her type of features, except she’s African American of course. But she’s kinda that type, you know. Maybe she’s named after Joan Crawford and don’t know it. I know she likes to watch them early Joan Crawford movies, says she’s one of her favorite movie stars. Says she usedta be her ideal of the female persona when she was a little girl, says she even usedta pretend to be her when she was playacting. That’s what she says in her promotional literature. I think it’s all hype myself, though. I’m her business manager and even I think it’s all hype. She sings rock mostly. Sorta like Tina Turner, except she ain’t even a legend in her own mind. Sometimes she tries to sing that new music, that rap, you know, but she’s mostly rock. She ain’t really a rap singer, thinks the younger women are better at singing rap, though sometimes she mixes a little rap with her rock. But she mostly likes that classical-type rock.

  He say he ain’t heard of her, I slip out the Stewart tape and put on Joan singing “Kiss Me Till It’s Good.” Or some shit like that. She’ll grow on you, I say. Some of her tunes are more witty, more obscure, then she’s got more commercial-sounding tunes. They liked her in Europe when we toured there. Especially in Paris. And in Japan. Joan’s good, you know. She don’t think she’s as good as she is, though, ’cause she ain’t one of the top moneymakers, you know, and that’s how she judges good, or that’s how she thinks other people judge good, but she’s really good. Sort of a singer’s singer, you know, Like an artist’s artist. To tell the truth, she’s better known abroad than in the States.

  I turn up Joan, let her do her brand of magic. Listening to “Lola,” one of her new songs, free verse lyrics, kinda combining rock and rap. I don’t know if Joan the first singer to use free verse lyrics. Listening to “Lola.” Lola some new singer she heard on a talent show and wants to encourage by writing a song for her. He don’t think she’s that good himself, I mean Josef. But then he says he’s never been that much for popular American music. He doesn’t like pop music. He prefers Wagner, Beethoven, Mozart, the classical-type music, mostly the Germans, some of the French composers, some of the Russians, some of the more classical-sounding jazz, not the decadent raunchy-sounding jazz. He’s heard the work of a few African-American classical composers that he likes, who remind him something of the Germans, but who sometimes mix jazz with classical. And he says he heard some Native American music that he likes, that he heard on the radio, and that sounds sorta like New Wave classical music, or rather New Wave classical music sounds something like it. He says he likes that. He says if he were a music promoter, he’d promote that kind of music. “But they don’t allow some of it off the reservations, though. They don’t wan
t it to be heard by anyone but themselves. What I’ve heard of it, though, it sounds like superior music. I don’t know if it can compete commercially, but it sounds like superior music. Some of it’s traditional Native American music, but you also have Native American composers writing new music based on the traditional tunes.” We listen to Joan sing “Rebel Years,” then a song she discovered in Port-au-Prince when we were roaming about the Iron Market.

  We tour most of the year and then she goes off to her farm in Minnesota, and I go up to Saratoga and bet on my horses. I did spend one of my vacations at her farm, but it turned out to be a bitch, you know. . . . In fact, when Joan made this rap-rock-type album, Joan was calling herself Joan “the Bitch” Savage, but we decided that that wasn’t really the idea of herself that she wanted to promote.

  I dig into a bowl of pomegranates on the night table, lean back on the pillow and listen to more Joan. The lampshades looks like they’s stain-glassed windows. At one moment her voice is a porcupine, then it’s butter.

  I don’t like modern music, he says. I don’t like American music, and most modern music is American music. I like some of the African-American classical composers, some of the African-American avant-garde. You have a few British composers who are looking back to the pre-American pop influences of their own medieval ballads and folk songs. . . .

  They like her in London too. The Londoners are really a wild bunch, not like I used to imagine them as being, you know. Well, I guess now with all them tabloid tales of the royalty you got a different idea of them British. Joan was reading this article about where they used to always depict the British in books and movies as kind of the moral center, you know, something like that, but now they just depict them as fools like everybody else. Or villains, or just ordinary boggers, you know. I usedta think all Europeans were pompous types, but they ain’t. Joan made her first record in London, and there’s folks who thinks she’s British. She’s big in Japan, as the song goes. She’s got a sort of cult following here in the States. You know, them that don’t judge their music whether or not it’s on the pop charts. She ain’t well known here at all, like I said, ’cause she don’t make the pop charts, you know. And that’s what American music is all about, whether or not you make the pop charts. Of course you can be on the pop charts and not be making any royalties. You can be heard on the radio and still be poor as shit. Lotta people think ’cause you’re on the pop charts or they hear you on the radio or that you have a record deal, that you’ve signed a contract for a record deal, and even made a record, that means you got money. I usedta think that myself till I met Joan. You can be heard on the radio, but that don’t mean you’s making royalties. But a lot of them they’re still paying back their record company. And people thinks they’re millionaires. Or they’ll see them singing on TV and think they’re millionaires. Joan said when she made her first record, and lot of people thought she was a millionaire, ’cause those the only people they knows about that makes records, you know. They hear about Michael Jackson’s millions or some of them others and they think anybody makes a record must got millions. Joan’s real sensitive about that. You know a lot of them starlettes they wants you to think that they’s got millions when they ain’t. Course a lot of their logic is that if people think they got millions, it attracts millions. They might be on unemployment or some shit. I usedta think that myself, about them millions, till I started managing Joan. This little record company in London, one of them little independent labels, you know, is the one that recorded her first album, Joan says you don’t make it till you make it in your own country, though. That’s her logic. Then she’s the sort that sabotages herself, or lets other people sabotage her. She’s got more good gigs since I’ve been her manager, though, than when she called herself managing herself. Now she’s got a few more recording contracts, a little more lucrative, and she don’t just sign for any record deal the record company wants to give her. I got her out of one of her early contracts. But the fool is still trying to make it in her own country, though. I don’t agree, about you got to make it in your own country, I mean, but we never agree. She says that every entertainer wants to make it in America, so why shouldn’t she? I get her booked in a nice club in Paris, where they like her music, or I get her on a London television show, and the fool’s asking me how come it ain’t New York? Course if Joan was making it in New York, she’d probably get herself a new manager. That’s when they get themselves new managers. Joan says she ain’t like that. But most people don’t know what they’re like.