“Who? You mean Mama’s?” He held still, scanning the past. He alone was old enough to remember our grandparents. “Same reason Ruth took off, I guess.”
“Not the same reason.”
Jonah smiled at my open treason. His folded hands, steeple-style, touched his lips. “There was an argument. You remember. I told you, Mule. We can’t know. Didn’t I tell you? Race trumps family. It’s bigger than anything. Bigger than husband and wife. Bigger than brother and sister …” Bigger than objects in the sky. Bigger than knowing. And still there was one thing so small, it could slip past race without notice. Jonah put his arm around my shoulder. “Come on, brother. We’ve got work to do.”
We went back into the studio and recorded “The Crow” in one take—the only time in the entire recording session we hit a song perfectly on a single try. Jonah listened to the master tape again and again, probing for the smallest flaw. But he could find none.
A crow was with me
As I made my way from town.
Back and forth, all the way to now
It has flown around my head.
Crow, you strange creature,
Won’t you leave me be?
Are you waiting for prey here, soon?
Do you mean to seize my corpse?
Well, there isn’t much farther
To go upon this journey.
Crow, let me finally see
A faith that lasts to the grave.
He kept his laser-guided pitches, but all the while his voice dissolved the notes, sliding into them with a whiff of Billie Holiday wandering across the remains of a lynching. He sang the words into their final mystery.
The night we finished taping, we shook hands with the technicians and stepped out into the strangeness of our hometown. Midtown was a blaze of fossil fuel. We walked down Sixth Avenue through the thirties, mixing into the brittle after-hours crowd. A siren cut through the air from ten blocks away. I grabbed Jonah. I practically jumped on him.
“Just a cop, Joey. Nabbing some second-shift robber.”
My chest was wound up tighter than Schubert’s organ-grinder. I’d been conditioned. I was waiting for the return loop, for some part of the city to ignite. I knew what happened whenever we laid down his voice into permanence. We walked all the way from the studios to the Village. New York had as many alarms that night as any. I flinched at every one, until my brother’s amusement turned into disgust. By the time we hit Chelsea, we were quarreling.
“So Watts was my fault? This is what you think?”
“That’s not what I said. That’s not what I think.”
At Fourth Street, he gave up on me and took off alone. I went to the apartment and waited up for him all night. He didn’t show until the next day. When he did, the topic was off-limits. I wasn’t to ask him anything of consequence, ever again. Nor did he ever ask how I knew about Ruth. She, too, was now off-limits. All the things we couldn’t talk about left me endless time to replay the things I’d told him. I convinced myself I hadn’t betrayed Ruth. She wanted me to tell. She’d sworn me to secrecy the way Jesus banned his disciples from telling anyone he was going around working miracles.
Every time the Panther Party made the news, I had the sick feeling she or Robert was going to be a footnote casualty. Huey Newton, the Party’s founder, was arrested for killing a police officer in Oakland. Ruth had about as much connection to the man as I had to President Johnson. But I dragged through two weeks, feeling as if she’d somehow helped to pull the trigger. A man has a right to defend himself. So long as the police go on killing us at will. Part of a state government building up in Albany collapsed, the result of building-code violations. No one was hurt, and there was no sign of tampering. But jumpy politicians tried to tie the collapse to a shrill call for rights put out by the New York Panther chapter, the group Robert and Ruth Rider were helping to organize.
The world had never made much sense to me, much less my life. But now it was Meyerbeer without subtitles. My sister would write me. She and her husband, after a tour of the militant battlefield, would remember themselves. They’d go and work for Dr. King. So I fantasized, most days, without ever daring to believe. But other days, performing fey hundred-year-old music for well-off folks who loved hearing two Negroes staying out of trouble, I thought Ruth must be waiting for a letter from me.
Mr. Weisman called Jonah a month after we’d finished recording. He had an offer from the Met. Jonah took the news over the phone, as if he’d known all along it was coming. “Great.” He might have just been offered half off on his next dry-cleaning bill. “What are they thinking about?”
Weisman told him. Jonah repeated the offer out loud, for me to hear. “Poisson, in Adriana Lecouvreur?” I shrugged, clueless. The opera was some vehicle for stupendous sopranos. Diva Drivel, we’d always called the genre. Neither of us had ever bothered to listen to it. “What’s the part?” Jonah called into the phone, his voice rising.
The part, Mr. Weisman told him, didn’t matter. My brother, at twenty-seven, would be singing on the same stage with Renata Tebaldi. He, a lieder singer with almost no orchestral experience, had wanted to break into opera. And the world of opera was willing to let him try.
Jonah got off the phone and interrogated me. I was worthless. We pulled the World’s Greatest Opera Librettos off the shelf. We ran out to the Magic Flute record shop and grabbed a remastered 1940s budget recording with a distinguished cast and listened to the whole thing at one go. The music ended. “You call that a role?”
I didn’t know how to handle him. “Other people have to break in, you know.”
“Other people can’t do what I do.”
“They start elsewhere. You could be singing out in Santa Fe. You could be singing at the Lyric in Chicago, or at the Boston Opera, or San Francisco.”
“Plenty of folks start in New York.”
“City Opera, then. The point is, you’ve never sung opera. And you want to break in at the top. You’re not going to star first time out.”
“Don’t need to star. Just don’t want to hold spears.”
“So take this one and make it shine. If they notice you, they’ll offer—”
He shook his head. “You’ll never understand, will you? There is no future in chickenshit deference. The collective thing. Start a little fish, end a little fish, only eaten. They see you servile, and that’s how they’ll see you forever. Who owns you, Joey? The chickenshit collective will, unless you refuse. That’s all they want: to decide who you are and what kind of threat you represent to the pecking order as they maintain it. The minute you let someone own you, you might as well go and off yourself. Your life—your life—is the only thing you ever get to decide.”
He told Mr. Weisman to tell the Met that Poisson was not, in his opinion, the right vehicle for his operatic debut. “A fucking insult,” he said to the dignified, old-world Mr. Weisman in his pinstripe zoot suit on the other end of the line. Jonah hung up. “They’re afraid my voice is too pure. They’re afraid I can’t fill a hall with my little lieder instrument. What does that sound like to you, Joey? I’ll tell you. My voice is too light, and I’m too dark. Poisson. Fuck them.”
Something in me lifted at the decision. Nobody turned down the Met and got another chance. We could go on doing the only thing we’d ever done. Somehow, we could make touring and festivals and contests pay. The Naumburg competition was coming up; he could win that one, if he had half a mind to. Something else would break for us. I’d wash dishes on the side, if need be.
But Jonah was right. The Met got back to him, and faster than even he could have imagined. His gamble seemed to pay off, to pique the interest of the musical powers. They returned with a vastly upped ante. He could have his vehicle after all. They wanted him for a grandiose center-stage showstopper. The Met offered him the lead in a brand-new opera by Gunther Schuller called The Visitation.
We’d once met Schuller, in Boston, when we were children. Years later, Jonah went through a third-stream phase,
his enthusiasm actually lasting several weeks. An opera by the man was bound to be riveting. A North American premiere amounted to more self-creation than even Jonah could ask for. As gambles went, this one had his number.
“You must have pulled a real Svengali number on that Linwell,” Mr. Weisman said when he called with the offer. “What in the world did you sing for him anyway?”
“What’s the opera about?”
The libretto, Weisman explained, was spun off from a Kafka fable, transplanted to the underside of the contemporary United States.
“And the part?”
But Mr. Weisman didn’t know anything about the part. He didn’t even know the name of the character. Perhaps Jonah didn’t understand: This was the lead, in a premiere of a new piece by a major composer, a piece that had electrified Hamburg audiences for a whole year.
What was with all the questions? A singer could sing rings around Gabriel, score triumph after triumph at midsized opera houses, be sleeping with Saint Cecilia herself, and would still have to count such an offer as the lucky break of a lifetime.
But Jonah wanted to see a score before committing. It seemed a reasonable precaution. After years of struggling with borderline stage fright, I was reduced to terror even thinking about Jonah taking on something this size in front of that many people. Some part of me hoped that by asking for a score, he’d irritate the producers so much that they’d withdraw the offer. For that matter, the country itself might fall apart before the score actually arrived.
But the United States hung on for another few weeks, and Jonah got his copy of The Visitation to peruse. We spent a marvelous two days reading through it. I’ll have that pleasure to answer for, at day’s end. God forgive me, but I always enjoyed sight-singing. Jonah was a wonder to watch, breezing all the parts as I plunked out a two-hand reduction. The score had everything: serialism, polytonality, jazz—a wild grab bag of sounds, purely American. “Crazed Quotations,” Jonah said at one point, the two of us sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the piano bench. “Just like the folks used to play.”
And its story, Kafka aside, was pure American, as well. A young sensualist university student is arrested and forced to stand a surreal trial for mysterious crimes he has no knowledge of committing. He’s found guilty and then lynched. The man is never named. Throughout the score, he’s identified only as “the Negro.”
We read our way through, realization hitting early. Neither of us felt much need to talk about it. He’d probably made up his mind before the end of the first act. But we read all the way through without Jonah making any sign. I didn’t know which way to hope. When we got through the last system of staves, he announced, “Well, Mule, that’s that.”
“It’s good music,” I said.
“Oh, the music’s wonderful. A few real showcase moments.”
“It … might be important.” I don’t know why I bothered saying anything.
“Important, Mule?” He circled for the kill. “Important musically? Or important socially?” He gave the word a pitch that wasn’t quite contempt. Contempt would have betrayed too much interest.
“It’s timely.”
“Timely? What the hell’s that supposed to mean, Mule?”
“It’s about civil rights.”
“Is it? I knew it had to be about something.”
“It’s sexy.” The only word that gave him pause.
“There is that.” He teetered, as if considering asking Mr. Weisman to find out whom he’d be playing opposite. Then all compromise crumbled, and he was whole again. “No way. No way in creation.”
“Jonah,” I said to slow him. But he was flying.
“Professional suicide. Maybe the Europeans ate this thing up. But it’s going to bomb here. It’s going to end up looking just …”
“Suicide? Your chance to sing in front of thousands of people? To be reviewed across the entire country? Jonah, people know how to separate the performer from the piece. If they don’t like the show …”
“They won’t. I know what they’re going to say already. It’s not what people pay good money to see. Art can’t beat this country at its own game. Art shouldn’t even try.”
I didn’t ask what art should try to do. I kept wondering about Ruth, what she’d say about her brother playing the Negro, how it would sound to her, compared to yet more criminal Schubert. Nothing Jonah might sing would ever have a bearing on the cause. I wondered what music the Panthers listened to, in their cars, out on the hot street, in their beds at night. No doubt Ruth and Robert, like my brother, knew exactly what art shouldn’t do.
“It could be something,” I told him. “Something good. You could make … a difference.”
Air burst out of his mouth. “A difference? A difference to what?” I bowed my head. “No, really, Joey. A difference to who? You think there’s a single operagoer who’s going to think differently about herself because of music? They’re not listening to themselves, Joey. They’re listening to the performance. Connoisseurs about everything that’s not them. That’s where this piece falls flat. It’s too good. It’s too serious. It gives the audience too much credit.”
“So you’re saying if they offered you Rodolpho or Alfredo—”
“Or Tristan. Yes. That’s what I’m saying. Let me sing what I’ve given my life to learning.”
“Rodolpho? When have you given one hour—”
“Let me sing the things I could sing better than anyone in this world. The roles any other tenor of my caliber would be given. Who am I hurting by doing that?”
“Who are you hurting by taking this part?”
“Which part? The Negro?”
“There’s a difference, Jonah.”
“No doubt. Between what and what?”
“Between … chickenshit deference and artistic cooperation. Between deciding your own life and making the world follow your own rules.” I was going to humiliate myself in front of him, all to get him to take a role I didn’t even want him to take. “Jonah, it’s okay. Okay to be a part of something. To choose to be one thing or the other. To come home, somewhere. Belong.”
“Belong? Belong with all the other Negro leads? A leading light unto my people, maybe? An exemplar?” His voice was horrible. He could sing anything now. Any role or register.
“To be something other than yourself.”
He nodded, but not in agreement. I wasn’t to talk until he’d decided the best way to annihilate me. “Why is the Met offering me this part? I mean this part?”
You’ll never know. That’s what being the Negro means. I dug in. “Because you can sing it.”
“I’m sure they have several dozen limber leads in their stables who can sing it. Men with operatic experience. Why not use them? They do Otello in blackface, don’t they?”
I heard a tiny, translucent, almost blue little girl ask, Are you two Moors? She never existed. We’d invented her. “Would you take Otello if they offered it?” They’d have to darken Jonah’s face, too, just to make him believable.
“I refuse to be typecast before I’ve sung a single role.”
“Everyone’s typecast, Jonah. Everyone. That’s how the human brain works. Name a singer who doesn’t stand for some … No one is just himself.”
“I don’t mind being a Negro. I refuse to be a Negro tenor.” He reached down to the keyboard and felt out four measures of what sounded like Coltrane. He could have played piano like a king, if he hadn’t sung so well.
“I don’t get you.”
“I won’t be the Caruso of black America. The Sidney Poitier of opera.”
“You don’t want to be mixed-race.” I was sitting with him at the top of the subway stairs in Kenmore Square, Boston. “That’s what you mean.”
“I don’t want to be any race.”
“That—” I was going to say, That’s your parents’ fault. “That is something nobody but a purebred white person could want to get away with.”
“‘Purebred white person’?” He laughed. “Purebr
ed white person. Is that like a well-modulated soprano?” He prowled around the cage of our front room. It might have been a concrete cubicle in the Bronx Zoo, a mat of straw, a watering trough. He scraped his fingers back and forth in the mortar lines between the wall bricks. He might have rasped them raw if I hadn’t grabbed his wrist. He slunk back to the piano bench. The instant his mass touched wood, he was up again. “Joey. I’ve been an absolute idiot. Where are all the men?”
“What men?”
“Exactly. I mean, we have Price, Arroyo, Dobbs, Verrett, Bumbry—all these black women pouring out of every state in the union. Where the hell are the men?”
“George Shirley? William Warfield?” It sounded like clutching at straws, even to me.
“Warfield. Case in point. Brilliant voice, and opera’s basically locked the man out. Start out singing Porgy, and that’s all anybody’s going to be able to hear you do.”
“It’s not in the culture. Black man wants to be an opera singer? I mean, really.”
“It’s not in the culture for the women, either. And they’ve come up from nowhere—from Georgia, Mississippi, One hundred eleventh Street. They’re stealing the show, out of all proportion …”
“There’s the whole diva thing. That doesn’t work for men. Think of you at Juilliard. The recital stuff was fine. But nobody there was helping you over into the opera theater.”
“Exactly, exactly. Exactly my point. And why? The door’s kicked in, and the Man’s finally dealing with the whole thing, and there they are up onstage, this white guy and this black woman, kissing and cooing and, well, that’s kind of yummy, in a nice old-fashioned, time-honored plantation way. Same old domination by another name. Then there’s this big black man and this white woman, and what the hell? Who let this happen? Blow the whistle, wave the play dead. It all comes down to who’s doing the fucking and who’s getting—”
“Jonah.” All I could do was blink at him. “What difference does it make? Why do you need this role? You already have a career. More career than most singers of any color even dream of.”