MILENA’S WEDDING

he first time Milena spoke of

TCrawford had been at the affair at the University, a tea welcoming the new English professor, Professor Grossman, myself. Over the clatter of tea things she pursued me humming Wagner and speaking of Crawford.

I had come to Ghana for peace. Yet there Milena was after me speaking of loving and wanting to marry March Crawford; Crawford the brilliant swaggering Negro sociologist from Chicago, one of those highly extroverted men who is always followed about by ranks of students, a brutal dynamic captain, obsessed with his work. I admired him. And I noticed that he stared at me a great deal . . . . . . He stared at me the way Blake Hall had stared at me a year ago. Yes, the class had been reading Kafka. Blake had sat in the last row. He had looked younger than his eighteen years, all paleness, his body slender and of medium height. He was fair-skinned, even whitish, that whiteness that is peculiar to Negroes that are light skinned. To add to his paleness he had golden hair, straight hair, that he wore short and cropped close to his head. His most endearing feature was his blue eyes. He had not spoken in class unless the Professor forced him to speak. His voice was soft. Most of the time he sat quite

Bodomase, Ghana 2022 © Eric Akoto

erect, his shadowy blue eyes fixed on me, Aaron Grossman. Several times I followed him out of Butler Library, then down the long walk but always at the cross-section I hesitated and watched him vanish. I began to consider it a miracle that I had taken that course in General Studies. Then one morning between classes I had seen him in the drug store on 116th and Broadway. I was sitting alone at a table in my dark suit drinking coffee wearing my usual dark glasses and smoking a cigarette in my usual short quick puffs. I couldn’t imagine how such a lucky thing could happen as to find him alone in the drug store.

He had come right over to my table and burst out, “I think you have the most brilliant mind.” I acted as if I didn’t hear him. Then with my left hand I very slowly removed my dark glasses, took in Blake appraisingly and then as if something caught in my memory I lay down the glasses and let a slight smile come to my thin lips.

“I’m in your English class,” Blake said.

“Oh yes, yes,” I drawled out the words. “Yes.” I sprang up, very quickly, pulling out a chair for him, immediately calling the waitress, ordering coffee for the two of us and immediately launching into a discussion about the class.

“Yes,” I said, “I don’t really need that class because I’ve studied the violin since I was a child but the curriculum at Julliard insists that everyone have that disgusting theory.” Blake only stared at me.

“Is this your first year at Julliard?” I asked, pushing his coffee to him. Blake explained in a quiet voice that we were in the same English class, that he did not go to Julliard but was in pre-medicine at Columbia. I allowed my face to turn red and laughed slightly.

“Oh,” I said, “Jesus am I sorry.” Then I explained to Blake that I was a violinist, that I got so mixed up, that I was terribly sorry and I could have sworn he was in my theory class. I told him it turned out that I only took one class at Columbia, that I had grown up in New York and my mother and uncle were violinists, and my uncle was at one time rather well known.

I played in the Julliard orchestra (and did he know a Negro played the drums), I had given recitals yes sometimes it was exciting, but actually I was getting a little bored.

We became friends, sitting in the drugstore at 116th street or in the Lion’s Den at Columbia, drinking cup after cup of coffee we discussed our favorite subjects.

I did most of the talking while Blake sat abjectly. We talked about music, literature, Roman life, which was one of my greatest subjects, and African art. And everything we discussed in the end turned back to our preoccupation and discovery with each other. Never had either felt they had so perfectly expressed themselves. Never had either felt that they had communicated with anyone. Never had we ever met anyone who saw us as we were. How happy we were! . . . . . . Milena pursues me humming Wagner and speaking of Crawford. The University walks are covered with dead moths. . . .

I was older than I looked. In fact I was seven years older than Blake, twenty-five and coming up close to me one could discern lines around my eyes. I grew up in Brooklyn and I had gone to Julliard at eighteen. Everyone had expected me to be a brilliant violinist. My mother and uncle’s life was centered on my becoming a famous virtuoso. But after a while at Julliard I didn’t do well and soon found myself missing more and more classes. It seemed to me the teachers were inadequate. Quite mediocre people really. It thwarted me. Then quite unexpectedly I was drafted. The day before I went to the examination I drank a bottle of pure alcohol. I wanted to die. Then I was sent to basic training. I threatened to commit suicide and had to be imprisoned at Governors Island because I refused to go into the Korean War. My very good reason for not going was that I was a genius and my great sensitivity could not withstand the mechanics that governed the military world. I wrote a letter to the President explaining my feelings. They had me analyzed. I finally ended up wasting my entire time at Governors Island. That had been almost two years ago. When I met Blake I lived on 103rd Street and worked part time in a market research agency. I did not intend to take up the violin again for I realized I could quite possibly become a great writer. I wrote a great deal at night and worked at the Agency alternate mornings and afternoons, took the course at Columbia and also a writing course at the New School. I had a thing about Harlem and times I would put on my dark glasses and walk about 125th Street and think at last I had been recognized for the genius I was by Blake Hall. I was happy. Spring came. There was naturally a lot of deception involved, a lot of excuses invented, for Blake thought I went to Julliard. . . . . . . Although I hadn’t told anyone in New York I didn’t actually have a [post] at the university, but I had been hired to teach English to the boys in the upper grades at Achimota College. It was no more than a high school. I had really expected to be more singular in the job but when I arrived in Accra I found there were many Americans. Being very lonely I

walked alone in the sun. Milena and Crawford walked the same road. I watched for them. How terribly in love they were. I had begun to notice that the strength of nature in Africa added to my tormenting solitude so I watched for them often on the road going to the ocean. For they often walked that road. “Hello Aaron,” they say …

She tells me that Crawford is on a great trek in the northern country of Salaga. He has been gone for weeks but soon he will return. I go back to my room and lie under the mosquito nets. Harmattan moths fill the room. I arise and close the shutters; below the walks are covered with more dead moths. I go down to the Common Room and ask the barkeep to bring me a vodka; more dead moths lie on the bar. Nights before I go to sleep I think of Milena. I think of Milena and Crawford. . . . . . . One day I heard that Crawford had accepted a permanent job with the University of Legon. I went to the celebration. Crawford was not there telling his great stories of treks. He was away. I was lonely. Thank God Milena was there speaking of the wedding. And humming Wagner. Milena is loved by Crawford. And for Milena, Crawford understands all the beauty of the universe. In each other they experience hope. Never has either felt so perfectly expressed. How happy they are. Thank God Milena was there speaking of the wedding. She says they discuss everything and everything in the end turns back to their discovery with each other. She speaks of the wedding all the time now. Milena recognizes Crawford for the true genius he is. She tells me in the evenings they often sit and listen to Wagner. I remember Blake and I were listening to Wagner once on 103rd Street. I sat on the floor my head against the couch. I told him, “I’ve found the most wonderful apartment on 112th Street. It has lovely white walks and a long hallway in which to hang paintings that leads to a lovely room with an iron balustrade.”

“You lie a lot,” Blake said.

“What’s wrong?” I cried.

“What’s wrong with you?” Blake said, “and why do you lie so much?”

“I don’t know.” Oh, Because there are no curtains, no death or Valhalla, no standing on battlefields before Philippi, to lie is the only way to be recognized. I left the room and went out. . . . The next day I did not go to the Philosophy class we had taken together in the spring term. When I came in on the third day I hoped there would be a letter in the mailbox from Blake. There was none. I imagined a ringing phone. But there was none. I was driven from the silent apartment and hid in a section of Columbia’s library where we had gone often and watched for him. When I returned to the apartment he was never there. I could not sleep. On no night did he phone. And he did not come. I dropped the Philosophy course. . . .

. . . Milena and Crawford. Often the thought of them keeps me from killing myself. Did you know that Milena was the name of Kafka’s mistress? On one of the nights that Blake did not call I tore a sheet of paper from my notebooks and wrote him a letter. I told him that he understood the beauty of the universe more than any other human being alive. And that my life had been nothing but unfulfillment until I met him. And in him I experienced hope. Hope, when I read it I tore it up. And left the room. I walked along Broadway and looked for him everywhere. I felt like killing myself. . . . I made up my mind, I would go to San Francisco. I didn’t stay on the West Coast long but came back to New York and lived in the Village. I often looked for Blake but I could not find him. It occurred to me that perhaps I would go to Africa. Two days before my tea, in fact the first night I was in Accra, I went to a party at the Ambassador Hotel. March Crawford was there. He was a handsome black man, light skinned with pale eyes. He told a great story of his trip to the Congo.

The next morning I was sitting in the outdoor terrace adjoining the hotel when I became aware of a girl sitting opposite me. She stood up and came toward me humming Wagner. A beautiful strain from Tannhäuser. I named her Milena. ●