Grace by Calvin Baker Page A

enemies, who hate you no matter what, and all the what-can-you-do-for-me-people, and the what-have-you-done-for-me-lately-folks. Behind them you see all the smile-in-your-face-people, and all the knife-in-your-back-kinds. Know-nothings and know-it-alls. Born-again-people and the won’t-never-be-saveds, plus all your good backsliding brothers and sisters in between. Them you beat for the crown. All who want it from you and, way in back, all them you never really saw before. Apart from that, you got all those dogs, and all those bitches who do not keep faith with you at all. You realize then they are all your people now. You own stock and title to a whole restless tribe’s worth of problems no one ever told you about, and you did not know before. It is then you figure out if you have it to be boss dog, or just sit in the chair until the king returns.”
    â€œYou are just seduced by her,” I said.
    â€œWe will see,” he retorted. “But I do not have any preconceived ideas about who it is who might wind me back up in line with time. People like us cannot afford to.”
    I could tell he liked her, so I let it drop, as Genevieve and Elsa returned to the table. Genevieve looked piqued, dabbing at her eyes, and it was clear she had been crying. Elsa had a worried expression on her face, and looked to Davidson with distress.
    â€œI think we should probably go home,” I apologized, bidding goodnight to Elsa and thanking Davidson for the meal.
    â€œCall me tomorrow?” Davidson asked, with an expression of real concern.
    â€œI’ll ring around ten o’clock.”
    We left the restaurant, and I went to hail a taxi, but Genevieve wished to walk, because she did not think she could bear the motion and closed space.
    It was the longest night of the year, and music poured from every block as far as the river. When we reached the center, the streets were still crowded with people, and the full moon behind the cathedral shone down silver on the white stone of Notre Dame, and pure and clear on the velvet blackness of the Seine. Below, on the sand, musicians played, and families strolled, and the tourists, and the lovers, and the hustlers; the beautiful in their prime, the powerful at their height, the babes at their mothers’ breasts, and the ancients on their canes, all promenaded, alive and pleased the earth was theirs that night.
    â€œAre you pregnant?” I asked.
    â€œNo. I am just dizzy. But the fresh air is making it better.”
    â€œIt is okay if you are.”
    â€œ Oui ,” she said. “I know. We are together.”
    She took my hand as we crossed over the river.
    â€œThe princess and Davidson are perfect.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œBecause she is so boring, and he can be such a boor.”
    â€œHe’s bright.”
    â€œIt does not matter. The nice clothes do not matter. The money does not matter. Paris does not. New York does not. Hollywood especially is not important. Art is the only thing that matters, besides an incorruptible love.”
    We were still holding hands, and in my hand she was the truest girl on the Left Bank, and, when we crossed over the bridge, the river and I had the truest girl in the city in our right hand. The two of us walked the remainder of the way to her house, listening to the music from each block as we passed. When we finally made our way up the cobbled lane again, the people in the same apartment were playing Nina Simone, and Genevieve brightened to the sound.
    At her door, she told me she did not think it a good idea for me to stay the night. “I’ll be fine tomorrow,” she assured me, wiping her damp brow. “I just need to rest.”
    â€œI’ll come by to check on you in the morning.”
    â€œ Oui , that would be good. We will take breakfast.”
    â€œYou’re okay?”
    â€œYes, but I want to work. I have not in days. And if I do not, I feel like I will go