Page 99 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
The neighbourhood we were entering seemed to be in a state of disrepair to say the least. The gleaming glass and neon lights of downtown Manhattan were replaced by boarded-up windows, rusting signs and overflowing rubbish bins. The cab made its way up a street called Lenox Avenue, and the faces we were passing were now predominantly black. My heart went out to the children sat on the steps of derelict houses, some of which frankly didn’t look fit to accommodate anyone.
Eventually, the car approached an imposing gothic church,labelledAbyssinian Baptiston the sign outside. Someone was setting up a small stage with a microphone nearby, and I noticed several policemen buzzing around the area, their arms folded imposingly.
‘Here we are. 132 West and 138th Street, buddy,’ said the driver.
‘Thank you.’ I looked around the street. ‘I was told that there was a diner nearby?’
‘Oh, you must mean the Double R.’ He turned around and pointed behind my head. ‘It’s just over there.’
‘Great. How much do I owe you?’
‘Three dollars and twenty cents.’ I fumbled around in my pocket. ‘Just be careful out there today, mister. I’ve heard it could get a little heated.’
‘Oh, er, I will be. Thanks again.’ I paid and left the cab, not entirely sure what the driver, or Eugene Meyer, had meant.
As I walked back down Lenox Avenue towards the Double R, the street was getting busier, and some people with what looked like placards were beginning to gather in small groups.
The diner’s ancient electric sign buzzed and flickered comically, and the door frame was warped and rotten. With a small shove, I managed to gain entry, and was not altogether shocked to find that the interior was even shabbier than the outside. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and I was forced to wave my hand in front of my face to clear the fug. A few feet away sat a well-dressed man in a pinstripe suit with red braces and a woollen tie. I marked him out as having the only white face in the establishment.
‘Mr Meyer?’ I asked, approaching him.
He looked up at me through his circular spectacles. ‘Bo D’Aplièse, right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.
‘Helluva name you got there!’ he cried, gripping my handtightly and shaking it. ‘Take a seat. By the looks of things, we don’t have long.’
‘Sorry, Mr Meyer, I’m not quite sure what you mean.’
He took a swig of his coffee. ‘Please, call me Eugene. Mr Meyer was my father. Plus, it kinda sounds likeMr Mayor... and he’ll be along in a minute.’
‘Very well, Eugene.’ I was really quite confused. ‘You mean, the mayor is coming here? To the diner?’
Eugene looked genuinely perplexed. ‘No offence, kid, but did my sister give her money out to dummies? No, Mayor O’Dwyer will be onthatstage in the next fifteen minutes.’ Eugene pointed back towards the church. ‘I need to be out there when he speaks. I’m here in New York onPostbusiness. I take a personal interest in this story.’
I turned back to face him. ‘Forgive my ignorance, Eugene, but what story is that?’
‘Black citizens being ghettoised here in Harlem. Have you seen the state of the housing out there? It’s goddamn abysmal. There’s horrendous overcrowding, and that’s not to mention the police brutality these people are up against. The cops treat their fellow human beings like animals.’
I put two and two together. ‘So there’s a protest happening here today?’
He clicked his fingers and pointed at me. ‘You got it. Mayor O’Dwyer is speaking. He’s a good guy, I think. The man’s made promises to the community and we at thePostwant to make sure he sticks to them.’
‘May I ask why you take a personal interest in the story?’ I asked.
Eugene sighed and nodded. ‘Yeah. I’m Jewish. I’ve seen what the Nazis did to my people in Europe. I wanna make sure we don’t end up doing the same to African Americans.’
‘Of course,’ I stumbled, embarrassed that I was clearly ignorant about the situation.
Eugene spoke passionately. ‘In flies America the Brave to save the day on another continent, without a moment to consider how we’re treating our own damn citizens... It’s a travesty.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Anyway, you’ve got until O’Dwyer arrives. Tell me your story.’ He pulled a cigar from his pocket, clipped the end and lit it.
Feeling exasperated, I did my best to explain to Eugene the value of his sister’s contribution to my life, and, of course, to Elle’s too. To his credit, Mr Meyer listened intently, puffing away as I told him everything that had happened to me.
‘Ya know, kid,’ he said after I had concluded my tale, ‘I think Flo mentioned you before she died. The little kid that didn’t speak.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And look at you now, sat here singing like a canary! It’s a miracle!’
