Free Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin Page A

moving over into the seat next to me. His presence set my nerves on edge. He was cunning and apparently vicious and I did not know what kind of scene he might start. I stared out the window, turning so far he could see only the back of my head.
    He slouched far down in the seat and, working his hands wildly in the air as though he were playing a guitar, he began to sing the blues, softly, mournfully, lowering his voice at the obscene words. A strange sweetish odor detached from him. I supposed it to be marijuana, but it was only a guess.
    I felt his elbow dig into my ribs. “How you like that, pappy?”
    I nodded, trying to be both polite and noncommittal. He had pulled his hat down over his eyes. He lighted a cigarette and let it dangle from his lips. I turned back to the window, hoping he would leave me alone.
    He nudged me again and I looked around. He bent his head far back to gaze at me under his lowered hat brim. “You don’t dig the blues, do you, daddy?”
    “I don’t know,” I said.
    He studied me with narrowed eyes. Then, as though he had found some answer, he flashed me a magnificent smile, leaned hard against me and whispered, “I bet you dig this, daddy.”
    He punched his hat back, concentrated, stiffened his hands, palms upward, in a supplicating gesture and began softly to chant
Tantum ergo sacramentum, Veneremur cernui
in as beautiful Latin as I have ever heard. I stared at him dumfounded as he chanted the Gregorian version of this famous text.
    He glanced at me tenderly, his face soft as though he were on the verge of tears. “That got you, didn’t it, dad?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    He made a huge sign of the cross, lowered his head and recited, again with perfect Latin diction, the
Confiteor
. When it was over, he remained still, in profound introspection. Above the hum of the bus’s wheels on the pavement, silence surrounded us. No one spoke. Doubtless those nearest us who had witnessed the strange scene were perplexed.
    “You were an altar boy, I guess,” I said.
    “I was,” he said, not raising his head. “I wanted to be a priest.” His mobile face revealed every emotion. His eyes darkened with regret.
    The man across the aisle grinned and said: “Better not believe anything he tells you.”
    Christophe’s handsome face congealed instantly to hatred.
    “I told you not to talk to me!”
    The man’s brother intervened. “He just forgot.” Then to the poorly dressed one, “Don’t say
anything
to him. He can’t stand you.”
    “I was talking to the other fellow, the one in the dark glasses,” he said.
    “Shut up!” Christophe shouted. “You were talking
about
me - and I don’t even want you to do that.”
    “Just be quiet,” the man’s brother said. “He’s going to be mad at anything you say.”
    “Goddamn, it’s a free sonofabitching country,” the other said feebly, the smile remaining unchanged on his face. “I’m not afraid of him.”
    “Well, just hush - no need in you talking to him,” his brother pleaded.
    “You keep him quiet - or else,” Christophe said haughtily.
    My stomach contracted with uneasiness, certain there would be a fight. I was astonished to see Christophe cut his eyes around to me and wink, as though secretly he were amused. He glared his “enemy” down for some time before turning back to me. “I came to sit by you because you’re the only one here that looks like he’s got enough sense to carry on an intelligent conversation.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “I’m not pure Negro,” he said proudly. “My mother was French, my father Indian.”
    “I see. …”
    “She was Portuguese, my mother - a lovely woman,” Christophe sighed.
    “I see. …”
    The man across the aisle smiled broadly at the obvious admission of a lie from Christophe. I gave him a warning glance and he did not challenge our friend’s French-Portuguese-Indian background.
    “Let’s see,” Christophe said, eyeing me speculatively. “What blood have you got?