Free Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin Page B

Give me a minute. Christophe never makes a mistake. I can always tell what kind of blood a man’s got in him.” He took my face between his hands and examined me closely. I waited, certain this strange man would expose me. Finally, he nodded gravely to indicate he had deciphered my blood background. “I have it now.” His eyes glowed and he hesitated before making his dramatic announcement to the world. I cringed, preparing explanations, and then decided to try to stop him from exposing me.
    “Wait - let me - ”
    “Florida Navaho,” he interrupted triumphantly. “Your mother was part Florida Navaho, wasn’t she?”
    I felt like laughing, first with relief and then at the thought of my Dutch-Irish mother being anything so exotic as Florida Navaho. At the same time, I felt vaguely disappointed to find Christophe no brighter than the rest of us.
    He waited for my answer.
    “You’re pretty sharp,” I said.
    “Ha! I never miss.” Instantly, his expression degenerated to viciousness. “I hate us, Father.”
    “I’m not a Father.”
    “Ah, you can’t fool Christophe. I know you’re a priest even if you are dressed in civilian clothes. Look at these punks, Father. Dumb, ignorant bastards. They don’t know the score. I’m getting out of this country.”
    His anger vanished. He leaned to whisper in my ear, hisvoice suddenly abject. “I’ll tell you the truth, Father. I’m just out of the pen - four years. I’m on my way to see my wife. She’s waiting with a new car for me in Slidell. And God … what a reunion we’re going to have!”
    His face crumpled and his head fell against my chest. Silently he wept.
    “Don’t cry,” I whispered. “It’s all right. Don’t cry.”
    He raised his head and rolled his eyes upward in agony. His face bathed in tears, all of his arrogant defenses gone, he said: “Sometime, Father, when you say Mass, will you take the white Host for Christophe?”
    “You’re wrong to believe I’m a priest,” I said. “But I’ll remember you next time I go to Mass.”
    “Ah, that’s the only peace,” he sighed. “That’s the peace my soul longs for. I wish I could come back home to it, but I can’t - I haven’t been inside a church in seventeen years.”
    “You can always go back.”
    “Nah,” he snorted. “I’ve got to shoot up a couple of guys.”
    My surprise must have shown. A smile of glee lighted his face. “Don’t worry, daddy. I’m going to watch out. Why don’t you get off with me and let’s shoot up this town together.”
    I told him I could not. The bus slowed into Slidell. Christophe got to his feet, straightened his tie, stared furiously at the man across the aisle for a moment, bowed to me and took off. We were relieved to have him gone, though I could not help wondering what his life might be were he not torn with the frustrations of his Negro-ness.
    At Slidell we changed into another Greyhound bus with a new driver - a middle-aged man, large-bellied with a heavy jowled face filigreed with tiny red blood vessels near the surface of his cheeks.
    A stockily built young Negro, who introduced himself as Bill Williams, asked if I minded having him sit beside me.
    Now that Christophe was gone, the tensions disappeared in our Negro section. Everyone knew, from having heard our conversations, that I was a stranger in the area. Talk flowed easily and they surrounded me with warmth.
    “People come down here and say Mississippi is the worst place in the world,” Bill said. “But we can’t all live in the North.”
    “Of course not. And it looks like beautiful country,” I said, glancing out at giant pine trees.
    Seeing that I was friendly, he offered advice. “If you’re not used to things in Mississippi, you’ll have to watch yourself pretty close till you catch on,” he said.
    The others, hearing, nodded agreement.
    I told him I did not know what to watch out for.
    “Well, you know you don’t want to even look at a white woman. In fact, you look