There is a corner in High Harlem where Seventh Avenue cuts the dark world in two. West rises the noble façade of City College—gray and green. East creeps the sullen Harlem, green and gray. There Matthew stood and looked right and left. Left was the world he had left—there were some pretty parlors there, conventional in furniture and often ghastly in ornament, but warm and homelike in soul. There was his own bedroom; Craigg’s restaurant with its glorious biscuit; churches whose music often brushed his ears sweetly, afar; crowded but neat apartments, swaggering but well-dressed lodgers, workers, visitors. He turned from it with a sigh. He had left this world for a season—perhaps forever. It would hardly recognize him, he was sure, for he was unshaven and poorly clothed.
He turned east, and the world turned too—to a more careless and freer movement, louder voices, and easier camaraderie. By the time Lenox Avenue was reached, the world was gay and vociferous, and shirt sleeves and overalls mingled with tailored trousers and silk hosiery. But Matthew walked on in the gathering gloom: Fifth Avenue—but Fifth Avenue at 135th Street; he knew it vaguely—a loud and unkempt quarter with flashes of poverty and crime. He went on into an ill-kept hall and up dirty and creaking stairs, half-lighted, and knocked on a door. There were loud voices within—loud, continuous quarreling voices. He knocked again.
“Come in, man, don’t stand there pounding the door down.”
Matthew opened the door. The room was hot with a mélange of smoke, bad air, voices, and gesticulations. Groups were standing and sitting about, lounging, arguing, and talking.
Sometimes they shouted and seemed on the point of blows, but blows never came. They appeared tremendously in earnest without a trace of smile or humor. This puzzled Matthew at first until he caught their broad a’s and curious singing lilt of phrase. He realized that all or nearly all were West Indians. He knew little of the group. They were to him singular, foreign and funny. He had never been in a group of them before. He looked about.
“Is Mr. Perigua in?”
Someone waved carelessly toward the end of the room without pause in argument or gesture. Matthew discovered there a low platform, a rickety railing, and within, a table and several men. They were talking, if anything, louder and faster than the rest. With difficulty he traced his way toward them.
“Mr. Perigua?”
No response—but another argument of which Matthew understood not a word.
“May I speak with Mr. Perigua?”
A man whirled toward him.
“Don’t you see I’m busy, man? Where’s the sergeant-at-arms? Why can’t you protect the privacy of my office when I’m in conference?”
A short, fat, black man reluctantly broke off an intense declamation and hastened up.
“What can I do for you? Are you a member?”
He seemed a bit suspicious.
“I don’t know—I have a message for Mr. Perigua.”
“Give it to me.”
“It is not written—it is verbal.”
“All right, tell me; I’m Mr. Perigua’s representative—official sergeant-at-arms of this—” he hesitated and looked suspiciously at Matthew again—“club.”
Perigua had heard his name repeated and turned again. He was a thin, yellow man of middle size, with flaming black hair and luminous eyes. He was perpetual motion, talking, gesticulating, smoking.
“What?” he said.
“A message.”
“From where?”
“From—abroad.”
Perigua leaped to his feet.
“Get out,” he cried to his fellows—“State business. Committee will meet again tomorrow night—What? Then Tuesday—No? Well, then tomorrow at noon—You can’t—Well, we’ll meet without you. Do you think the world must stand still while you guzzle? Come in. Sergeant, I’m engaged. Keep the gate. Well?”
Matthew sat down within the rail on a chair with half a back. The black eyes blazed into his, and the long thin fingers worked. The purple hair writhed out of place.
“I’ve been in—Berlin.”
“Yes?”
“And certain persons—”
“Yes, yes, man. My God! Get on with it.”
“—gave me a message—a word of greeting for Mr. Perigua.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Are you Mr. Perigua?”
“My God, man—don’t you know me? Is there anybody in New York that doesn’t know Perigua? Is there anybody in the world? Gentlemen”—he leaped to the rail—“am I Perigua?”
A shout went up.
“Perigua—Perigua forever!” And a song with some indistinguishable rhyme on “Perigua forever” began to roll until he stopped it with an impatient shout and gesture.
“Shut up. I’m busy.”
Matthew whispered to him. Perigua listened and rose to his feet with transfigured face.
“Man—My God! Come!” He tore toward the door.
“Le jour de gloire est arrivé! Come, man,” he shouted, and dragging Matthew, he reached the door and turned dramatically:
“Men, I have news—great news—the greatest! Salute this Ambassador from the World—who brings salvation. There will be a plenary council tomorrow night. Midnight. Pass the word. Adieu.” And as they passed out, Matthew heard the song swell again—“Perigua, Perigua, Per—”
They passed upstairs to another room. It was a bedroom, dirty, disheveled, stuffed with furniture and with stale smells of food and tobacco. A scrawny woman, half-dressed, rose from the bed, and at an impatient sign from Perigua went into the next room and closed the door.
Perigua grasped Matthew by both hands and hugged him.
“Man,” he gasped, “man, God knows you’re welcome. I am on my last legs. I don’t know where to turn. The landlord has dispossessed us, bills are pouring in, and over the country, the world, the brethren are clamoring. Now all is well. We are recognized—recognized by the great leaders of Asia and Africa. Pan-Africa stands at last beside Pan-Asia, and Europe trembles.”
Matthew felt his spirits droop. This man was no leader, he was too theatrical. Matthew felt that he must get at the facts before he took any steps.
“But tell me—all about your plans,” he said.
“Who are you?” countered Perigua.
Matthew answered frankly.
“I am a Pullman porter. I was a student in medicine, but I quit. I went to Europe and there by accident met people who had heard of you and your plans. They were not agreed, I must say plainly, as to their feasibility, but they commissioned me to investigate.”
“Did they send any money?”
“None at present. Later, if my reports are satisfactory, they may.”
“And you are a porter? How long have you been in service?”
Matthew answered: “Since this morning. You see, I came back as a scullion. Had some trouble on the boat because I was a stowaway, but despite all, they gave me fifty dollars for my work and offered to hire me permanently. I took the money, bought some clothes, and applied for a Pullman job. It seemed to me that it offered the best opportunity to see and know the Negroes of this land.”
“You’re right, man, you’re right. Have any trouble getting on?”
“Not much.”
Perigua pondered. “See here,” he said, “I’ll make you Inspector of my organization and give you letters to my centers. Travel around as porter. Sound out the country—test out the organization. Make your report soon and get some money. Something must happen, and happen soon.”
“But what—” began Matthew.
Matthew never forgot that story. Out of the sordid setting of that room rose the wild head of Perigua, haloed dimly in the low-burning gas. Far out in street and alley groaned, yelled, and sang Harlem. The snore of the woman came fitfully from the next room, and Perigua talked.
Matthew had at first thought him an egotistic fool. But Perigua was no fool. He next put him down as an ignorant fanatic—but he was not ignorant. He was well read, spoke French and Spanish, read German, and knew the politics of the civilized world and current events surprisingly well. Was he insane? In no ordinary sense of the word; wild, irresponsible, impulsive, but with brain and nerves that worked clearly and promptly.
He had a big torn map of the United States on the wall with little black flags clustered over it, chiefly in the South.
“Lynchings,” he said briefly. “Lynchings and riots in the last ten years.” His eyes burned. “Know how to stop lynching?” he whispered.
“Why—no, except—”
“We know. Dynamite. Dynamite for every lynching mob.”
Matthew started and grew uneasy. “But,” he objected, “they occur sporadically—seldom or never twice in the same place.”
“Always a half dozen in Mississippi and Georgia. Three or four in South Carolina and Florida. There’s a lynching belt. We’ll blow it to hell with dynamite from airplanes. And then when the Ku Klux Klan meets some time, we’ll blow them up. Terrorism, revenge, is our program.”
“But—” began Matthew as sweat began to ooze.
Perigua waved. He was a man difficult to interrupt. “We’ve got to have messengers continuously traveling to join our groups together and spread news and concert action. The Pullman porters have a new union on old-fashioned lines. I’m trying to infiltrate with the brethren. See? Now you’re going to take a job as Inspector and run on a key route. Where are you running now?”
“New York to Atlanta.”
“Good! Boys don’t like running south. You can do good work there.”
“But just a moment—are the Negroes back of you ready for this—this—”
“To a man! That is, the real Negroes—the masses, when they know and understand—most of them are too ignorant and lazy—but when they know! Of course, the nabobs and aristocrats, the college fools and exploiters—they are like the whites.”
Matthew thought rapidly. He did not believe a word Perigua said, but the point was to pretend to believe it. He must see. He must investigate. It was wild, unthinkable, terrible. He must see this thing through.