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CHRISSIE
I am exhausted. We have been doing this for two weeks now and all I feel like doing is falling onto the bed, to sleep forever.
I am so glad this tour is over, and I can go home. Running onto the stage every night, pretending to be happy, smiling, when in fact I am miserable, is exhausting. It is strenuous playing The Great Divide on the piano every night and feel as if chunks of my heart are being ripped out, piece-by-piece, as a wild animal would rip at a carcass.
I am so glad this will not be my permanent lifestyle, it always looks like so much fun but, to be honest, it is not. It is nice singing the songs, to write the songs, to hear them on the radio, but the touring part of being a musician is emotionally and physically draining.
Downstairs the fans have gathered and is calling Vincent’s name continuously – it is starting to grate on my nerves.
There is a knock at my door and I walk toward it agitated, it is most certainly not Vincent, because for the last week and a half they have gone ‘fan-spotting’ every night, whatever that means, and to be honest I do not even want to know.
I open the door and struggle for breath when I see Vincent standing there, my heart reeling wildly in my chest. “Yes?” I say hurriedly, agitated.
He pushes past me into the room, and I turn around to look at him.
I am gnashing my teeth, and I am so annoyed. I feel frustrated because I have once again allowed him to push past me into my room – basically, back into my life. I am hoping he is unable to see the hurt in my eyes, as he sits down on the chair.
There is only one chair in the room, so I stay standing. He looks at me from across the room. “I am so sorry.” He glances at something behind me, when he says, “That night when we fell asleep on your bed...” He stops talking and then takes a deep breath before he continues, “I woke up, and I lay next to you, looking at you, and then seeing your pale skin against mine when I brushed a lock of hair away from your face made me realize you are becoming too big a part of my life. My life is incomplete without you and I am scared to experience it when it is complete because then I will know what I am missing when we must go back to reality. I spent the last week and a half, pretending what I feel for you is not real, but all I am doing is lying to myself, because I love you so much it could possibly destroy me.”
He looks at me expectantly, but I say nothing. If I say anything now, I will start crying, and there is no way I am going to cry, after the way he treated me during the last week and a half.
He sits back into the chair, and he lets his head lean back. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, and then he continues, “You see, my Dad really hates white people. A white woman accused his grandfather of stealing two apples from her, a long time ago. My dad says his father was innocent and even if he was not, he was hungry and the apples were just hanging in the tree, going rotten. White men caught my grandfather and then they strung him up by his neck and hung him from a tree after tying his hands behind his back, in front of my grandmother and my father.” He pauses briefly, and then he asks, his voice pensive, “Did you know in those days they actually had designated hanging trees?”
I shake my head—no
“And then, of course,” he continues. “My grandmother was humiliated when my dad was a young boy. They had to sit in the back of buses, there were white only areas. My dad used to hear his young friends wish they were white, so they could also live in fancy houses and drive fancy cars. They had no rights, and white people were just downright mean and horrible to black people. My dad promised himself he would work himself out of oppression, and even though he is successful and truly wealthy now, most white people still treat him like something they would scrape off the bottoms of their shoes.”
He stops talking for a while, looking at me, deep in thought, contemplating, and then he says, “My great- grandmother was raped by a white man, and so now, every so often the white shines through, and that is why I am more of a dark, caramel brown.” He laughs a bitter sound and then motions with his hand up at his face. “With green eyes.”
I am too shocked to say anything, and he continues, smiling cruelly, “My dad has told me since I was a little boy that just as God created the cheetah and the lion, so he created the white man and the black man – and you will never see a cheetah dance around and frolic with a lion, now would you? Telling me a black man can never and must never marry a white girl and produce offspring because surely then your soul will go to hell.”
He takes a deep breath, looking at my face. “I forgot all about his stories, because I was never interested in any white girl, before you. I cannot tell whether it was because of his warnings or if I just never was. Then I saw you, and it was as if no story and warning about my soul going to hell if I loved you mattered. How can it even be possible if God created us equally? Honestly, Chrissie, I love you, although it goes against everything I believe. I feel with you as if I can conquer anything, with you I feel as if I was always lost, waiting to be found until you found me.”
I stare at him, and his eyes are sad, hopeful. I say, barely audible, “My dad used to tell me, as far back as I can remember that if I ever brought home a black boyfriend, he would shoot him.” I consider for a moment, and then I say, “And, I do not have a reason like you why my dad does not like black people – he just doesn’t.” I can feel the waves of despair crashing over me, twirling me around repeatedly. I need air, but there is none. I cannot breathe, and my world is spinning. I could never be who he is, and likewise he could never be who I am.
Although we love each other, it will never be enough. From the beginning of time, although white people and black people have always had two eyes, a nose, a mouth, the same feelings, a heart that beats to the same rhythm, we are different, segregated, never to be together. Maybe in a million years, our children’s children will see each other as equal, but for now, there is no hope for Vincent and me.
I drop my head into my hands, and I cry. I feel him coming closer to me, and then he is pulling me into the circle of his arms, holding me to him tightly.
He lifts my head with his fingers lightly under my chin and looking into his eyes; I know I will always love him. He leans down to me and he kisses me, softly, tenderly.
He lets me go and then walking toward the door, I suddenly fear he might be leaving. Walk out of the door again, and I want to call out to tell him not to go, but to stay with me. He stops at the door and then he switches off the bedroom light. Slowly he walks back to me and he pulls me gently with him until we reach the bed. He lies down onto the bed, pulling me with him, and I lie down next to him, moving closer to him into his arms.
The yellow amber light of the outside is shining through the window and I can see it reflected in his eyes.
His eyes seem so sad and I want to take it all away, but I know I never could. He leans closer into me and he kisses me softly on my cheek, moving his lips to my eyes. I see him clenching his jaw and when I look up at him, I see tears in his eyes. His eyes are gleaming brightly, yet he does not allow the tears to run down his cheeks. He whispers softly, “I love you, Chrissie.”
I move even closer into him, while his warm hand moves in under my shirt. “I love you.”
