Frings watched City blocks go by from the back of a jitney. They passed through a neighborhood of low buildings and signs in Chinese characters. The streets here were narrow and the sidewalks teemed with women in wide, conical hats who made way for crouched older men, shuffling along with purpose. Frings caught quick glances of people gazing out of second-story windows, their faces blurred by the sun hitting the glass.
He thought about something Mel Washington had said the other night, that Frings was sympathetic to their cause. This had gnawed at him—sympathetic to their cause. Frings, contrary to some people’s belief, wasn’t a communist and not even a communist sympathizer, though he preferred them to the rabid anticommunists whom he saw more and more frequently—Truffant their best-known face. Frings was, though, sympathetic to racial justice, and he rationalized that this was the “cause” he’d struck the deal with Washington to support. Mel’s communism was his means to achieving freedom and equality, and Frings didn’t necessarily have a problem with that. He wondered, though, if this distinction—his support of justice, not communism—would make much difference if their plot was uncovered.
The cab dropped Frings in front of Father Womé’s brownstone, in an elite neighborhood of high-level bureaucrats, lawyers, and doctors. A group of maybe a dozen clearly impoverished Negroes sat on the stone steps below the stoop, where two imposing guards stood impassively, sweating in dark suits and bowlers. Frings’s arrival brought an end to whatever activities had been taking place as everyone’s attention turned to him. Frings gave them a stoned grin and turned to the two men on the stoop.
“Hi, fellas, I’m expected.”
“Frank Frings?”
“That’s right.”
“Clear the stairs,” the man ordered, and to the extent that a dozen people can be a sea, they parted.
Frings ascended, half grin still in place.
It was, Frings thought, an ostentatious home for a man leading a community of the destitute. Inside, the place was appointed with a seemingly random assemblage of objects—a greenish vase on a pedestal; an embalmed leopard rearing unconvincingly on its hind legs, front claws extended and face in blood ecstasy; colorful, wall-hung hammered-tin masks; a bust carved from dark wood, its face elongated; and so forth. It was the type of place that should have been dim and dusty, but all the surfaces shone. Frings paused, checking out the artifacts, noticed the guard waiting for him, and took a couple of quick steps to catch up.
He followed the man as they climbed a broad staircase into a hallway with honest-to-God flaming sconces—in this heat?—and waited as the man knuckle-rapped three times on a heavy oak door. Apparently hearing an answer, he pushed the door open and stepped aside to allow Frings to enter.
Father Womé sat in a chair that he probably considered a throne, high-backed with dark wooden arms ending in lion-head finials that Womé cupped in his small, well-manicured hands. He had, Frings thought, a very African face—high, wide cheekbones and dark eyes set far apart. His forehead was broad and sloped gently back. His smile, as he greeted Frings, was brilliant. Sitting across from him, Frings could feel Womé’s energy. It was similar, he thought, to the odd sensation of putting your finger between two repelling magnets. Or maybe it was the reefer.
“Forgive me for being surprised by your decision to visit,” Father Womé said. “We don’t enjoy much notice in your newspaper.”
“I should be the one to apologize.” Frings wasn’t sure what to call the man. “I’m afraid we’ve been negligent in our duties where you are concerned.” He wondered why he was speaking so formally. He felt as if he were in church, overdoing the deference to compensate for his atheism.
Womé motioned, putting the palms of his hands up as if to say that these small injustices happen. “What brings you here today?”
“As I said, we’ve been negligent. You must be aware of the rumors and lies about the Uhuru Community. I think we have a duty to investigate the truth.”
Womé smiled. “I’m gratified that you find our Community newsworthy.”
Frings smiled back, not sure how to interpret this response. Was he being mocked or thanked? Frings pulled his pad and pen from his jacket pocket. “Maybe we can start with why you created the Uhuru Community in the first place.”
“Mr. Frings, I know that you aren’t oblivious to the struggles faced by Negroes in this City and, in truth, this country. In bad times, in times of war, the Negro’s status is elevated—he is called upon as an equal to help defend his country of residence. We fought in the war and we saved Europe. The Negro fought—whether he was British, French, yes, if he was American. But in times of peace, the Negro is once again consigned to inferior status.
“There is no justice, Mr. Frings, but through strength. And there is no strength but in freedom. As long as we are deceived into believing that Negroes can be strong and receive justice in a society where they hold no power, we are trapped.
“We are endeavoring to create our own enclave where Negro peoples can achieve success. Does this answer your question?”
It was a well-rehearsed sermon, and Frings found himself moved despite the lack of spontaneity. He was tempted to ask Father Womé to repeat it, but more slowly so that he, Frings, could get all the words. Or, better yet, maybe Father Womé had a printed copy available. Instead, Frings tried to get beyond the rhetoric.
“But you aren’t oblivious to the fact that the very people who are doing the organizing that you talk about are admitted communists. Is this really how you want your Community to be governed?”
Father Womé squinted his eyes in a merry expression. “I bring people together, Mr. Frings. I give them a safe place. I provide them with sustenance. I give them freedom from oppression. What they do with this freedom …” He shrugged. “That is their prerogative. And I suspect”—here Frings detected a gleam in Womé’s eyes—“that your feelings about the political philosophy of some of my people are not as negative as your statement would suggest.”
Frings laughed, wondering if Womé had intuited this or knew more about Frings than he was letting on. “Let’s go back for a second. You said that you wanted a place where Negroes had freedom, power, justice; have you achieved this in the Uhuru Community?”
Womé’s face went serious. “We have no justice in the Community.”
“Why do you say that?”
“An example: just this week, three assaults against my people. Groups of young Negroes coming back to the Community, attacked on the street in the night by men in masks.”
“Masks? Like the Klan?”
Womé shook his head. “My children said they wore stocking masks or masks around their eyes.”
“Did you notify the police?”
“They call the police. The police come, but they do nothing. No investigation. No arrests.”
This didn’t sound right. “You’re sure there was no investigation?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Womé thundered, giving Frings a peek at another facet of the man’s charisma. “They did nothing.”
Frings ratcheted back. “Father, the impression that a lot of people outside the Community have is that you are worshipped by members of the Uhuru Community. That they consider you to be divine in some way.”
This seemed to change Womé’s mood and he laughed deeply, his hands on his stomach and his head tilted back. “I may not think of the divine in the way that you do.”
Frings didn’t think about the divine at all, but that was beside the point. “How do you mean?”
“I will bring you to the Square sometime. I think you would find that interesting. That would give you something to write about for your paper.”
“The Square?”
“In the Uhuru Community. I’ll bring you there and you can see what you think. God works in mysterious ways. But you must do something for me in return.”
Frings raised his eyebrows.
“Find out why these assaults are not being investigated, Mr. Frings, then you’ll understand why we need the Uhuru Community.”