A light rain fell in the City the next morning, almost like steam in the humid air. Frings carried an umbrella, but his clothes were still somehow getting wet. It was early, not yet nine, and the streets were quiet, even for this part of town. Frings took his time despite the rain, his head still a little foggy from sleep, the heat slowing him down.
He’d left Renate sleeping, her hair spread across the pillow, reminding him of Lenore in the river, her hair floating around her pale face. He’d been about to kiss Renate on the forehead, an almost rote gesture, but he hadn’t. Because of the association with Lenore? Or something else? He tried to make sense of this as he walked through the misting rain.
The weather seemed to have scared off the crowd from Father Womé’s stoop, but two huge bodyguards nevertheless loomed underneath the awning on either side of the front door, scowling and making quiet conversation, eyeing Frings’s approach.
As Frings turned to ascend the steps, the guards bounded down, guns drawn, Frings’s head in their sights. Frings dropped his umbrella and put his hands up.
“What’s your business here?”
Frings looked from one man to the other, getting nothing back. “I want to speak with Father Womé.”
The man who seemed to be in charge frowned and shook his head. “Not going to happen.”
“Come on, fellas. I’m with the Gazette, my name’s Frank Frings. I’ve spoken with him before.”
The guard shrugged as if it couldn’t have made less difference. Without his umbrella, Frings was becoming soaked through; Womé’s men, too.
“Look, can you put the guns away? I’m not armed.”
The guard in charge nodded to the other, who holstered his gun and gave Frings a quick, professional pat-down. Finished, he nodded to the guard in charge, and he, in turn, holstered his piece. Frings put his hands down, feeling the tension ease a notch.
“How about this? Can one of you go in and ask Father Womé if I can have a few minutes of his time? I’m with the biggest newspaper in the City. We’ve talked before. If he doesn’t want to talk, I’ll leave.” He looked from one to the other.
The guard in charge said, “This about last night?”
“Last night?”
The guard in charge shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Yeah, well, last time I was here, he told me about the assaults down by the shanties; asked me to look into them. I did. I want to tell him what I found out. Can you give him that message? Let him make the decision?”
The guard in charge nodded and the other man climbed the stairs and disappeared into the house.
Frings wasn’t led upstairs this time. Instead, he followed a guard down a narrow hall draped with what appeared, in the dim light, to be cloth hangings, probably African. Frings was presented to Father Womé in a small room off an enormous kitchen. Womé sat at a modest white table, eating a breakfast of fruit and cheese. A cup of steaming coffee was placed by an empty chair. Womé looked up at Frings and nodded to the chair, his face showing none of the warmth of their previous meeting. His lids threatened to close altogether, his lips were pressed into a tight, concise line.
“Mr. Frings.”
“Father Womé.”
“How can I help you?” Womé’s voice seemed to come from far away. Something about him was off.
“Last time I came here you asked me to look into the assaults by the shanties.”
Womé didn’t answer, focusing on peeling an orange with a small knife.
“Well, I did; and you were right. The police sat on the investigation. And there’s a reason why they did.”
Womé pulled his eyes from the orange to fix Frings with a tired stare.
Frings said, “The officer in charge of the investigation; he was one of the men committing the assaults.”
Womé nodded.
Frings said, “You probably already know that, what with your people beating the hell out of him and his friends the other night.”
“My people?” Womé slid a slice of orange into his mouth and began to chew.
“Uhuru Community people.”
“Yes. That’s true.”
“I’m not sure I understand why you don’t consider them your people.”
Frings waited for Womé to finish with his bite of orange.
Womé wiped his mouth with a napkin. “The Community people are indeed my people. But you—all of you—mistakenly see the Community people as unified, everyone the same. These people who took revenge on the group of violent fanatics, they are not the same as the women who work with your friend Carla Bierhoff, who are not the same people as the leaders in the Square. These are all my people, but … Am I clear?”
Frings nodded. “So, who took care of those ‘fanatics’?”
“Young men. Followers of Samedi.”
“Samedi?”
Womé waved away the question. “You have never been to the Square. In two days’ time you must come to the shanties with your friend Carla Bierhoff. You must witness the Square. You can’t understand the Uhuru Community without seeing the Square.”
“What’s the Square?”
Womé shook his head. “Two days’ time.”
This was as far as Frings was going to get on this topic.
“Things will most likely get worse, you realize. We’re sitting on the story about the second body they found, but not for much longer. It’s going to come out. And that cop? He’s going to be a martyr.”
Womé was ripping apart a roll now, releasing the smell of fresh bread into the room. Frings remembered his coffee and took a sip—dark, bitter.
Womé said, “Again, the perils of living in white man’s society. This is why the Community is so important. When we are strong, our strength is twisted against us. Do I know that things will get worse? Of course. A group of men endeavored to set fire to the shanties last night. But they met resistance.”
“From Samedi’s people?”
Womé shrugged. “Them. Others. We aren’t victims, Mr. Frings. We are merely disadvantaged in our struggle.”
“Mel Washington is one of my people and I love him as I love the rest.”
Frings wondered what Mel would think about being characterized as one of Womé’s people. “You understand that his presence in the Commmunity just encourages the anticommunists and rightists to come after you.”
Womé laughed a short, sour laugh. “Anticommunists and rightists? These are but a small number of the people who hate the Uhuru Community and what it stands for. Do you think that if Mel Washington and Betty Askins and Warren Eddings were sent away from the Community, that these people you mentioned would suddenly support us; want to help us; even tolerate us? Mel Washington is a very important member of the Uhuru Community even though, like me, he does not live in the shanties. Would I turn my back on him to curry favor with my enemies?” Womé ripped another roll in two. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking we will allow ourselves to be victims. We aspire to peace through isolation. But if our community is put in jeopardy, we will do what is necessary. I think people will be surprised by our capacity in this regard.”
Frings nodded, thinking about the symbol painted on Ed Wayne’s door. “What about the girls?”
“Girls?”
“The dead girls … on the riverbank.”
“Two girls?”
“The two girls they found on the riverbank by the Community. The first girl, downriver, nobody paid much attention. This second, once the story gets out, will be trouble.”
Womé put down his roll. “Two girls. Two girls when we are weighing the fate of an entire community. Are Negro lives really so lacking in value?”