“Thanks for the lunch, baby.”
It’s hard to believe, but after thirty-one years, I’m once again back in Nice, France. I taught here from 1981 till 1983. This time my stay will be brief.
Back then, my old friend James Baldwin was living a short distance away, in Saint-Paul-de-Vence.
Today, as I step out of the blazing sunshine into the cool Restaurant Tolentini (Jimmy’s favorite restaurant in all of Nice), I see that Jimmy has already arrived for our lunch.
There he is again, with that famous, wide-open smile.
I haven’t seen Jimmy since that last dinner party at my apartment in 1983. That was fun, but I am especially fond of my memory of the little impromptu gathering Jimmy; my wife, Pamela; a few other friends; and I had after the formal ceremony when the university here awarded Jimmy an honorary doctorate.
Jimmy stands as I approach our table, and I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’m surprised to see that he looks exactly the same as when I last saw him. In his fancy blue dress shirt, black slacks, and black loafers, he looks particularly happy and well. His bright smile always lands me in a good mood. We embrace.
He says, “Hey, baby! Good to see you! The years have treated you well.” This is pure Jimmy. He calls everybody he likes “baby.” He puts out his cigarette in the ashtray on our table.
I say, “Hey, Jimmy!”
We sit facing each other.
It’s great to see Jimmy looking so well. Let’s face it, he never had an easy time of it. He preached in a Harlem storefront church from the age of fourteen to seventeen, then as a young man, he moved downtown to the Village, where life was difficult. Finding work was not easy. When he was lucky, he worked as a waiter.
But he was broke a good deal of the time. Sometimes he slept on rooftops. This was in the late 1940s, when legal segregation still existed. Restaurants, for example, routinely refused to serve black people, and public schools were legally segregated by race.
So, in 1948, Jimmy left New York with forty dollars in his pocket. He’d reached his breaking point. And by then he also knew he was a writer and was determined to prove it to the world. A lot had changed since those days: the Supreme Court’s ruling on Brown vs. Board of Education in 1954, the Civil Rights Act of 1964, and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. But a lot also hadn’t changed.
Jimmy moved to Paris, to a hotel, but broke and alone, unable to speak the language, he was very, very lonely. Paris was no immediate panacea. Soon, he was ill. He had no money to pay for doctors or his hotel bill. Rather than putting him out, the elderly Corsican woman who owned the hotel nursed him back to health for three months. This woman was a survivor.
And now, here we were at Restaurant Tolentini. Jimmy knew the maître d’, Maurice, for many years. Maurice is an elegant, middle-aged Frenchman with patrician manners. He doesn’t miss a beat. You can tell that this restaurant is his ship and he’s its captain. Meanwhile, the background music is Mozart’s Magic Flute. As always, I feel comfortable and pampered here.
Restaurant Tolentini’s is airy and plush inside. The white, marble-paved floor is shot through with streaks of green and purple. The restaurant has lots of red velvet drapery, and the tables and chairs are all of highly polished dark oak, with matching red velvet upholstery.
The elaborate crystal chandeliers above us are aglitter with soft light. The wallpaper shows an eighteenth-century outdoor festival with plenty of food and frolicking. The napkins are embossed with the restaurant’s name. The railings are gold chrome.
To the left of us there’s a big long fish tank on the far wall with a variety of native Mediterranean fish: goby, mullet, skate, blackhead, dory, sardinella, and bass, all swimming around and around in their own private universe. It’s lighted like a ship at night, at sea.
The din of voices is rich and low, speaking proper French. We may be in Provence, but this restaurant is no place for provincial rubes.
Maurice strokes his little black moustache.
Jimmy says, “Maurice, this is Clarence Major, a good friend of mine, and a fine writer. He taught here at the university back in the 1980s.”
Maurice says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Major.”
We’re in seats by the window, with a full view of the lush, blooming garden. Maurice places menus before us. He fills our water glasses, leaving the carafe on the table.
Maurice says, “Puis-je vous commencer avec des rafraîchissements?”
“Yes,” says Jimmy, and we order an excellent dry Sauvignon Blanc. Maurice returns with the bottle and expertly uncorks it, pouring a tiny bit in each of our glasses for our approval.
Jimmy sips; I sip. He nods his approval, and so do I. Dry and slightly sweet, it’s an excellent wine. Maurice pours more wine into each glass, bows slightly, then in English says, “We’re not so busy right now, so today, I will be your waiter. It’s always a pleasure to serve you, Monsieur Baldwin.”
Maurice bows slightly and leaves.
“Are you still teaching at the University of California at Davis?” Jimmy asks me.
“No, I’m retired from teaching. I’m writing and painting fulltime now.”
“I remember when you were teaching there. I remember you telling me about your students, many of them from North Africa, how smart they were and how much you were learning from them. Teaching is always better when you too are learning. We had some good times back then. You finished your novel My Amputations here in Nice, didn’t you?”
“That’s right, and I wrote it on manual typewriter. Hard to imagine nowadays, after so many years of working on a computer, how I ever managed to write novels back then on a manual typewriter.”
“I still write in longhand,” says Jimmy, leaving me to quietly wonder just where and how he does this.
“There’s a lot to be said for the tactile assurance of longhand. You’re in touch with each word on a more intimate basis,” I tell him.
Jimmy says, “That’s true.” He pauses for a sip of wine. “Listen! Things everywhere have changed a lot; not just the widespread use of computers and mobile phones. For example, a lot of European countries are turning against foreigners. Think of all the terrorist killings. I’m sure you’ve seen it all on TV. They’ve been rampant in Paris and many of the other major cities of Europe. Over here you never know where the next disaster will happen. It keeps everyone on edge.”
Jimmy sighs and shakes his head, then continues. “It’s depressing: the frequent police killings of unarmed black men; the constant anti-gay killings; the school shootings, with hundreds of kids dead; the rise of so many new hate groups. The growing mania of the gun culture in America; and, of all people, Donald Trump as president. Don’t think I don’t follow what’s going on.”
“I’m sure you do, Jimmy.” I pause. “What about gay marriage now being legal?”
Jimmy says, “That’s a good thing. It surprised me. If it had happened years ago, I would have taken advantage of it.” He drinks his wine. “Seems every time something positive happens in America there’s a negative counteraction.”
“Such as positive Obama, then Trump?”
“Yes, excellent example. It’s the same old backlash every time.”
“And were you surprised to see the country elect a black president?”
“Shocked! I admit, I never thought such a thing could ever happen. Most Americans truly believe race is a real thing. But I tell you, Obama will go down in history as one of our best presidents, certainly one of our most intelligent.”
“I agree.”
Jimmy picks up his menu. “Maybe we should order, huh? What looks good to you?”
I pick up the menu, scanning it. “Remember, Jimmy, lunch is on me.”
“Okay, baby,” Jimmy says, “Why don’t we just order a lot of good stuff and share it?”
“I like that idea.”
For appetizers we decide on tapenade with olives, garlic, anchovies, and capers, as well as onion tarts. For the two main courses we select bouillabaisse and lobster with fettuccine Alfredo and fresh green beans in butter. Our two desserts are a ripe fig dish with fresh feta and petite tomatoes, and socca crepes, with whipped cream and almonds.
Maurice returns, and we order.
Jimmy goes on. “As I was saying, things back in your country look grim.”
I say, “There’s all kinds of delusional thinking. A disturbing number of people in America, for example, don’t believe in climate change, don’t believe we’ve messed up the atmosphere of our planet.”
Jimmy says, “I know. It’s sad. Do we all have to perish before they see the light?”
“Did you hear about the Bush administration’s response to Hurricane Sandy?”
“Sure did: depressing and shameful.”
I say, “I found it depressing that Congress refused to work with President Obama for the good of the country, even when they agreed with what he wanted to do. They started out saying they wanted him to fail.”
Jimmy smiles. “Baby, you have to keep the faith; you know that.”
“Yes, I do know that. And I try, I try.”
“You know, Clarence, I’ve said it many times: my country was America, and I still love my country, and for that reason I reserve the right to criticize it.”
“As well you should. You always felt that it’s the business of the writer to disturb the peace.”
I’m looking at Jimmy. After all these years I still think of him as a mentor, a big brother, and a father figure, but long before I knew him as a person, I knew him as an ideal writer, and as such, he was for me a beacon and a mainstay.
“I remember one time when I was living here, Jimmy, you left for one of your visits to the States, and at the same time, I also left France. I went to Africa on a lecture tour with stops in Liberia, Ghana, Ivory Coast, and Algeria.”
“I remember that. When you came back you told me all about that trip. It reminded me of my first trip to Africa. I wrote an article about it for The New Yorker. I had conflicting feelings. I knew I was not returning home. Africa was the land of my ancestors, but America was my home.”
I say, “That’s what I felt, too.”
At this point, Maurice brings out our appetizers and refills our water and wine glasses. There is a pause in our conversation while we start eating.
When we are done with the appetizers, the main course arrives, and Jimmy and I eat for a while, still without talking, just enjoying the food, the music (now the frisky, playful Eine kleine Nachtmusik), the ambience and atmosphere of Tolentini’s, and of course, each other’s company.
Then Jimmy says, “What’re you working on these days?”
“A novel.”
“Is it going well?”
I say, “Yes, except that I have to keep stopping to do other things, such as take out the garbage, make dinner, and write an essay for a magazine or a foreword to a book I like; you name it. It’s life.”
Jimmy says, “I remember writing my first novel and discovering in each paragraph things I really didn’t want to face, but something in me was driving me to face those hidden realities anyway, and I discovered things about myself by writing that book. I discovered not so much who I was at the time but who I was not. A lot of it I improvised.”
“I hear you.”
I notice Maurice watching us from across the room, waiting for his cue.
“Jimmy, your fiction is realistic, it’s true, but when I read your novels I can see how you were improvising every step of the way, like a jazz musician riffing. The ostinato is there. The repeated chord is there. There is a pattern to your prose. How is that not improvisation?”
“Sure, but in the end you hide all of that to let the story rise to the surface. That is the important thing. The story! If you leave your workings, your improvisations, on the surface, you are likely to be bored, and if it bores you, it’s going to bore your reader.”
“Touché!” I tell Jimmy. “I’ve stopped writing things and torn them up because they bored me. Sometimes it was the story, other times, the writing. But I knew there was no point in going on.” I pause for a sip of wine. “I got serious about writing when I was quite young, so over time I’ve learned a lot by practice and by instinct. I’ve learned to trust my gut feelings and to rely on them to drive what I’ve learned about technique.”
Jimmy says, “As you know, my father’s death was a turning point for me. That was the moment I got really serious about focusing all my energy on writing, on making a career of it. At that point I was now the male head of my family, and I was not going to let them down. And more importantly I was not going to let myself down.”
“I hear you.” Jimmy is referring to going to his father’s funeral through the 1943 riot–torn streets of Harlem. He was nineteen at the time.
Maurice places our desserts before us. We stop talking and dive into them with unapologetic bravado.
When our plates have been fully ravaged, Maurice returns and asks, “How was your lunch, gentlemen?”
Jimmy beams. “As usual, Maurice, everything was delicious, and you were splendid.”
I say, “Absolutely delicious!”
“Merci, messieurs!” he says, “Would you like a little digestive drink?”
“I’m up for it; how about you, Clarence?”
“Sure. How about cognac?”
Jimmy says, “Cognac is an excellent choice.”
Maurice says, “Cognac it is.”
Maurice leaves us and sends a busboy to clear away the dishes, then delivers our cognac. Jimmy and I linger another half hour over it, enjoying the moment, the music, our friendship.
When it’s time, I fish out my credit card and pay.
“Thanks for the lunch, baby.”
“Anytime, Jimmy. I feel so lucky that we could get together and talk again.”
“I will always be here, baby. Never forget that.”
I excuse myself to visit the restroom, but when I return, Jimmy has vanished.
What will never leave me, however, is that spectacular smile, wide and warm.
Clarence Major is a poet, painter, and novelist. He is the author of thirty-nine books, and among his awards are a National Book Award Bronze Medal, the National Council on the Arts Award, the Western States Book Award, PEN Oakland–Reginald Lockett Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Stephen Henderson Poetry Award for Outstanding Achievement.