The Four-Chambered Heart Read Free Page A

No black man
is going to get me out of here. I have a right to be here.”
    Rango wanted to throw him out, but Djuna held
him back.
    “He’s drunk. He’ll be quiet tomorrow.”
    All night the watchman danced, spat, snored,
cursed, and threatened. He drummed on his tin plate.
    Rango’s anger grew, and Djuna remembered other
people saying: “The old man is stronger than he looks. I’ve seen him knock down
a man like nothing.” She knew Rango was stronger, but she feared the old man’s
treachery. A stab in the back, an investigation, a scandal. Above all, Rango
might be hurt.
    “Leave the barge and let me attend to him,”
said Rango. Djuna dissuaded him, calmed his anger, and they fell asp at dawn.
    When they came out at noon, the old watchman
was already on the quays, drinking red wine with the hobos, spitting into the
river as they passed, with ostentatious disdain.

    The bed was low on the floor; the tarred beams
creaked over their heads. The stove was snoring heat, the river water patted
the barge’s sides, and the street lamps from the bridge threw a faint yellow
light into the room.
    When Rango began to take Djuna’s shoes off, to
warm her feet in his hands, the old man of the river began to shout and sing,
throwing his cooking pans against the wall:

    Nanette gives freely
    what others charge for.
    Nanette is generous,
    Nanette gives love
    Under a red lantern
    Rango leaped up, furious, eyes and hair
wild, big body tense, and rushed to the old man’s cabin. He knocked on the
door. The song stopped for an instant, and was resumed:
    Nanette wore a ribbon
    In her black hair.
    Nanette never counted
    All she gave…
    Then he drummed on his tin plate and was
silent.
    “Open the door!” shouted Rango.
    Silence.
    Then Rango hurled himself against the door,
which gave way and tore into splinters.
    The old watchman lay half naked on a pile of
rags, with his beret on his head, soup stains on his beard, holding a stick
which shook from terror.
    Rango looked like Peter the Great, six feet
tall, black hair flying, all set for battle.
    “Get out of here!”
    The old man was dazed with drunkenness, and he
refused to move. His cabin smelled so badly that Djuna stepped back. There were
pots and pans all over the floor, unwashed, and hundreds of old wine bottles
exuding a rancid odor.
    Rango forced Djuna back into e bedroom and went
to fetch the police.
    Djuna heard Rango return with the policeman,
and heard his explanations. She heard the policeman say to the watchman: “Get
dressed. The owner told you to leave. I have an injunction here. Get dressed.”
    The watchman lay there, fumbling for his
clothes. He could not find the top of his pants. He kept looking down into one
of the pant’s legs as if surprised at its smallness. He mumbled. The policeman
waited. They could not dress him because he would turn limp. He kept muttering:
“Well, what do I care? I used to be captain of a yacht. Something white and
smart, not one of these broken-down barges. I used to have a white suit, too.
Suppose you do throw me into the river, it’s all the same to me. I don’t care
if I die. I’m not a bad old man. I run errands for you, don’t I? I fetch water,
don’t I? I bring coal. What if I do sing a bit at night?”
    “You don’t just sing a bit,” said Rango. “You
make a hell of a noise every time you come home. You bang your pails together,
you raise hell, you bang on the walls, you’re always drunk, you fall down the
stairs.”
    “I was sound asleep, wasn’t I? Sound asleep, I
tell you. Who knocked the door down, tell me? Who broke into my cabin? I’ll not
get out. I can’t find my pants. These aren’t mine, they’re too small.”
    Then he began to sing:
    Laissez moi tranquille,
    Je ferais le mort.
    Ma chandelle est morte
    Et ma femme aussi.

    Then Rango, the policeman, and Djuna all began
to laugh. No one could stop laughing. The old man looked so dazed and innocent.
    “You can stay if you’re quiet,” said