How to Make Love to a Negro without Getting Tired

Miz Suicide on the Couch

BOUBA IS sitting on the couch like an ancient bhikkhu deciphering Li Po ideograms, with Miz Suicide at his feet, drinking in his words. Behold Miz Suicide: a tall stringy girl with dishwater hair and eyes that are always open a little too wide. Bouba is her suicide consultant. Suicide is her only interest. And the world returns the favor, with the exception of Bouba, who receives her every Tuesday and Thursday, from 4:00 to 4:45 p.m., which makes for three teas at fifteen minutes each.

Miz Suicide brews her own tea in an old samovar, heating up the water on an alcohol lamp. Miz Suicide, you guessed it, journeys through life with a pack of Camels, dirty fingernails and a copy of The Prophet by Khalil Gibran. Bouba unearthed her at the Esoteric Bookstore on St. Denis, across from the Bibliothèque Nationale.

Seated on the couch like a diva in endless improvisation on the phrases of the old Zen master, Bouba creates a singular atmosphere without even trying. In his guttural, mystic voice, he reads the slender, precious book by the bearded poet Li Po on the correct manner of drinking tea.

“First you must learn.” Bouba explains, “how to breathe the tea before proceeding to drink it.”

Miz Suicide listens with the inner concentration of a true bodhisattva.

“Like this?”

“No. Let the bouquet of the tea slowly flow into you.”

Conscientiously, Miz Suicide sticks her nose into the teacup. When she comes up for air, her steamy nose is a horrible sight to see, as if she had just escaped drowning.

“Now,” Bouba instructs her, “you may take the first sip.”

“Not yet,” she says, more fanatic than her master, “I want to breathe it some more.”

I LIE back on the bed, trying to clear the thoughts from my head. Coleman is playing “Blues Connotation.” Bouba speaks in low tones. Miz Suicide drinks her tea with ecstatic expression. I open the window. Down below in the alley, some kids are playing hockey. Six boys, three girls. From up here they look short and squat. The biggest girl is strong but the little one is not really old enough to play. She is too busy hanging onto her dog so he won’t disturb the game. The dog is stronger than she is and he drags her into the fray. She pulls back on the leash, then gives up and drops it. The dog rushes into the melee and grabs the puck from off a stick. Then, according to a well-rehearsed ritual the dog comes back and drops the puck on the girl’s lap. He lays his head in her lap and whimpers. The angry players recover the puck. The girl reprimands the whimpering dog. She pets him. The dog lets himself be petted for a minute or two, then rushes off to disrupt the game again. Darkness settles. The game slows down. The players are tired. The Cross on the Mountain is phosphorescent.

COLEMAN, SIDE B. I’ve been sitting in front of this machine for ten minutes, trying to coax something out of a Remington that belonged to Chester Himes. Bouba and Miz Suicide continue their timeless dialogue. I seek inspiration from the struggles of a cockroach in the sink. (“No mortal eyes can see Him, though he sees all eyes. He is benignant and all-knowing.”) Coleman’s jazz ushers the insect into death. Upstairs, Beelzebub will not forgive us for this latest murder. Miz Suicide gets up for more tea and turns on the water. The Angel of Death.

Bouba sits bare-chested on the couch.

“Do you know Papini?”

“No,” answers Miz Suicide.

“Papini,” Bouba lets on, “wrote some very intelligent things on the subject of suicide.”

“What did he say?”

Miz Suicide’s only suitor is death.

“You see,” Bouba begins, “this Papini was an Italian writer, a totally disillusioned man. In one of his books, he tells the story of a German who wanted to commit suicide.”

Miz Suicide listens like a bodhisattva of the highest degree.

“This gentle, civilized man sought a courteous way of killing himself,” Bouba continues.

“What did he do?”

“He analyzed the methods. He considered all of them brutal, stupid or vulgar, except one. ”

“Yes?. ”

Miz Suicide is feverish with suspense.

“This one: he decided to let himself waste away, physically and morally, day after day.”

“But millions of people do that!”

“Of course. The difference is that he did it methodically.”

An angel passes. A death-angel. Miz Suicide shakes her head. Bouba smiles beatifically. Coleman blows. A pause. Then Miz Suicide drinks her final sip of tea, packs her grip in silence and leaves.

“You really think that empty shell understood your Sermon on the Mount, you bum-wipe Buddha?”

I asked him a little later.

“Why not?”

“Aren’t you afraid she’ll really go and do it one day?”

“On the contrary, man: it’s the only thing that keeps her alive.”

“It’s the only thing that lets you play black Buddha.”

Bouba breaks out in seismic laughter.

“What are you doing with that bag of bones anyway?”

“Ever heard of charity, man?”

“You don’t know the first thing about Buddhism, you Buddha-hole.”

“How dare you say that?”

“You know what the Diamond Sutra says, brother:

Charity is but a word.”

Bouba lets loose another dissonant jazz laugh (a kind of scream shot through with honks).

“The hell with the Diamond Sutra. No Sutra can stand up to the Buddha.”