How to Make Love to a Negro without Getting Tired

Cannibalism with a Human Face

A DISCREET knock-knock-knock at the door. I open. Miz Literature comes in, arms loaded with pâté, croissants, cheese (brie, oka, camembert), smoked sausages, French bread, Greek desserts and a bottle of wine. I make a summary stab at housekeeping, all aglow at the prospect of eating something besides Zorbaburgers or spaghetti à la DaGiovanni.

I throw open the window: dry, burning air pours into the room in waves. I clear the sink of dirty plates and glasses and drain the soapy water. The fly is sucked downward into a better world. “I swear, by the moon!” (Sura LXXIV, 35.) Farewell, Fly.

Miz Literature finishes cleaning the table. She puts water on to boil for tea. I get comfortable. She fills my glass with wine. I close my eyes. To be waited on by an English girl (Allah is great). Fulfillment is mine. The world is opening to my desires.

I begin to look at Miz Literature with new eyes, though she hasn’t changed. She’s a tall girl, a little hunched over, with albatross arms, her eyes are a little too bright (too trusting), she has pianist’s fingers and a face with astonishingly regular features. Apparently she never had to wear braces, incredible for an Outremont girl. She has small breasts and wears a size 10 shoe.

“Aren’t you eating?” I ask her.

“No.”

She answers with a smile. The smile is a British invention. Actually, the British brought it back from one of their Japanese campaigns.

“Don’t you want to eat?”

“I’ll just watch you,” she breathes.

Just like that, with her eyes on mine.

“I see. You’ll just watch me.”

“I’ll watch you.”

“You like watching me eat?”

“You have such a good appetite. ”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Watching you eat fascinates me. You eat with such passion. I’ve never seen anyone do it like you do.”

“Is it funny to watch?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I find it moving, that’s all.”

Watching me eat moves her. Miz Literature is incredible. She was brought up to believe everything she’s told. Her cultural heritage. I can tell her the most outlandish stories and she’ll nod her head and stare with those believing eyes. She’ll be moved. I can tell her I consume human flesh, that somewhere in my genetic code the desire to eat white flesh is inscribed, that my nights are haunted by her breasts, her hips, her thighs, I swear it, I can tell her all that and more and she’ll understand. She’ll believe me. Imagine: she’s studying at McGill (venerable institution to which the bourgeoisie sends its children to learn clarity, analysis and scientific doubt) and the first Negro to tell her some kind of fancy tale takes her to bed. Why? Because she can afford that luxury. I surrender to the least bit of naïveté, even for a second, and I’m one dead nigger. Literally. I have to be a moving target, otherwise, at the first emotion, my ass would be grass. Miz Literature can afford a clean clear conscience. She has the means. I gave up on that luxury a long time ago. No conscience. No paradise lost. No promised land. You tell me: what good can a conscience possibly do me? It can only cause problems for a Negro brimming over with unappeased fantasies, desires and dreams. Put it this way: I want America. Not one iota less. With her Radio City girls, her buildings, her automobiles, her enormous waste — even her bureaucracy. I want it all: good and bad, what you throw away and what you keep, the ugly and beautiful alike. America is a totality. What do you expect me to do with a conscience? I can’t afford one anyway. The way things are going, it would be down at the pawnshop in a flash.

I have to make sure not to bug Miz Literature about being so nice. She’s still the best thing a Negro can afford in these hard times of ours.