Cahokia Jazz

by Francis Spufford

Not to mention dues, and tributes, and tiepins, and rule books, and newspapers, and any other kind of Krap you can spell with a ‘K.’

Hands were ready to take Couma’s coat, to hold her chair, to offer menus, to lower a subservient flame to the tip of the cigarette in her jet-black holder. There was no need to ask for anything; it was always there already, waiting.

“No,” said Kroeber. “I was married, but she died.” “The whole story in six words,” said Couma bitterly.

What is being attempted here is a repetition of the strategy that worked in Texas and in California, last century, and in Hawaii only twenty or so years ago. Make trouble; demand outside intervention to restore order; when you get it, make sure that the order that is restored conveniently wipes away native power and native property rights. All in line with the great unspoken principle of American history, detective. Which is, if it’s worth having, the red man shall not be allowed to keep it.”

Oscar indicated the car with the burning end of his smoke. “Just remember,” he said, “they’re not like us. They’re flames. They burn. If you get too close they burn you.”

“Mr. Barrow,” she said. “Am I a doll? Am I a rabbit?” “You are not,” he said. “Sorry, I misspoke. You are a woman of dignity. Since this morning, you terrify me slightly.”

“Yeah,” said Barrow, feeling the pleasure that comes of talking about the beloved. Secondary, dilute, not as good at all as their real presence, but you don’t turn it away.

She looked up at him through the smoke and licked him again with her eyes, this time exaggeratedly.

I’ma say one more thing, then I said my piece. There’s ‘freedom,’ like the po-litical thing—and then there’s ‘freedom’ like… bein’ free, feelin’ free. That’s what you get in the music, my opinion. You, me and Stukeley last night? Three free men, con-versing. I know you felt that. That’s where I’m callin’ you to come live, Joe Barrow. Not in Mizzippy, ’cept, you know, in-ci-dent-ally. In the music.”

“I am not an ‘Indian,’ ” he said. “That is a name for a navigation error. Do you want to know what I am, Vanderberg? I am the sun at noonday. I am Hashi of the House of Hashi. I am the prince of this city. And you—you are a shadow in our alleys. You are spittle on our sidewalks. You are a disease on our corn. Begone, little man. Begone before the Red Council finds you. Go far, far away. If you show your face here again it will be the death of you.”

“He’s not wrong, that’s the trouble,” said the Man. “We have to win every time. They only have to win once.”

they are using you.” Of course they were. Couma and the Man used anyone and everyone who was willing. He had been used himself, last night. He was perfectly clear about that. But that was only half the truth. You could do something for two reasons and have both of them be true.