“You could put your hand ‘pon this book, for me? You have this book in your bookstore? You think you could put your two hands on it, for me?”
Mr. Moore goes into the back of the store, where the shelves climb the walls to the ceiling; and I can hear him, blowing dust from the jackets, and see him in the small space looking into the shelves . . . and miraculously, he finds the book the customer is looking for. I can see him from where I am sitting in the congested store. And he wipes the book on the sleeve of his black jacket, and blows away the clouds of particles from the back, and he puts the book away, back into the shelves. And he returns to the customer. The customer is counting her chickens. But the news is sad.
“I sorry-sorry, ma’am, to have to tell you that I don’t have such a book. I can find you a book that is similar, though, ma’am. But I will keep looking for the one you want. I will keep looking . . .”
“You keep looking,” she tells Mr. Moore, encouraged. “You keep looking. ‘Cause I want to find out if I am a’ African. At least if I have a’ African name. I damn tired being called a Negro, in the papers, in this country.”
And gaily, like a woman giving herself the promise that the lottery ticket she has just purchased will bring in the “dookey,” she leaves the bookstore and swings back toward Seventh Avenue, and the Apollo Theater, with a smile of emancipation on her black face.
“I just couldn’t sell she this book, man. This book too important,” Mr. Moore says, holding the book to his chest, with both hands. The book is Muntu: An Outline of Neo-African Culture. It is written by Janheinz Jahn. It was published by Faber and Faber in 1961. It was first published in German in 1958.
I wonder how this woman, who, from the way she looks, if one can make such a generalization, is a simple woman, and whose language, in her short conversation with Mr. Moore, does not exhibit a post-secondary education, has become nevertheless so intellectually fascinated with Africa and African names. But you know from her appearance, bright-coloured print dress, long to the ankles, with an African pattern and design, strong black features, as my mother would describe her, a mark like a tribal slash on her left cheek—more likely an accident suffered in childhood than an initiation into womanhood back in Africa—and fierce, black, shining hair coiffured into an Afro, and shining beads of lima beans, painted red, black, and green, round her promising, luscious neck, showing just that suggestion of sensuality round her breasts, you know this woman will get her way with Mr. Moore. And someday get her own copy of Muntu.
“This is philosophy!” Mr. Moore says. “Heavy reading! She won’t understand what Janheinz Jahn is saying, anyhow.” Then he said, “Coming up on Friday night? I making cou-cou and steam’ red snapper.”
This was an invitation I would not miss. And during my stay in New York and Harlem, looking for James Baldwin, I would accompany him home, on Fridays, when he closed his store, with a brown-paper parcel, wrapped and sealed with Scotch tape under his arm, briefcase in the other hand, and under that arm, a copy of the New York Times.
“She wouldn’t have been able to follow Dr. Janheinz Jahn! You don’t think so?”
