“I’m sorry.” She was sorry for her apology too. It was feeble and thin, unequal to the embarrassment she’d caused.
He shook his head to cut short her apology, to change the subject. “Why are you here?”
“I need to talk with you.”
“Ask Pablo. He’s the expert.” Logan emptied a second basket of books onto the table, less violently, and began to sort them into place with the first batch lined up against the wall.
Julia helped when he edged aside to allow it. “Do you know where Eva Pruitt is?”
He punched out a sharp breath and kept working. “No.”
“Haven’t you heard anything? A rumor? A suspicion?”
“No.”
“Eva needs your help, Logan.” Julia kept her voice low. “You must have some idea where she’s hiding. Or Jerome Crockett?”
“Nope. None.”
The spilled books made a puddle of scuffed and fraying buckram in drab shades of green, blue, tan, and maroon. Library bindings, they were called, corners bulging with an extra thickness of the sturdy, starched cloth. They reminded her of children muffled beneath layers of coats and scarves, unable to play or dance or speak. “She could be in terrible danger.”
“Leave it alone, Julia. Wherever she is, Eva Pruitt got herself into this mess, and she can get herself out of it.”
It was a brutal thing to say. Julia remembered Eva’s fond introduction at Duveen’s party, her generous words. “I thought she was your friend. She had only good things to say about you, about your poetry. And now she’s in desperate trouble.”
He glanced at the dusty clock on the wall above the door. Twelve minutes had elapsed. “I’m sorry for her. I am. But all along she let everyone know she didn’t need anything from us. She just started announcing that, oh, by the way, she was writing a novel—in her spare time, on top of being a big glamorous star at Carlotta’s, making more money in a week than I make in a month. Then she waltzed straight to Pablo, straight to his power and purse strings, to sell him exactly what he wants—his precious finger-snapping tell-all of low-down jigaboo life.”
He turned to face Julia, forehead creased. “Why do you care?”
Before she could answer, he began transferring the ordered books into one of the emptied baskets. He brushed Julia’s hands away. “Just please, please don’t tell me you fancy yourself one of those rich white lady patronesses. Another sweet little Miss Anne swooping in to rescue deserving Negroes.” He paused. “For one thing, Eva’s the last person who needs that kind of help. For another”—he glared at his feet—“I thought you had better sense.”
Rich white lady patronesses? It took Julia a moment to figure out what he meant. Then it incensed her. When he lifted the basket, taking her silence for guilt, she gripped his wrist. “How can you possibly think I’m out to collect writers, like some pompous dowager?”
“Then why are you here?”
“She’s my friend and I want to help her. That’s all.”
“That’s never all.” He gave a bitter smile. “There’s always something more when white folks say they want to help. Pablo wants to plant his flag smack in the center of all things Negro. Arthur Goldsmith wants profit and prestige. Austen Hurd hopes some of it comes Liveright’s way. Martin Wallace is real helpful, as long as he gets to be the big man calling the shots around here. What’s in this for you?”
His accusation stung. When Philip had posed the question, it had been cautionary; Logan’s was suspicious. What was in it for her? It was an appalling question. She saw again Bernice being led away in a rage of tears as the others said nothing. In part that was what was in it for Julia—the need this time to not be one of those silent watchers. They could have stepped forward. Only they could have intervened. Would it matter less if it had also helped them sleep better that night?
“I’m a publisher,” she said. “Not much of one yet, and not in it for profit like Goldsmith or Liveright, but all publishers need writers. Does that make me selfish and insincere? I thought we were friends, Logan, and not simply because I’d like to publish your poems someday.”
Logan looked down. “Would I have a say in the matter?”
Julia still clutched his wrist. Without thinking, she’d jerked it back and forth in her agitation. She dropped it and tucked her arm against her waist, mortified.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I would, though—want to publish your work. You’re a promising New Negro poet.”
“Poet. Just poet. No modifiers.”
He was too modest. “That’s not what Pablo says.”
“Pablo’s nothing but modifiers. New and Negro say it all for him.”
“He means it as a distinction, something to be proud of.”
“Does he? Tell my friends upstairs. You have no idea what it is to be a Negro, often the Negro, in a white world. It qualifies everything. I’m a Negro student, a Negro poet.”
“You’re a Negro and a poet. Isn’t that the point? Negroes can be poets—and doctors and scientists and lawyers and such.”
“Of course we can and are. But what do I know about Africa? Pablo thinks colored skin means you hear drumbeats in your blood. That you can’t help but hoof the Charleston while you’re cleaning your teeth. No matter what you do, it’s doing it as a Negro that interests him. Phi Beta Kappa with jazz in your belly—that’s Pablo’s perfect Negro.
“Now he thinks he’s discovered us. It’s better than having doors slammed in our faces, but not much. Now editors want only our Negro poems and stories. Now the door slams if they’re not colored enough.”
“Isn’t it good more editors want your work? That they want to publish your perspectives, your experiences? It’s recognition, Logan. Publication. I thought all writers jumped at that. I don’t understand.”
“Because you’re white. You can be just you. But if an editor knows I’m
