Invisible man

            "Oh, I see," he said, sitting back and forming his mouth into a thin-lipped circle. "You're very ambitious."

            "I guess I am, sir. But I'm willing to work hard."

            "Ambition is a wonderful force," he said, "but sometimes it can be blinding . . . On the other hand, it can make you successful -- like my father . . ." A new edge came into his voice and he frowned and looked down at his hands, which were trembling. "The only trouble with ambition is that it sometimes blinds one to realities . . . Tell me, how many of these letters do you have?"

            "I had about seven, sir," I replied, confused by his new turn. "They're -- "

            "Seven!" He was suddenly angry.

            "Yes, sir, that was all he gave me . . ."

            "And how many of these gentlemen have you succeeded in seeing, may I ask?"

            A sinking feeling came over me. "I haven't seen any of them personally, sir."

            "And this is your last letter?"

            "Yes, sir, it is, but I expect to hear from the others . . . They said --"

            "Of course you will, and from all seven. They're all loyal Americans."

            There was unmistakable irony in his voice now, and I didn't know what to say.

            "Seven," he repeated mysteriously. "Oh, don't let me upset you," he said with an elegant gesture of self-disgust. "I had a difficult session with my analyst last evening and the slightest thing is apt to set me off. Like an alarm clock without control -- Say!" he said, slapping his palm against his thighs. "What on earth does that mean?" Suddenly he was in a state. One side of his face had begun to twitch and swell.

            I watched him light a cigarette, thinking, What on earth is this all about?

            "Some things are just too unjust for words," he said, expelling a plume of smoke, "and too ambiguous for either speech or ideas. By the way, have you ever been to the Club Calamus?"

            "I don't think I've ever heard of it, sir," I said.

            "You haven't? It's very well known. Many of my Harlem friends go there. It's a rendezvous for writers, artists and all kinds of celebrities. There's nothing like it in the city, and by some strange twist it has a truly continental flavor."

            "I've never been to a night club, sir. I'll have to go there to see what it's like after I've started earning some money," I said, hoping to bring the conversation back to the problem of jobs.

            He looked at me with a jerk of his head, his face beginning to twitch again.

            "I suppose I've been evading the issue again -- as always. Look," he burst out impulsively. "Do you believe that two people, two strangers who have never seen one another before can speak with utter frankness and sincerity?"

            "Sir?"

            "Oh, damn! What I mean is, do you believe it possible for us, the two of us, to throw off the mask of custom and manners that insulate man from man, and converse in naked honesty and frankness?"

            "I don't know what you mean exactly, sir." I said.

            "Are you sure?"

            "I . . ."

            "Of course, of course. If I could only speak plainly! I'm confusing you. Such frankness just isn't possible because all our motives are impure. Forget what I just said. I'll try to put it this way -- and remember this, please . . ."

            My head spun. He was addressing me, leaning forward confidentially, as though he'd known me for years, and I remembered something my grandfather had said long ago: Don't let no white man tell you his business, 'cause after he tells you he's liable to git shame he tole it to you and then he'll hate you. Fact is, he was hating you all the time. . .

            ". . . I want to try to reveal a part of reality that is most important to you -- but I warn you, it's going to hurt. No, let me finish," he said, touching my knee lightly and quickly removing his hand as I shifted my position.

            "What I want to do is done very seldom, and, to be honest, it wouldn't happen now if I hadn't sustained a series of impossible frustrations. You see -- well, I'm thwarted . . . Oh, damn, there I go again, thinking only of myself . . . We're both frustrated, understand? Both of us, and I want to help you . . ."

            "You mean you'll let me see Mr. Emerson?"

            He frowned. "Please don't seem so happy about it, and don't leap to conclusions. I want to help, but there is a tyranny involved . . ."

            "A tyranny?" My lungs tightened.

            "Yes. That's a way of putting it. Because to help you I must disillusion you . . ."

            "Oh, I don't think I mind, sir. Once I see Mr. Emerson, it'll be up to me. All I want to do is speak to him."

            "Speak to him," he said, getting quickly to his feet and mashing his cigarette into the tray with shaking fingers. "No one speaks to him. He does the speaking --" Suddenly he broke off. "On second thought, perhaps you'd better leave me your address and I'll mail you Mr. Emerson's reply in the morning. He's really a very busy man."

            His whole manner had changed.