Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/134

 Mary was measuring the coffee. It is nice, isn't it?

Great! Luxury for me. I'm living in a dump.

Mary filled the pot with water. What kind of things do you want to write about? she inquired.

Oh, I don't know. You've got awfully pretty arms.

Have I? Haven't you anything definite in mind?

What everybody writes about, I guess. Love, and all that. I thought of writing a story about a coloured girl in love with a white boy and how he ditched her.

Madam Butterfly, Mary murmured. As she lighted the fire under the coffee-pot, she looked at him hard. Why don't you write about us? she demanded.

Us?

Yes, Negroes.

Why, we're not very different from any one else except in colour. I don't see any difference.

I suppose we aren't, Mary spoke thoughtfully. And yet figures stand out.

Figures?

Do you know anything about Christophe? It seems to me that the story of Christophe would make a gorgeous subject for a novel.

Who was Christophe?

They were seated on chairs in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to boil.

Born and raised in slavery on the Island of Saint