“Voila!” murmured a little French seamstress, peeping through the slits of her blinds as the jaunty figure came in view. She had seen such stepping before, such lifting of the head, such a singing with the shoulders. She remembered free men marching into the Place de la Concorde. She smiled and hummed a few bars of the “Marseillaise.” “Allons, enfants.... Marchons....” She threw the shutters open. What a beautiful morning!
But Frederick didn’t find work that first day. By nightfall he was feeling uneasy. Job-hunting had brought him up against an unexpected wall. The colored people he saw seemed to be avoiding him. He walked straight up to the next Negro he saw and spoke to him. From his bespattered appearance, and his pail and brush, Frederick judged the man to be a house painter.
“Good evening, mister! Could you tell me where I might find a place to stay? I just got here and—”
The man’s eyes in his sunken, dark face were rolling in every direction at once.
“Lemme be. I donno nothin’.” He was moving on, but Frederick blocked his path.
“Look, mister, I only want—”
The man’s tones were belligerent, though his voice was low.
“Donno nothin’ ’bout you, sailor. An’ I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’!”
Frederick watched him disappear around a corner. As night came on he followed a couple of sailors into a smoke-filled eating place. There he ate well, served by a swarthy, good-natured fellow, whose father that day had picked olives on a hillside overlooking Rome. Garlic, coarse laughter, warmth and the tangy smell of seamen mingled in the dimly lighted room. Some of the men lifted their foamy mugs in greeting as Frederick sank into a corner. He waved back. But he hurried through his meal, not daring to linger long for fear of betraying himself.
He walked aimlessly in the gathering gloom. He thought a lamplighter, lifting his wick to the corner lamp, eyed him suspiciously. Frederick turned down a dimmer thoroughfare. He was tired. The suitcase was heavy.