That was the polite cliche. I mean I could have slipped and told him he looked like something the Cat dragged in.

And Catherine—she wouldn’t like this description—she’s one of those people who can always succeed at making an entrance—a grand entrance (though her entrances are mostly private ones, into living rooms and onto terraces where Ernest and I are seated). But I’ve seen her enter public places too, restaurants, museums, stores. To tell the truth, she’s not a particularly attractive woman; still she’s one of those women that people look at and say “What a beauty!” That’s a paradox Ellison would like too, a riddle for Joyce. When she enters a room you look up. You don’t go back to what you were doing; you keep looking. You look till she’s settled somewhere and then occasionally you’ll glance back. You don’t particularly notice the people with her, just figure they must be special too to be with such a woman. If you don’t know her, the first thing you’ll wonder is if she’s one of those theatrical people, one who’s just come from a performance. Like when she first straightened her hair again after ten years, she came in with this pageboy (she insists it’s an Egyptian cut), straight bangs across the front, and back, and hanging diamond earrings. (She calls me “the last stubborn woman” because I’ve kept my afro.) Well, anyway, she comes in with her newly straightened hair and her face looking like fresh paint and declares, “Take me out to dinner, y’all!” Well, I will admit, I did think of Cleopatra, but it’s the meaning of Nefertiti’s name that popped in my head—“The beautiful woman has come!”

Well, we take her out to dinner and the people’s heads pop up, and they keep staring until we’ve been shown to a table. If people looked at me that way, I’d think it was because I had spinach stuck in my teeth or a dangling booger. But Catherine seems oblivious to it—she’s wearing these spiked heels, a yellow dress, and a turquoise shawl draped regally on her shoulders, and looking very French (Martinican she’ll insist). So after we’ve settled and made ourselves comfortable the people go back to their dinner but occasionally I’ll see them look up—eyes go straight for Catherine—like it matters if she’s eating or smiling, bewildered or amused, reading her plate, or scratching her little brown nose.

Once we saw people like that ourselves. We were sitting in a restaurant in New York and this woman came in, a “theatrical person” who out-Catherined Catherine. She was in a crowd with these other people wearing this purple dress and a long purple scarf. She was in a crowd with these others, but your eyes zoomed right to her and stayed there. Even Catherine was staring. The woman was taller than Catherine, darker, with a forest crop of hair. She had the sort of eyes you don’t forget. “Enduring,” I heard someone call them once. It’s funny. Catherine and I looked at her, but Ernest just ate his food. I wondered at the time whether women other women find interesting are ever found interesting by men. Or maybe he was just being discreet. Anyway, Catherine and I kept our attention on her and her crowd. She kept wrapping and unwrapping her scarf; I remember that, and something she said made me think she and I had gone to the same school: “That sounds exactly like Sojourner Truth. You all know who Sojourner Truth was, don’t you?”