The after-party was held at the home of a prominent attorney on Hamilton Terrace, a crescent of limestone houses on a hill above City College. There Sylvia suffered her way through an evening of cocktails and banal conversation with a group of politicians, businessmen, and academics. Where are you, Boogie Boo, when I need you? she thought, as she listened to Lewis drone on about his latest redevelopment plan for central Harlem.

As a leading attorney tried to impress her by reciting Phyllis Wheatley, she asked, “Have you read Rita Dove? Or Yusef Komunyakaa?” He had not. She asked to be excused and locked herself in the bathroom for ten minutes to renew herself. Her arches were killing her. She wanted to take her shoes off. But it wouldn’t look good, now would it?

While she was gone, Lewis and Virgil withdrew to the terrace.

“Did you hear that Sekou’s wife is leaving him?” Lewis asked, referring to a Columbia professor whose marriage seemed Kodak-perfect as they spoke.

“No,” Virgil said, leaning closer.

“For a white man,” Lewis continued. “Brother Africa is dying, I hear.”

“Actually, I don’t think it’s because it’s a white man. He doesn’t want her with any man. He doesn’t want competition. You’ve heard about him, haven’t you?”

“I’ve heard rumors, but I don’t pay them any mind. Niggers talk a lotta shit.”

“Speaking of niggers talking … I heard the other day that you and Sylvia had broken up.”

“Oh. That was a big rumor. Everything’s fine.”

“Can I tell you something frankly, Lewis?”

“Go ahead. If you’ve got something to say, don’t hold back.”

“I never thought you two were a good match. I mean … I can’t tell you who to choose, but … let’s see … how can I put it? … Sylvia is just not grounded enough for you. She lacks a certain aggressiveness. She’s talented enough to be a queen bee but she’s content with being a worker—does that analogy make any sense? She doesn’t place herself in the right contexts to get noticed. I used to think she was lazy. I’m inclined to believe that she’s just not ambitious. And her politics are just so bizarre. I don’t think she understands the black experience. I couldn’t believe it when I saw her résumé: she’d never worked for a black organization in her life. That should’ve cued me in. Suffice it to say, we have political problems …”

“Like what?”

“And I know I don’t have to say that this is just between us, but take Congressman DeVeaux …”

During his time of great confusion, Fire received several letters from Blanche, and wrote to her in return.

In the beginning it was little more than an expression of obligation. She had responded to the letter that he’d mailed her from Brooklyn, explaining with economy and mature composure that she had used the time away from him to think about their history, and that she had now come to the conclusion that her desire for a relationship was selfish and unreasonable, and that she would simply like to be his friend. Why lose that? she asked. Who knows me better than you do? She didn’t mention the flowers; neither did she comment on the story he related. And she completely ignored his mopey expression of love, which had begun to worry him after he’d dropped the letter in the mailbox, for it promised much more than he thought he was capable of giving.