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185 “Rumor has it that you’ve bought a house in the Central District.” “Yeah.” “And that you haven’t got much in the way of furniture.” “I’ve got a sofa and a table.” “Chairs?” “No.” The interrogator was Phyllis, an African-American friend who was doing her master’s degree at the University of Washington in ethnomusicology . Her thesis was on Brazilian popular music, and she had spent three months in Salvador while I had lived there. I had helped her find an apartment. She had often invited me over for delectable cakes and other specialty food she foraged from upscale shops that I had never discovered in all the years I had lived there. Phyllis had coped with the culture shock of Bahia by reading copious numbers of English novels that she found in a few select secondhand bookstores. Her mother was a librarian, and Phyllis had inherited a talent for reading novels faster than most people read the morning paper. Her African ancestry was mixed with European and American Native, giving her a compellingly exotic look. She was also endowed with the perfect Bahia body type. When she had visited me one day at capoeira practice in Salvador, my usually fleet-footed compadres had stumbled all over themselves trying to impress her. “I’ve got lots of furniture,” Phyllis said. “And I’ve always wanted to live in the Central District.” “You have?” My heart jumped. I didn’t want to admit it to anyone, but I was beginning to have real financial difficulties. For the last two years, I’d spent an average of nine thousand dollars a year on Bahia Street—and that only included the expenses I’d recorded. I had to commute to Portland each week for my teaching job, racking up more expenses, and I wasn’t earning very much. My savings were being depleted , and now I had a mortgage. A roommate could really help. “Why do you want to move into the Central District?” “I’m black, in case you hadn’t noticed. It’d be nice to live around twenty trust 186 dance lest we all fall down some black people for a change.” I felt an affinity for Phyllis, not only because she’d spent time in Salvador and understood some of my conflicts upon returning to the United States, but also because she, like me, was a native Oregonian. Most people in Seattle were newcomers who didn’t really understand the Pacific Northwest. However, being black, Phyllis’ experience of Oregon was an interesting contrast to mine. “Besides,” she continued. “I have an auntie who lives in the CD.” “You do?” “Sure. She’s a lawyer. She lives near Madison Valley, in the part north of you—the middle-class part?” “My part of the Central District is not middle-class.” “I am aware of that.” “You haven’t seen the house yet, Phyllis.” “So?” “It’s pretty bad. I’m ripping up layers of carpet. Under the carpet is ancient linoleum. The bathroom has pink fixtures and the bathroom floor is covered with pink shag.” “Is the toilet solid?” “I can’t guarantee that.” “Does the house have ceiling fans in every room?” “Well, yes, it does actually. I thought that was strange for here in the Northwest, I have to admit. It has a very strange light fixture in the living room as well, long pieces of amber glass hanging down.” “I know that light. That house was an African-American home, with different sensibilities than you have, Margaret. I’ll feel fine.” “Why don’t you come and see it, Phyllis? I’d love to have you move in, but I don’t know if I could expect anyone else to live here. It’s pretty trashed.” “I’m on my way.” When Phyllis stepped in the front door, she squeaked in alarm. “Why is your floor spongy?” she asked. “That part’s OK. They’ve just done something very strange. The floor is covered with three layers of carpet, with linoleum over the carpet. I’ll be ripping that out soon.” “I see.” Phyllis surveyed the dark, vacant rooms, lit only through the dusty patches where I had managed to chip the black paint from 187 margaret willson the glass. She walked into the bathroom. “Oh God, don’t let me come in here drunk,” she said. Then she turned to me. “Looks like you need a roommate to help you clean this...

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