20

2 --- Gumbo Ya-Ya
to buy me some wine.' She did a little trucking step, raised her dress, 'showed her linen.'
Harry entered. Somebody shouted: 'Shut off that damn music box. Come on Harry. Put it on, son!'
Harry, a lean brown boy in a red silk shirt and green trousers, held a tambourine high, beat out an infectious tom-tom tempo with one fist, huskily sang words that had no meaning, but in a rhythmn that was a drug. His greasy cap low over one ear, thick lips drawn back from large white teeth, he performed a wild dance, shoulders hunched, scrawny hips undulating.
Hock-a-lee-hock-a-lee-weeoo!
Hock-a-lee-hock-a-lee-weeoo!
We-le-he-hela-wa-le-he-weeoo-oo!
There were comments. 'Man, those Indians gonna step high tomorrow.' Harry's chant was one of the Indians' songs.
A small girl shoved her way through the crowd around the singer. 'Wait'll you see us Baby Dolls tomorrow,' she promised. 'Is we gonna wiggle our tails!' A man threw an arm around her neck; drew her away, over to where they could do some 'corner loving.'
In the back room was the real man of the night. His face a trifle blank from whiskey, his eyes sleepy, King Zulu held court. This was his royal reception. Just now the King was pretty tired. The Queen rose suddenly and moved away from the table, her hips shaking angrily. If the old fool wants to go to sleep, let him. She'll find herself somebody who can keep his eyes open and lieks some fun. She's a queen, and a queen has to have her fun.
Nobody ever goes to bed on this night. Ain't tomorrow the big day? Not until morning do they ever go home, and then only to array themselves in costumed splendor.
But there is never any weariness about King Zulu on Carnival Day. With his royal raiment, he magically dons fresh energy. A few shots of whiskey and the trick is done. His head is up, his posture majestic -- at least in the beginning of the day. Later he may droop a bit.
Strongarmed bodyguards and shiny black limousines, rented