Bona begins to feel a little dizzy and all in. She drives on. Almost hugs Paul to guard him. Near the basket, he attempts to shoot, and Bona lunges into his body and tries to beat his arms. His elbow, going up, gives her a sharp crack on the jaw. She whirls. He catches her. Her body stiffens. Then becomes strangely vibrant, and bursts to a swift life within her anger. He is about to give way before her hatred when a new passion flares at him and makes his stomach fall. Bona squeezes him. He suddenly feels stifled, and wonders why in hell the ring of silly gaping faces that’s caked about him doesnt make way and give him air. He has a swift illusion that it is himself who has been struck. He looks at Bona. Whir. Whir. They seem to be human distortions spinning tensely in a fog. Spinning .. dizzy .. spinning... Bona jerks herself free, flushes a startling crimson, breaks through the bewildered teams, and rushes from the hall. 2 Paul is in his room of two windows. Outside, the South-Side L track cuts them in two. Bona is one window. One window, Paul. Hurtling Loop-jammed L trains throw them in swift shadow. Paul goes to his. Gray slanting roofs of houses are tinted lavender in the setting sun. Paul follows the sun, over the stock-yards where a fresh stench is just arising, across wheat lands that are still waving above their stubble, into the sun. Paul follows the sun to a pine-matted hillock in Georgia. He sees the slanting roofs of gray unpainted cabins tinted lavender. A Negress chants a lullaby beneath the mate-eyes of a southern planter. Her breasts are ample for the suckling of a song. She weans it, and sends it, curiously weaving, among lush melodies of cane and corn. Paul follows the sun into himself in Chicago. He is at Bona’s window. With his own glow he looks through a dark pane. • • • • • Paul’s room-mate comes in. “Say, Paul, I’ve got a date for you. Come on. Shake a leg, will you?” His blonde hair is combed slick. His vest is snug about him. He is like the electric light which he snaps on. “Whatdoysay, Paul? Get a wiggle on. Come on. We havent got much time by the time we eat and dress and everything.” His bustling concentrates on the brushing of his hair. Art: What in hell’s getting into Paul of late, anyway? Christ, but he’s getting moony. Its his blood. Dark blood: moony. Doesnt get anywhere unless you boost it. You’ve got to keep it going— “Say, Paul!” —or it’ll go to sleep on you. Dark blood; nigger? Thats what those jealous she-hens say. Not Bona though, or she .. from the South .. wouldnt want me to fix a date for him and her. Hell of a thing, that Paul’s dark: you’ve got to always be answering questions. “Say, Paul, for Christ’s sake leave that window, cant you?” “Whats it, Art?” “Hell, I’ve told you about fifty times. Got a date for you. Come on.” “With who?”