4. Identification

An hour later, at a luscious bachelor pad in Bed Stuy, Keke was enjoying a glass of absinthe. Her home made business card, that said DRS. KEKE JUCHTLEER, KRITIKA, was lying lonely on the spotless coffee table. Her host, the man in the white suit who had saved her, did not look like Duke Ellington after all, as he had explained elaborately, but like Cab Calloway – a name he had officially taken since the original Cab Calloway died, with permission from the Cab Calloway estate. Most walls in the room were filled with Calloway posters; in the course of thirty years he had collected over a thousand Cab Calloway-parafernalia; one of his favorite objects was a small urn with a tiny bit of Calloway's ashes, that he had purchased from the family. When he offered to sing Minnie the Moocher, Keke said: 'Maybe later.' She wondered why a person like him would want to be the person he so much admired. What was the point? She had no inclination whatsoever to be any of the writers she reviewed. If asked to name her favorite female writers, she never knew what to say. When her editor had made the off the cuff remark that women couldn't write, period, she was furious, but the remark kept coming back at her. When Cab Calloway, number two, was in the kitchen, Keke finished her absinthe and shouted: 'Anyway, Cab, if you want to fuck me, forget about it, because I'm a lesbian.'

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Wat fijn dat jullie er zijn