Episode 3 - The Legend of Martense's Lane in Sunset Park
He helped me get to my feet and he introduced himself. “I am Pieten, but you may call me Peter”. He said this as he made a graceful, sweeping arc with his arm as he removed his hat and swept it before him and bowed from the hip. I felt so inadequate just saying “Hi, I’m Tony” but that was all I had to offer. He said that it seemed obvious from my clothes that I wasn’t from around here and I responded that I didn’t know where “here” was so I couldn’t possibly answer.
He smiled as if he understood my confusion and said “Well, my friend Tony, you are standing on Martense’s Lane and a bit further west, about 2 rods is the Gowanus Road.” I was experiencing a strange feeling. As he was speaking I was interpreting without much difficulty. The two rods was about thirty feet (thanks to junior high school math class) and the intersection of the Gowanus Road and Martense’s Lane would be about 35th Street about midway between 4th and 5th Avenue (thanks to my pre-occupation with studying the history of Sunset Park).
“Peter, I know this will sound strange, but what is today’s date?”, I asked and he responded “Today? My, my, Tony, you certainly are not from around here. Today is the anniversary of the Battle of the Watermelon Patch - August 27th!” Peter looked about and saw the remains of my watermelon snack and said “It looks like you’re already begun celebrating.” As I blushed, I asked “But what year is this?” and he responded that it was 1836. I needed to sit down again. I looked for a nice tree to use as a back rest and settled down. I looked up at Peter. Peter stood about 5'4", he was very slim and his skin was a deep brown. His face was smooth with pleasant features. He had placed his hat, a black silk top hat - a bit worse for wear, a little frayed along the top edges, on a stump by his side. He unbuttoned his very tight outer coat - the coat had a very broad collar and came all the way down below his ribcage and ended in a set of double buttons. There was a short set of tails in the back and the front ended at his waist. Opening his coat revealed a waistcoat with fancy silver lacing. As he removed his outer coat I could see that his waistcoat was sleeveless. His breeches were made of cotton and were off-white and had obviously seen better days. The breeches fit tightly around his muscular thighs and then flared over his knees and were pulled tight with strings just below his knees. Where his breeches left off began a pair of black leather splatterdashes that ran all the way down to his ankles. They looked like they had been oiled or waxed and now a light layer of dust had coated them, but I’m sure a quick wipe would bring them back to a nice shine. His shoes, his shoes, well he had no shoes or socks on. My inspection of Peter did not go unnoticed by him and our eyes met again as I looked up from his feet. As if reading my mind, he reached into a shoulder bag, that I hadn’t noticed, that he had laid alongside the stump holding his hat, and pulled out a pair of black leather shoes with a large rectangular buckle on each....we both laughed without saying a word.
“These shoes are my “trade” I can’t afford to waste them on walking about”, he said. “I’m a dancer. I’m actually on my way to a wedding in the Town of Flatbush.” I wanted to show off my knowledge and offered “So you’re going to take Martense’s Lane all the way east right into the heart of Flatbush.” And he nodded. I asked Peter if he would mind sharing with me how an African man, gifted in the art of dance, came to be here in the midst of a Dutch town?
Peter looked at me, no, he stared deep into my eyes as if he was trying to measure me. He turned and looked down at the ground, removed his hat from the stump and sat down. He held his hat with both hands, kind of dangling it and rotating its brim with his fingers, like he was looking for the “right” spot before beginning his story. I was frozen in my spot. I couldn’t move, Peter’s entire countenance had me hypnotized. His jaw sank deep into his chest, I swear I heard a mournful wail, but it could have just been the wind...and then Peter raised his head and looked at me. His eyes seemed half-closed as if his thoughts were taking him to a distant past, and he began to speak.