by Maya Angelou
They said they knew he didn't pick up such thoughts at home.
“Yes, he got that at home, Miss Kent.” Oh Lord, my career. What would the Rockwell family do if I was accused of Communist leanings?
“Oh, is that your religious belief?” She was being nice-nasty giving me a cowardly way out. My son sat beside me, waiting. He had stopped trembling and was holding himself tight, listening to the exchange.
“If you mean do I believe in it religiously, I do.”
“Oh, then Clyde was voicing your political views that you hold religiously?”
There was nothing for it but to agree. I said, “That's right.”
And that was all Clyde had been waiting for. He bounced up out of his chair, arms stretched and flailing.
“Mom, isn't it true that just because U.S. Steel wants to sell more steel, I shouldn't go and kill some baby Koreans who never did anything to me?”
“Yes, that's true.”
“And, Mom, isn't it true that capitalists just make the poor people go and bomb other poor people till they're all dead and live on dead people's money?”
I did not recognize that line, but I said “Yes.”
He lifted his arms like a conductor asking a full orchestra for the last chord. “Well, that's all I said.”
The teachers sat silent as I stood up.
“Miss Kent, and Miss Blum, I think the session has been emotionally very tiring for Clyde. I'll take him home now and he'll come back to school tomorrow.”
They did nothing to hinder our departure.
That afternoon Clyde and I went to a movie that showed ten Disney shorts.
CHAPTER 13
George Hitchcock was a playwright whose play Princess Chan Chan was being performed by the Interplayers at a little theater near North Beach. A tall, shambling man with large hands and a staccato laugh, he doubled as an aging character actor. His hair was always dusty because he did not effectively rinse out the white powder.
He watched my show and afterwards asked if he could see me home. I wanted to accept, but wondered what he would think of my living arrangements. I was a glamorous night-club singer, or at least wanted to be considered glamorous, but I still lived at home with my mother. Late evenings I would find her sitting at the dining room table drinking beer and playing solitaire, and definitely not waiting up for me. I was a grown woman and had better know how to look after myself. Just to make sure, she played solitaire until I came home. Her voice would greet the sound of the opening front door. “Hi, baby, I'm in here.”
I would say, “Good evening, Mom.” And when she lifted her face for a kiss, she'd ask, “How'd it go this evening?” and I'd say, “O.K., Mom.” That was what she wanted to hear, and all she wanted to know. Vivian Baxter could and would deal with grand schemes and large plots, but please, pray God, spare her the details.
I invited George home, and on the way, told him about my mother and my son. If he was surprised he didn't show it.
I countered Mom's “Hi, baby. I'm in here” with “I brought a friend home.”
George would have had to know my mother to have recognized how startled she was when he walked in. She stopped her laying out of red and black and said, “Welcome,” then “How are you tonight?” As if she knew how he had fared the night before.
George seemed at ease.
Mother looked at his worn tweed jacket, rumpled trousers and not quite clean hair and asked, “How long have you known my daughter?”
I knew where she was heading. I said, “We've just met tonight, Mom. George is a writer.” That information held her steady for a while.
“He asked me out for a coffee and I thought maybe you'd have a pot on.” Coffee was drunk by the potful at breakfast, but never served in my mother's house after morning. “But, of course, we can go down the street to the Booker T. Washington Hotel.”
She bounced out of her chair. “Only takes a minute. How about some breakfast?”
I knew the idea of her daughter going into the then swankiest Negro hotel in town, escorted by a raggedy-looking white man would cause hospitality to flow like water.
She invited us into the kitchen.
“What about a little omelette and some bacon?” She turned on the oven and I held out my hand. Whenever she baked biscuits she removed her large diamond rings and put them on my fingers. “And just a few hot biscuits?”
She began the arrangement of bowls and pans and I excused myself and left George to his fate.
When I returned, changed out of evening clothes, the meal was nearly ready and she ordered me to set the table for two, and asked, “So, did you know that George makes a living as a gardener?”
“No, how do you know? Did George tell you that?”
George said, “Yes.”
Mom was moving round the kitchen talking, cooking, singing little wisps of songs, the diamond earrings twinkling.
He was hypnotized.
“Put some butter on the table, Maya, please, and did you know he's unmarried and not thinking about getting married in the foreseeable future? Will the strawberry preserves be all right? Get that platter out of the cupboard, will you? Hum, hum …” She whipped up the eggs with a whisk.
“George, how did you come to tell my mother so much of your business?”
He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “She asked me.”
Mother said later that since he was white that was enough to make him unsuitable, but he was also much too old for me. Still I found his company easy and his intelligence exciting. He understood loving poetry, and although I would not show him my own poems, I recited Shakespearean sonnets and Paul Laurence Dunbar late at night in his house in Sausalito.
We shared long walks in Golden Gate Park and picnicked in John Muir woods. His mother was a well-known San Francisco journalist and he told me endless stories of the area and its colorful characters.
A gentle affection, devoid of romance, grew up between us and I enjoyed watching from his window as night faded over the Golden Gate Bridge. I was always back home before daybreak because Clyde expected me at the breakfast table while he chatted about his dreams or Fluke's misdoings.
I answered the telephone.
“Meez Angeloo?”
“Yes.”
The voice was male and rich and the accent thick and poetic.
“My name is Yanko Varda. I am a painter.” He was a well-known figure in San Francisco art circles.
“Yes, Mr. Varda.” Why was he calling me?
“No, pleez—Yanko. Just Yanko.”
“Yes, Yanko?” Yes, but why was he calling me?
“Meez Angeloo, I have heard so much about you, about your beauty and your talent and your grace. I have decided I must meet this wonderful woman with whom all the men are in love.”
I could not think of a soul who was in love with me, but who can resist the suggestion that one has secret admirers?
“How nice of you to say that.”
“Not atall. No, not atall. I have decided that I must give a dinner for you so that I myself may see this phenomenon: a beautiful woman with a great mind.”
I knew I did not fit his description, but I would have torn my tongue out before I would have denied it.
He set Monday night for dinner and said he lived on a houseboat in Sausalito.
“George Hitchcock will bring you to my boat, which is called the Valhjo. I shall prepare, as only I can prepare, an ambrosia fit for a princess, but if you are in fact a queen, as I suspect, I hope you will condescend to take a sip from these humble hands. George will bring you to me. Au revoir.”
He sounded like a character in a Russian novel. The embroidery of his language, complex and passionate, en chanted me.
What did one wear to an ambrosial dinner on a houseboat? I selected and rejected every outfit in my closet and finally settled on a flowered dress that belonged to my mother. It was gay but not frivolous, chic but not formal.
George and I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge through a swir
ling fog and he stopped the car near the water. I stepped out onto wet mud. He rushed around and took my hand. “Follow me, walk on the planks.”
Thick boards extended to a small rickety bridge. Lights shone dimly in the mists, but I had to keep my attention on the walkway or I might fall into the sullen-looking water below.
There were turns and steps and more turns. Then George stopped, turned and moved around me in the short space. “Here's where I get off. You go on up these three steps and knock at the door.”
I tried to see his face in the overcast night. “What are you talking about?” His features were indistinct.
“I'm not invited tonight. This dinner is just for you.”
“Well, wait a minute, I'm not going to …” I reached for him.
He backed away, laughing, it seemed to me, sardonically. “I'll be back to pick you up at eleven. Bon appétit!”
During our short relationship, I had projected an air of independence, kindly but assured, and I could not scream at him or race down the flimsy walkway to clutch his retreating back.
I stood until George melted in the mist, then I turned and looked around. The shape of a large boat seemed to shiver in and out of a dark, misty sky, its windows beaming happily like lights in a giant jack-o'-lantern.
I walked up the remaining stairs wondering if I had been set up for an orgy—or perhaps I was to be an innocent participator in devil worship. I knew you could never tell about white people. Negroes had survived centuries of inhuman treatment and retained their humanity by hoping for the best from their pale-skinned oppressors but at the same time being prepared for the worst.
I looked through the porch door window at a short sturdy man quickly lighting candles in wine bottles, which he put on a long wooden table. No one else was visible, and although he looked strong, I decided I could probably take care of myself if he tried to take advantage of me.
I knocked sharply on the windowpane. The man looked up toward the door and smiled. His face was nearly as brown as mine and a sheaf of gray hair trembled when he moved. He came directly to the door, his smile broadening with each step.
“Rima,” I thought I heard him say through the closed door. He pulled the door open and in the same movement stepped away from it and admired me.
“Ah, Rima, it ees you.” He could not have been happier.
“No. Uh. My name is Maya.”
He was expecting someone else. I quickly traced the days. This was Monday. Had I misunderstood him because of his accent or my excitement? But then, George must have made a mistake too.
“Don't stand there, my dear. Come in. Let me take your coat. Come in.”
I walked into the warm kitchen, whose air was dense with the odor of cooking herbs. I looked at my host as he closed the door and hung my coat on a wall peg. His arms were thick and muscled and his neck broad and weather-roughened.
He turned. “Now, Rima, at last you've come to me. Let us drink wine to this meeting.”
He seemed so happy, I was truly sorry to disappoint him. “I'm sorry, but I'm Maya Angelou. I'm the singer.”
“My dear, I have known since I was a small boy on a hill in Greece that when I met you, you'd never tell me who you were, you would give another name. Equally beautiful and equally mystical. But I would know you by the music in your voice and the shadow of the forest on your beautiful face.”
I was completely undone.
Over goblets of wine, he re-created his own version of the Rima legend for me. A creature, half girl and half bird, came periodically to earth assuming full womanly form, singing lilting birdlike melodies and lightening human hearts. Her stays were brief, then she became a bird and flew away to her beloved forest where she was happiest and free. While we ate a thick meat soup, he told me of W. H. Hudson's Green Mansions and the heroine, Rima, and said he would lend me the book, since its story was based on my magic.
“I shall address you as Maya in both public and private, for I fear if I continue calling you Rima, you may become annoyed and fly away. But you shall always know that in a small place in my heart I am thanking you for your visit.”
The walls were adorned with delicately tinted pastels, and he guided me to each one, explaining, “In this collage I have tried to show a Carthaginian ship, swathed in grace moving from the harbor on its route to pillage another civilization. And here we have the King and Queen of Patagonia before the Feast of Stars.” He talked about the beauty of Greece and the excitement of Paris. He was a close friend of Henry Miller and an acquaintance of Pablo Picasso. The time sped by as we ate fruit and cheese and I listened to the stories told in English as ornate as a Greek Orthodox ritual.
“I have a set of young friends who will be embellished by your presence. I beg you to be kind enough to come back to the Vallejo on a Sunday afternoon and meet them. We form a party each week and drink wine, eat soup and feast upon the riches of each other's thoughts. Please come—the men will surely worship you and the women will adore you.”
George returned for me, and after a ceremonial glass of wine and an embrace from Yanko's leathery arms, he took me back to his house and patiently listened to my story of the evening. He stopped me: “Maya, I believe you're infatuated with Yanko.”
“I most certainly am not.”
“Many women find him irresistible.”
“Probably.” And I added without thinking, “But he is old and white.”
George got up and turned on the record player.
• • •
One night at the Purple Onion I bowed to a full house and as I raised my head I heard “Bravo,” “Bis,” “Bravo.” A group of people were standing in the middle of the room applauding, their hands over their heads like flamenco dancers. I bowed again and blew kisses as I had seen it done in movies. They continued applauding and shouting “More!” until the other patrons rose and, joining the group, implored me for another song. I always planned for at least two encores, so it was not the requests that embarrassed me but, rather, the overt display of appreciation which I had never received before. I sang another song and retreated to my dressing room. A waiter brought me a note which informed me: “We are friends. Please join us. Mitch.”
I went to the table reluctantly, fearing they might be drunks, out for an evening's hilarity at anyone's expense.
As I approached, the group stood again and began applauding. I was ready to flee to the safety of my dressing room.
A large, dark-haired man offered me his hand.
“Maya, I am Mitch Lifton.” He indicated the others individually. I shook hands with Victor Di Suvero and Henrietta, Francis and Bob Anshen, and Annette and Cyril March. “We are friends of Yanko and he suggested that we come to see you. You are absolutely wonderful.”
We sat drinking wine and they gave me their particulars. Mitch Lifton's parents were Russian Jews, he was born in Paris, grew up in Mexico and was interested in film. Victor Di Suvero was a descendant of an Italian family that still had businesses in Italy and he was seriously courting the breath-taking Henrietta. Cyril March was a dermatologist from France, and architect Robert Anshen was a Frank Lloyd Wright devotee, whose wife, Frances Ney, gave great parties, kept a wonderful house and her own name. Annette March was an American who spoke French and was a blond, vibrating beauty. I took their cues and told them the things about myself that I thought it wise for them to know.
After my last performance they again stood and shouted their bravos and applauded as if Billie Holiday accompanied by Duke Ellington had just finished singing “I Cover the Waterfront.” They left together after reminding me that we all had a date on Sunday and because I was used to BYOB parties, I asked what I should bring.
“Imagine you're coming to Corfu,” Victor said, “and remember that cheese and fruit have never been rejected in the Mediterranean.”
Gaily colored pennants floated on posts attached to the boat. Cut-glass windows, oddly shaped, broke the monotony of weathered wood. Large pieces of sculpture stood sentinel in the
area leading to the bridge in the sunlight. The boat looked like a happy child's dream castle.
Yanko greeted me warmly, but without surprise, allowing me to feel not only welcome but expected. Mitch came forward smiling, followed by Victor. They both embraced me and complimented George on his good luck. The three men fell into a private exchange and I wandered away to observe the gathering.
The party was in lingual swing. European classical music provided a background for tidbits of conversation that drifted clear from the general noise. In one corner Annette and Cyril spoke French to a wild-haired woman who never allowed one sentence to end before she interrupted. A thin, professorial man stroked his goatee and spoke to Yanko in Greek. Bob Anshen waved me over and I stayed a while listening to him discourse on the merits of solar heating systems. Victor joined the group who warbled in Italian as melodious as a concerto.
Other languages I could not recognize spattered and rattled around the room. One handsome Negro was talking to a group around the long table. When he saw me his face spread in a broad smile and he stood up. If he had started speaking to me in an African language, I would not have been surprised.
“Hello there. How are you?” Straight, university, Urban League, colored, NAACP middle-class Negro accent.
“Fine, thank you.”
“My name is Jim, join us.”
I had never been found attractive by middle-class Negro men, since I was neither pretty nor fair-skinned, well-off or educated, and since most were firmly struggling up Striver's Row they needed women who could either actually help them or at least improve their visual image.
I sat down and found myself in the middle of a discussion on the recent Supreme Court ruling in Brown vs. Board of Education that had banned racial segregation in education. Jim and I and a pretty blond woman on the other side of the table argued that not only was the ruling just, it was very late in coming. Our opponents contended for the legitimacy of states' rights. As voices were raised and the selection of words became keener, I noticed that I was less angry than interested. I knew many whites were displeased by the ruling, but I had never heard them discuss it.
