Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas (28 page)

The host said, “You are not to walk. These servants will
carry you.” He stepped aside as one of the men walked up to the buggy, his arms outstretched.

Lillian said, “Maya, you let him carry you. I'll walk.”

I said, “No. Uh uh. I'll walk with you.”

Martha shouted from the other carriage. “Have you ever heard of anything so foul? My dear, Miss Fine's never had to be carried to a party. Come on, Ethel, we'll walk.”

We stepped out into mud that oozed up over the tops of our shoes and walked on as if we were doing the most ordinary thing in the world.

We rejected the offer to have house Blacks clean our feet, but accepted towels and wiped away the mud ourselves, chatting vapidly about the pretty villa and the lovely furnishings.

The hosts and other guests were shocked at our refusal to be tended to, not realizing that auction blocks and whipping posts were too recent in our history for us to be comfortable around slavish servants. The party flopped despite flowing champagne and brittle laughter, probably because we couldn't keep our eyes away from the Black men who stood like barefoot sentinels at every door, dressed in old galibiyas, waiting with obsequious smiles on their handsome faces.

When we walked to the door to leave, we found that planks of wood had been laid over the wet walkway that led to the drive. There was only one carriage; we were told that our escort was obliged to stay with the other guests, but that the driver would see us safely back in our hotel.

We were obviously too democratic for the company's comfort and they too feudal for ours.

•  •  •

A sign in the hotel elevator read:

Martha, Ethel, Gloria and I decided to have our hair straightened by chemicals and be rid for a while, at least, of the heavy iron combs heated over cans of sterno that made our hotel rooms smell.

We sat side by side in a luxurious beauty salon and accepted hot cups of sweet black coffee from a young barefoot boy. Monsieur was visibly French: he pooched out his mouth, rolled his eyes and danced pantomimes with his long, thin fingers. Martha and Ethel were lathered down first; then I was taken into a booth. When the assistant put a green foam on my hair, it trickled down to my scalp and began to sting. I tried to sit still and say nothing—after all, my friends were receiving the same treatment without comment—but when my entire head started burning intensely I screamed, “Take it out! Take this out of my hair!”

“Qu'est-ce que vous dites?”
Monsieur rounded the corner, pushing the assistant out of the way.

I shouted, “I said take this crap out of my hair.”

Ethel said from the next stall, “Oooh, Maya, don't be such a crybaby.”

I turned on the water and pushed my head under the faucet. “It's burning me.”

The hairdresser, prompted by my loud shouting, hurriedly
rinsed out the chemicals. My hair was still wet when I stalked angrily out into the streets, followed by my friends' snickers.

That evening Gloria's hair was so straight and airy that it flew around her head each time she moved. Ethel, Martha and other singers who had endured the process had only to shake their heads and their hair would bounce up and down and sideways with a sinuous smoothness.

A week passed and the hair that moved so freely began to move completely off the women's heads. Bare patches of scalp the size of small coins appeared at first, then enlarged until they could no longer be covered by an adept combing and plastering and pinning of hair from another side of the head.

A few weeks later my mother wrote me, “I read in Dorothy Kilgallen's column that all the young women in
Porgy and Bess
are wearing wigs. What on earth did you do to your hair?” I did my best not to laugh and sent my mother a photograph taken in a coin-operated booth. I was looking into the lens and had both hands to my head, pulling my healthy kinky hair.

Undeniably, Egypt impressed every member of the group. Irving Barnes, his wife and eight-year-old daughter, Gail, spent whole days in museums and art galleries. The child who had put on grown-up airs, throwing her tiny hips as she tried to imitate the strut of a provocative Bess, became a little girl again, intrigued with African toys.

Paul Harris forgot his extraordinary good looks for a while and allowed his plump ego to deflate of its own accord. He semi-adopted two young beggars and they hung around the stage door and the hotel entrance until he
emerged. He bought the urchins clothes and shoes and took them to restaurants for belly-distending meals.

Earl Jackson, our street-wise Sportin' Life, underwent the most startling personality change. Where he had used colorful profanity to shock the university-schooled and proper singers, he now substituted kind words, softly spoken. His romantic preferences for the local good-time women shifted and focused on the prim soprano of the group. He was to be found in the wings talking low to Miss Helen Thigpen, or finding a chair for Miss Thigpen in the hotel lobby, or rushing to be first on a bus to save a window seat for the quiet and reserved singer. He had begun to act, for all the world to see, like a man in love. And Thigpen, who had only been excited by recitals and her own repertoire, bloomed under the attention.

We left Egypt undeniably changed. The exposure to extreme wealth and shocking poverty forced the frivolous to be level-headed and encouraged the sober to enjoy what they had taken for granted.

Replicas of the Sphinx and the pyramids were packed along with three-inch busts of Nefertiti and small stuffed camels. Ned acquired a carved walking stick, which he kept at hand for the next six months, and Bey bought a red tasseled fez, which, with the giant congo drum that he never let out of his sight, made him look like a Sudanese musician on a pilgrimage to Mecca.

We boarded our Greek ship in Alexandria and the captain welcomed us. Maki smiled when he saw me, but the purser scowled, glum-browed and mean. He arrived at my cabin a moment after I entered.

“Mrs. Angelos.” His voice was nearly closed with accusation.

“Yes?”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“I beg your pardon? I don't lie to anyone.” I might not tell the truth, but I did draw the line at outright falsehood.

“You said you were a widow?”

“What? When did I say that?”

“I asked you how you had learned Greek and you said your dead husband taught you.” He was pointing his finger at me as if he had caught me stealing the gold out of his mouth.

“I said to you my husband was Greek.”

“Exactly.” His smile was malevolent with satisfaction. “So he's dead?”

“No. I mean, he was my husband.”

“But he's still alive?” Confusion and disappointment shifted his features.

“Very much so.”

“Then why did you say he was Greek? Anyone who is Greek will be Greek until he dies.”

I thought about that and thought about my husband who had intended to lock me into the apologetic female role, which he understood was proper for wives.

“Yes, You're right. He is Greek and will be that until he dies. But he is no longer my husband.” I wanted to apologize to the purser for the misunderstanding, but I couldn't bring myself to ask for pardon.

“Vlachos loves you now?”

God, men talk about women gossiping. “I don't know. I hardly know him.”

The frown was gathering again beneath his overhanging brow. “He said you were going to take him to the United States …”

Lillian knocked at the door. “Hey, Maya, let's have a drink.”

I opened the door and the purser gave Lillian a little bow, put his hat on and left the cabin.

“Girl, you don't wait, do you? Well, they say there's no time like the present.” She laughed.

I knew there was no use explaining the scene, and I knew that even if I stuck to Lillian's side like white on rice, the incident would be company knowledge before dinner.

“Thanks, I'm going to wait. The doctor ought to be coming soon and I have a few thousand words for him.”

She blew air out of her cheeks. “Whew. You're a busy lady.” She pulled the door slowly, closing it on her grin.

Maki came to the cabin, his eyes wild. “Maya, I have told my wife everything.” He reached for me.

I said, “Hold it a minute.” I pushed him away. “Listen, I don't know you. You don't know me.”

“But I love you. I want to marry you. I will come with you to the United States.”

“No, you won't.” I opened the door. “You're nice. I guess. But I'm not marrying anyone. And surely not another Greek.”

“But I'm in love with you.”

“Really? Could we live in Greece after you married me?”

“You don't understand. Greece is a poor country. In America I could make money and …”

“Mister, my suggestion is that you keep the wife you've got.” I walked out into the passageway and held the door open with my foot. “I think you'd better go.”

He put his hat on and stepped out of the room. His face was downcast and he was going to say something, but Martha walked by.

“Good morning, Doctor. Good morning, Miss Thing. Still at it, huh?”

I called after her. “Wait, Mart. I'll go up with you.” Except for what I had come to think of as only a reasonable amount of teasing, the rest of the cruise was uneventful.

The opera was well received in Athens. We photographed each other at the Acropolis and drank retsina late at night in small bars. I dodged Maki in the hotel lobby and tore up the letters he sent me without opening them.

I could have been wrong. It was just possible that he did like me a little. But I knew I would never marry again, nor would I be the cause of a marriage breaking up. I couldn't introduce another non-Black to my son and family (although my mother might have accepted this one more heartily because at least he was a doctor). But what made marriage impossible was the fact I would have been embarrassed even if I loved the man (which I didn't). No amount of kindness or fidelity on his part would erase the idea that I had bought a mate with a license that gave me little personal gratification: American citizenship.

We flew from Athens to Tel Aviv. The bright sun that pleased us in Egypt shone on Israel too. The palm trees and white sand and tropical flowers were identical, but the streets were washed clean and there was a total absence of beggars. We were met by English-speaking fans who seemed to have drawn our individual names from lots and immediately became our companions and guides.

The very religious among our company visited Jerusalem, the Wailing Wall, the Mount of Olives and the Dead
Sea. The rest were satisfied to buy vials of sand from the Holy Land and agate beads from tourist shops.

Lionel Hampton's band had just finished an engagement in Tel Aviv and we met at a party given by the American embassy and the Israeli government. The
Porgy and Bess
company had not seen such a gathering of American Negroes in months. We fell on the musicians as if they were bowls of black-eyed peas.

In the United States—or anywhere else, for that matter—jazz musicians and opera singers would find few topics of mutual interest. Their vocabularies have no unanimity and even their approach to the common musical scales are as different as odds and evens. But at the foreign official welcoming party we were indisputably siblings.

Helen Ferguson talked with a giant baritone sax player. He bent double to listen to her. Lillian and Ethel laughed with the frenetic drummer who pushed his words over and around a wad of chewing gum.

Gloria Davy and Delores Swan listened attentively as Hamp staccatoed his remarks: “Yeah. Ha, ha. Yeah. Great. Yeah. Great. Ha, ha.”

Joe Jones and Merrit were telling stories to the brass section. I had my eyes on Sonny Parker, the male band singer. We had known each other slightly, but never as well as I wished.

“Sonny, who would have thought we'd meet in Israel?” I batted my eyes and tried to convey that I'd be happy to meet him anywhere.

“Yeah, baby. That's life, though. Yeah. Life's like that. Hey, Maya, who is that sharp chick?”

I said, “Barbara Ann Webb,” but was too chagrined to add that she was so in love with her husband that when
asked how she liked the weather, she would respond with “Richard says …”

I left Sonny and walked around, rustling myself in the sounds and feasting my eyes on the tasty colors of my people.

I met Arik Lavy who had the tawny hair and open-mouthed laugh of Victor Di Suvero. He introduced himself and his girl friend to me and told me they were both Sabras, persons born in Israel. Each evening in Tel Aviv after the performance I joined them in an open-air café. The Sabras taught me Hebrew folk songs and I sang spirituals in exchange, always thinking that the real Jordan River was only a few miles away and my audience was composed of the very Israelites mentioned in my lyrics.

I made an arrangement with a dance teacher to give classes in modern ballet and African movement for three weeks in exchange for lessons in Middle Eastern dance.

We boarded a plane for Morocco where we would give a concert and continue to Spain. I was downcast at leaving Tel Aviv. I had felt an emotional attachment to Egypt and made an intellectual identification with Israel. The Jews were reclaiming a land which had surrendered its substance to the relentless sun centuries before. They brought to my mind grammar school stories of pioneer families and wagon trains. The dislodged Palestinians in the desert were as remote in my thoughts as the native Americans whose lives had been stifled by the whites' trek across the plains of America.

In Barcelona we were tired. Too many planes, hotel rooms and restaurant meals were exacting a toll on the company's spirits. But the Spaniards had no way of telling the extent of exhaustion the singers experienced. Years of
training sustained the quality of performance, and an affection which bordered on kinship reduced the exhibition of ill humor which lay just under everyone's skin.

We went to Lausanne, Switzerland, performed and left, associating the white and icily beautiful town only with one more stop to be checked off our list. Our interests narrowed into petty little concerns and the cities and countries were beginning to melt together.