Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [36]
The piano player, who was white and experienced, intimidated me nearly as much as the drama coach. Earlier in the afternoon he had asked for my sheet music, and when I told him that the songs I intended to sing had hardly been published, he slammed the piano lid down and stood up.
“Do you mean I'm supposed to play without music? Just vamp till ready?”
I did not understand his indignation, nor the sarcasm in his last question. “I've signed a contract and I'm supposed to open in two weeks. What can I do?” I had found that direct questions brought direct answers if they brought answers at all.
“Have some lead sheets written for you,” he said indifferently.
“Can you do it? May I pay you to write the lead sheets? Whatever they are.”
He gave me a thin smile and, partially pacified, said, “If I can find the time.”
He sat again on the bench and opened the piano. “What do you sing?”
I said, “Calypso. ‘Stone Cold Dead in the Market’ ‘Run Joe,’ ‘Babalu.’ Things like that.”
He asked, “What key for ‘Stone Cold Dead’?” His fingers ran over the keyboard and I thought of my pervasive ignorance.
“I don't know.” The music stopped and the musician leaned his head on the piano. He was so dramatic I thought he should have been the star.
I said, “I'm sorry to be a bother.” Usually when one throws oneself at another's feet, one should be prepared to do a fast roll to avoid being stepped on. “But I'd appreciate your help—I'm new.”
The pianist rose to the occasion, which, given his sardonic expression earlier, might have come as a bigger surprise to him than to me.
“O.K.” He straightened away from the keyboard. “Try this.” He started to play and I recognized the tune.
“Yes, that's it.”
“I know that's it,” he said dryly. “Now how about singing so I can find your key.”
I listened carefully, squinting my eyes and tried to find where in all the notes he played I should insert my voice.
“Sing.” It was an order.
I started: “He's stone cold dead in de market.”
“No, that's wrong. Listen.” He played, I listened. I started to sing.
He said, “No, wrong again.”
Finally by chance I hit the right note. The pianist grudgingly nodded and I sang the song through.
He stood up and bounced a glance off me as he turned toward the bar. “You need music. You really need it.”
I watched him order and then gulp down a drink greedily.
And here was Lloyd Clark, tended by his adoring Brünnhilde, telling me to repeat the awkward performance.
Whenever I had danced non-angelically on the point of a pin, I always knew I might slip and break my neck. It could be fatal, but at least all anxiety would cease. Because of that, I often rushed toward holocausts with an abandon that caused observers to think of me as courageous. The truth was, I simply wanted an end to uncertainty.
The pianist responded to my nod and with visible resignation sat at the piano and began to play the song we had tried earlier.
I looked beyond my audience and decided to ignore the musician and his snide attitude. I fastened my mind on the plot. A poor West Indian woman had been threatened by her brutal husband (my mother's father was Trinidadian, and although he was kind he was very severe) and she struck back in self-defense. My sympathies rested with the mistreated woman. So I told the story from her point of view.
Don said, “Great, just great.”
Jorie asked Lloyd and the world at large, “Didn't I say she's marvy?”
Lloyd rose smiling, he came toward me offering his hands. “Fab, fab, darling, you're going to be fab. You're marvelously dramatic.” He turned to his wife, who was like a tall, white shadow following him. “Isn't she, Marg? Just fab?”
Marguerite gave him a loving smile. “Yes, Lloyd darling.” Then to me she said softly, “You're good. So very good. And after you work with Lloyd … Oh, I can hardly wait.” Her voice belied impatience.
“Now, dear, do sit down. Come, we must do some serious talking.” Lloyd took my hands. He leaned around