Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [37]
“Now, my dear, sit.” He pulled me along to Jorie's table. She patted my cheek and lowered one long-lashed eye slowly, meaning I was in, and hadn't she said so, and I had nothing to worry about and weren't we all so awfully smart. I winked back and grinned.
Marguerite sat so close to Lloyd she was nearly in his lap and Don made congratulatory little noises to me and to himself.
“First, dear, your name,” Lloyd said.
“Rita.”
“Is that your name? The name you were born with?” Disbelief was evident.
“No, my name is Marguerite.”
Marguerite Clark complimented us both. “Oh, isn't that nice?”
“It's all right for you, Marguerite, but it doesn't do anything for her.” I had been named for my maternal grandmother, who would not have taken kindly to that statement.
“She needs something more exotic. More glamorous.” Lloyd turned to Jorie and Don. “Don't you agree?”
They did indeed.
“A really good name,” Don said, “is half the act.”
I thought about the popular entertainers who were mentioned in the newspapers weekly. I didn't know if their names were created for show business or if the entertainers had simply been lucky. I said nothing.
“Let's think. Think up some names.”
Don went to the bar and brought over a bottle of wine and some glasses.
Thaïs, Sappho, Nana, Lana, Bette, names of heroines from Greek history, world literature and Hollywood were bandied about, but none seemed to please my inventors.
I said, “My brother has always called me Maya. For ‘Marguerite.’ He used to call me ‘My sister,’ then he called me ‘My’ and finally, ‘Maya.’ Is that all right?”
Jorie said, “Di-vine. Di-vine, darling.”
Don was ecstatic. “It suits you, my dear, oh God, it suits you.”
Marguerite waited for Lloyd. He thought, looking at me pointedly, trying to find the name in my face. After a minute, he said, “Yes, you're Maya,” as if he was christening me.
Marguerite said, “Lloyd, you're right, darling. She is Maya.”
Don passed the wine around.
“Maya what?” Jorie looked at Lloyd. “Do deliver us from performers with one name. Hildegarde, Liberace. No, she must have at least two names.”
I said, “My married name is Angelos.”
Don chewed the words around, tasting them.
“Maya Angelos.” Jorie took the name over, weighing it on her tongue. “That's not bad.”
Lloyd said, “It sounds too Spanish. Or Italian. No, it won't do.” An idea broke his face wide open. “I've got it. Drop the s and add a u. Maya Angelou.” He pronounced it Angeloo. “Of course! That's it!”
Jorie said it was too divine. Don said it was perfection. Marguerite beamed her approval of Lloyd and then of the name.
We all drank wine to toast our success. I had a job, a drama coach, a pianist who was going to provide me with lead sheets, and I had a new name (I wondered if I'd ever feel it described the me myself of me).
We begin to prepare for my debut. For three hours each day Lloyd coached me. His instructions included how to stand, how to walk, how to turn and offer my best profile to an audience. He worked over my act as busily as a couturier creating a wedding gown for royalty.
“My dear, but you must stand still. Glide out onstage like the Queen Mary slipping out of her berth, reach the piano and then stand absolutely, but absolutely, still. After a few seconds look around at your audience and then, only then, at your pianist. Nod your head to him and then you will begin your music. When he finishes his intro, then you will begin to sing.”
I found standing still the most difficult of all his instructions. During rehearsal when I was introduced my nerves shivered and the swallows in my stomach did nose dives. I would hear “… and now Miss Maya Angelou,” and I would race from the dressing room, down the narrow aisle to the stage and, immediately, without waiting for the music, begin: “Moe and Joe ran a candy store.”
“No, my dear. Still. Be totally still. Think of a deep pool.”
Again and again I tried until I was able to walk on stage,