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George and I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge through a swirling 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