Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [47]
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