Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [65]
I found the Piazza San Marco, and sat at a small table facing the square. I ordered coffee in my tourist-book Italian and sat watching the people in the grand square and the lights playing on the façade of the Basilica of Saint Mark and dreaming of the age of the doges and the city states of Italy which I had read about. The table I had chosen was in a fairly empty area of the restaurant, but the space was filled rapidly. Voices, suddenly closer, burst through my reverie. I looked around and discovered myself hemmed in by strange faces. I was the focus of at least thirty pairs of eyes. They all seemed to be searching my face—my mouth and nose, hairline and ears—for something precious that had been lost. There was a bizarre sense of being caught in a nightmare dreamed by a stranger.
I looked at my book for the necessary phrase. The waiter came over. “I would like more coffee.” He chattered something back to me and nodded toward a group of men among the crowd staring at me. I repeated my request and he may have repeated his answer, because he nodded again toward the men. This time I followed his nod and saw three glasses lifted and smiles directed to me. They were toasting me. Surprise did not prevent me from returning their smile with a cool, restrained one of my own. I inclined my head and the crowd burst into laughter.
One woman asked, “‘St. Louis Blues’?”
One man sitting near me stood up and came very near my table. His black eyes were shining.
“Americano?” He leaned toward me unnecessarily—his voice carried around the restaurant and out into the plaza.
I answered as quietly as my grandmother would have replied if she was trying to show a loudmouth how to behave. “Yes.”
His smile widened. “Harlem?”
I nodded again, because I knew what he meant.
He bent his knees and put up his hands in a professional boxer's pose. He jabbed at the air. Everybody laughed. The man withdrew from the position, and looking at me again, asked, “Joe Louis?”
I didn't know how to tell him I knew who Joe Louis was but I didn't know him personally. He repeated, “Joe Louis?”
I put both hands together and raised them over my head in a winner's gesture, and the crowd laughed and raised their glasses again.
It was amazing that the people were all so handsome. Those at one table motioned that I should join them. I only thought about it a second, then went over and sat down in a chair that had been pulled out for me.
Again there was a general noise of approval. As soon as I sat down, men and women at other tables pulled up their chairs. I put my booklet on the table, pointed to it and smiled. A waiter brought a glass and I had a sweet and bitter Campari, which I'd never tasted before. When I grimaced the people wagged their heads and clucked. I looked through the dictionary for the word “bitter;” it wasn't there. A man took the book and began to look for something, but his search was in vain. A woman held her hand out for the book, and when it was passed to her she riffled through the pages and also failed to find what she was looking for. I was given another Campari. As the book traveled from hand to hand we all smiled at each other and the customers talked among themselves. I was having a lovely time and didn't understand a word that was said except “Americano” and “bellissima.”
It was time to go. I smiled and stood up. About thirty people rose and smiled. I shook hands with the people at my table and said “Grazie.” The others leaned forward, offering their hands and their beaming faces. I shook hands with each one, and walked out onto the square. When I looked back at the lighted café the people were still waving.
The year was 1954, only a decade since their country had been defeated by my country in a war fought for racial reasons as well as economic ones. And, after all, Joe Louis, whom the man seemed so proud to mention, had beaten an Italian, Primo Carnera. I