• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Alors, something groovy, you know?”

We went to the Left Bank, and he showed me where F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway did some flamboyant talking and serious drinking. The bareness of the bar surprised me. I expected a more luxurious room with swatches of velvet, deep and comfortable chairs and at least a doorman. The café's wide windows were bare of curtains and the floor uncarpeted. It could have been the Coffee Shop in San Francisco's North Beach. High up over the façade hung a canvas awning on which was stenciled the romantic name DEUX MAGOTS.

L'Abbaye was a bar owned by Gordon Heath, a Black American who provided his own entertainment. He sang in a weak but compelling voice and projected an air of mystery. After each song the audience showed their appreciation by snapping their fingers. Heath did not allow hand-clapping.

The Rose Rouge on the Left Bank was closer to my idea of a Parisian night club. It had velour drapes and a uniformed doorman; the waiters were haughty and the customers well-dressed. Acrobats and pantomimists, magicians and pretty half-naked girls kept up a continuous diversion. Bernard introduced me to the handsome Algerian owner, who I immediately but privately named Pepe Le Moko. He said if I wanted to do an act in his club, he'd find a place for me. I said I'd keep it in mind.

Around three o'clock in the morning my escort took me to the Mars Club, which he pronounced “Mairs Cloob” near the Champs-Élysées. It was owned by an oversized American man from New York and specialized in Black entertainment. Bernard pointed out the names printed on the door of people who had worked in the smoky and close room. The only one I recognized was Eartha Kitt. Ben, the owner, repeated Pepe Le Moko's invitation. I said I was flattered and I'd think about it. I knew I wouldn't. Where would I find a musician in Paris who could play calypso accompaniment?

Ben asked, “Why don't you give us a song now?”

I looked at the pianist, who was white and thin and had a long sorry face. He sat playing a quiet moody song. When he finished, Ben called him to the bar and introduced us. “Bobby Dorrough, this is Maya Angelou, she's a singer.”

He smiled and his face was transformed. His cheeks bunched under sparkling eyes and his teeth were large and white and even. He said, “Happy to know you, Maya,” and the drawl made my skin move along my arms. He couldn't have sounded more Southern white if he had exaggerated.

Ben went to the microphone and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have with us tonight one of the stars of Porgy and Bess.”

I was hardly that, but why correct him? I stood and bowed while the audience applauded fiercely.

The pianist said “Welcome to Paris” in a molasses accent. For months I had been away from the sound that recalled lynchings, insults and hate. It was bizarre to find myself suddenly drenched with the distasteful memories in a Parisian boîte.

I made myself speak. “Where are you from?”

“I'm from San Antonio.” At least he didn't say “San An-tone.” “Where are you from?”

“San Francisco.” I said it so briskly I almost bit my lip.

“Would you like to sing something? I'd be happy to play for you.” The graciousness dripped honeysuckle all over the old plantation.

I said, “No. I don't think you can play my music. It's not very ordinary.”

He asked, “What do you sing? The blues?” I knew he would think I sang blues. “I play the blues.” I was sure he'd say he played the blues.

“No, I sing calypso. Do you also play calypso?” That ought to hold him.

“Yes. I know some. How about ‘Stone Cold Dead in the Market’? Or ‘Rum and Coca-Cola’?”

I followed him to the piano in a mild state of shock. I told him my key and he was right. He played “Stone Cold Dead” better and with more humor than my accompanist did at the Purple Onion. The audience liked the song and Bobby applauded quietly. Everything about the man was serene except his piano playing and his smile.

“Want to sing another? How about ‘Run Joe’?”

Although that had been the song