Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [70]
He took only a few bars to fall into the mood I was creating and then raced along with me and the story, never drowning my effects but always holding his own. When we finished I felt obliged to shake his hand over the loud applause.
“Aw, Maya, there was nothing to it. You're very good.”
Bernard and Ben met me back at the bar. They were still clapping as I approached.
“How about doing one spot a night for me, Maya?” Ben was grinning as he shook my hand. “One show a night. You'll be a sensation in Paris.”
Bernard said, “Chérk, it'll knock them out.”
“But I don't get out of the theater until eleven-thirty.” It was nice to be begged to do what I liked to do.
“You could do a show here at twelve-thirty.”
I thought about the money. I would be able to move out of the grim little pension that had no luxuries and was minus certain things that I as an American considered necessities. I could afford a room with private bath again and a toilet that wouldn't be at the end of dark stairs. And I could continue sending the same amount of money home. Or, it occurred to me, I could stay where I was—the pension wasn't all that bad—and send more money home. Mom could buy something wonderful for Clyde every other week and tell him I'd sent it. Then perhaps he would forgive my absence.
I asked Ben, “Could you pay me in dollars?”
Ben had been in Paris a long time. His large, round face became wise and hard. “You've got a good connection for exchange?”
I knew some people in the company sold their dollars on the black market and received a higher percentage of francs than banks would give.
I said, “No. I have a son at home. I have to send money for his keep.”
His expression softened a little. “Of course, of course, kid. I can give you dollars and you'll be paid every night. That's the way we do it in Paris. You want to talk it over with Bobby? He'll be playing for you.”
I waited until the pianist joined us at the bar. “I'm going to start singing here. Ben has offered me a job.”
“Well, isn't that nice.”
Oh God, I didn't know how I could bear that accent. If he would only play the piano and never speak to me, we'd get along very well.
“When are you going to start?”
Ben asked, “How about day after tomorrow. You could rehearse with Bobby tomorrow and next day and begin that night. How's that, kid?”
That was fine with me and the musicians. Bernard bought drinks and we closed the deal by clinking glasses all around.
Bobby Dorrough had a pitch as fine as crystal. I sang snatches of songs to him in the empty bar and as if he were a music machine, the notes went into his ears and immediately his fingers pressed them out of the piano keys. In the first afternoon's rehearsal we ran over my entire repertoire and agreed to spend the next day polishing the numbers. It was nearly dusk when we walked out of the bar. “Do you want me to get you a taxi, Maya?” I said, “No, I just live near the Place des Ternes.” “All right then, I'll walk you to your hotel.” “Oh no, thanks. I mean, I feel like walking slowly.” “Well, I wasn't planning to race you down the streets.” “I mean, I'd just as soon walk by myself.” I tried to tell him, without hurting his feelings, that I didn't really want to be with him. Suppose some of my friends from the opera met us. I didn't know one person who would be surprised or offended if I was seen with a white man, but neither did I know one who wouldn't be shocked into uncomfortable recall by the Southern accent.
“Would you like to have lunch tomorrow? Before rehearsal?” He was very slow in getting the message.
I said, “No, thank you.”
Rejection dawned on him and his pale face flushed with understanding. He said, “All right then, Maya, I'll see you tomorrow.”
I walked away, heading toward the Arc de Triomphe.
Martha and Lillian said they'd come down with me to the club. Ned Wright and Joe Attles and Bey promised to drop by for the last