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“Go and bring food and drink.”

“But Grandmother, she has already eaten.”

“Go.”

Mrs. Dovic brought a small meat pie and a shot of slivovitz with the accompanying apricot preserve. I took a bite of the savory and one small spoonful of preserves. Without hesitation I gulped down the jigger of brandy and followed it with another spoonful of preserves.

The old woman smiled and patted my cheek. She began to talk to me so fast I couldn't keep up with her. I laughed and she laughed, showing a full set of the regulation metal teeth. Only after the party relaxed and general conversation resumed did I realize how tense the atmosphere had been. The grandmother patted my cheek again and touched my knee, then she rose laboriously and headed for her room. I called, “Good night, Grandmother,” but she didn't respond. The host said, “She has already forgotten you. She is very old. Thank you for being so kind.”

We were collecting our coats when the door opened again and the old woman again emerged, but this time followed by an older man. He, too, wore a chenille robe and matching slippers, and sleep had not yet released his face. When I noticed that he did not look around the room for someone or something strange but began greeting the guests closest to him, I knew the old woman was playing a joke on him. He hobbled from one person to another and the old woman stayed close to his side. Suddenly he saw me and almost leaped out of his ninety-year-old antiquity. He screamed and turned as quickly as he could to escape, but the old woman caught his sleeve, and with words I couldn't understand, began to berate him for his ignorance and chide him for being rude.

She guided him to the sofa and made him sit on one side of me while she sat on the other.

“Go bring food and drink.”

Again I went through the ritual. When the old man saw I could both eat and drink and I could speak some Serbo-Croatian, he not only decided I was human, he declared me a Yugoslav. Just a very dark one.

“What is your name?”

“Maya.”

“A good name.”

“Who is your father?”

“Bailey Johnson.”

“What a strange name for a Croatian. But I am sure I know him. Who is his father?”

“William Johnson.”

“Vilyon? Vilyon? What does he do? I know everybody. I am ninety-three years old. Now tell me, was that Vilyon from Split or the one from Dubrovnik? Tell me.”

No one could convince the man that I belonged to a different race and country.

As we headed for the door he said, “Tell Vilyon you have met me. Tell him to come after Christmas. We will talk of the old times.”

The desk clerk at the hotel had to unlock the door to let us in. He said, “Miss Angelou. Miss Ferguson. Did you enjoy the party at the Dovic home? Did you enjoy the American records, and the food? The old man and woman are very amusing, are they not?”

So much for our sense of freedom.

The next morning a clean-cut American asked to see me. I went to a room in the hotel and listened to a strange white man talk to me as if I were a child.

“You have been asked, Maya, not to wander around Belgrade. The Yugoslavs don't want it. They are a different people from us. They don't understand our ways. You are, after all, a guest in their country. Simple courtesy demands that you honor the wishes of your host.”

I said, “I am not the one of the two of us who needs lessons in common courtesy. I did not say one thing last night that I didn't mean, nor that I would be reluctant to repeat. Good morning,” and I left.

If Porgy and Bess didn't like it, they could find another singer who could dance, or a dancer who could sing. I had already seen Venice, Paris and two towns in Yugoslavia. I could go home to my wonderful son and my night club career.

I never heard any more about the incident, nor did I ask Helen if she had been questioned on our return.

“Good morning, Mistress Maya. As you know this is being me, Mr. Julian.”

It was also the morning of our closing night in Belgrade.

“Yes, Mr. Julian.”

Nothing had deterred him. Neither strong words nor outright insults kept him from telephoning.