Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas - Maya Angelou [96]
“Thanks, I'm going to wait. The doctor ought to be coming soon and I have a few thousand words for him.”
She blew air out of her cheeks. “Whew. You're a busy lady.” She pulled the door slowly, closing it on her grin.
Maki came to the cabin, his eyes wild. “Maya, I have told my wife everything.” He reached for me.
I said, “Hold it a minute.” I pushed him away. “Listen, I don't know you. You don't know me.”
“But I love you. I want to marry you. I will come with you to the United States.”
“No, you won't.” I opened the door. “You're nice. I guess. But I'm not marrying anyone. And surely not another Greek.”
“But I'm in love with you.”
“Really? Could we live in Greece after you married me?”
“You don't understand. Greece is a poor country. In America I could make money and …”
“Mister, my suggestion is that you keep the wife you've got.” I walked out into the passageway and held the door open with my foot. “I think you'd better go.”
He put his hat on and stepped out of the room. His face was downcast and he was going to say something, but Martha walked by.
“Good morning, Doctor. Good morning, Miss Thing. Still at it, huh?”
I called after her. “Wait, Mart. I'll go up with you.” Except for what I had come to think of as only a reasonable amount of teasing, the rest of the cruise was uneventful.
CHAPTER 25
The opera was well received in Athens. We photographed each other at the Acropolis and drank retsina late at night in small bars. I dodged Maki in the hotel lobby and tore up the letters he sent me without opening them.
I could have been wrong. It was just possible that he did like me a little. But I knew I would never marry again, nor would I be the cause of a marriage breaking up. I couldn't introduce another non-Black to my son and family (although my mother might have accepted this one more heartily because at least he was a doctor). But what made marriage impossible was the fact I would have been embarrassed even if I loved the man (which I didn't). No amount of kindness or fidelity on his part would erase the idea that I had bought a mate with a license that gave me little personal gratification: American citizenship.
We flew from Athens to Tel Aviv. The bright sun that pleased us in Egypt shone on Israel too. The palm trees and white sand and tropical flowers were identical, but the streets were washed clean and there was a total absence of beggars. We were met by English-speaking fans who seemed to have drawn our individual names from lots and immediately became our companions and guides.
The very religious among our company visited Jerusalem, the Wailing Wall, the Mount of Olives and the Dead Sea. The rest were satisfied to buy vials of sand from the Holy Land and agate beads from tourist shops.
Lionel Hampton's band had just finished an engagement in Tel Aviv and we met at a party given by the American embassy and the Israeli government. The Porgy and Bess company had not seen such a gathering of American Negroes in months. We fell on the musicians as if they were bowls of black-eyed peas.
In the United States—or anywhere else, for that matter—jazz musicians and opera singers would find few topics of mutual interest. Their vocabularies have no unanimity and even their approach to the common musical scales are as different as odds and evens. But at the foreign official welcoming party we were indisputably siblings.
Helen Ferguson talked with a giant baritone sax player. He bent double to listen to her. Lillian and Ethel laughed with the frenetic drummer who pushed his words over and around a wad of chewing gum.
Gloria Davy and Delores Swan listened attentively as Hamp staccatoed his remarks: “Yeah. Ha, ha. Yeah. Great. Yeah. Great. Ha, ha.”
Joe Jones and Merrit were telling stories to the brass section. I had my eyes on Sonny Parker, the male band singer. We had known each other slightly, but never as well as I wished.
“Sonny, who would have thought we'd meet in Israel?” I batted my eyes and tried