The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [102]
Two days later, David took me to meet Zein Nagati, president of the Middle East Feature News Agency. Dr. Nagati was a very large handsome man in rumpled tweeds who had the air of a university professor.
He spoke rapidly, never repeating himself, as if he was used to talking to efficient shorthand secretaries.
He had started a magazine called the Arab Observer. It was not strictly speaking an official organ of the Egyptian government; that is, it did not come directly under the heading of the Ministry of Information. Its editorial position, however, would be identical with the national politics. He was hiring a Hungarian layout artist, and already had twelve reporters working. DuBois said I was an experienced journalist, wife of a freedom fighter and an expert administrator. Would I be interested in the job of associate editor? If so I should realize that since I was neither Egyptian, Arab nor Muslim and since I would be the only woman working in the office, things would not be easy. He mentioned a salary that sounded like pots of gold to my ears and, standing, he reached for my hand.
“Very good, Mrs. Make. You'll begin on Monday. I'll be there to introduce you, and DuBois can show you around. Salaam.”
He picked up his briefcase, inclined his head to me, shook hands with David and left the room.
I wanted to speak but I felt I had fallen into a deep trench with steep muddy sides.
When I regained a degree of consciousness, David was talking.
“You won't find it that hard. I'll help. Call me at any time. You've done reporting, and you've run offices. Anyway, you wanted a job.”
He offered to show me his office, which was in the same building, and then take me to lunch. I followed him meekly, but I don't remember seeing his desk or meeting any other person. We went to the Cairo Hilton, but I could have eaten air sandwiches and a salad made of clouds. My thoughts nibbled on David's exaggerations to Dr. Nagati based on the lies I had told him. And the larger chunk in my throat which prevented me from swallowing solid food consisted of wondering what cleverness I could devise which would allow me to tell Vus and keep both the job and my husband.
David dropped me off at Ahmet Hismat and patted me on the shoulder. “Girl, you realize, you and I are the only black Americans working in the news media in the Middle East?”
I gave him a phony smile and got out of the taxi with that new mind full of responsibility.
In the United States, when I faced any new situation I knew what to do. I had half educated myself by spending nights and long days in libraries. I had given my son a fair smattering of general information from borrowed books. But in Egypt I faced the dilemma without help. Only the American Embassy would have a collection in English, and since I had spoken so harshly to Africans about the United States' racist policy, going there was out of the question.
I fingered the books Vus and I had brought from the States. George Padmore's Africa and World Peace, DuBois's Souls of Black Folks, collections of Langston Hughes's and Paul Laurence Dunbar's poems and Baldwin's Nobody Knows My Name.
The Baldwin book gave me heart. Nobody seemed to know my name either. I had been called everything from Marguerite, Ritie, Rita, Maya, Sugar, Bitch, Whore, Madam, girl and wife. Now in Egypt I was going to be called “associate editor.” And I would earn the title, if I had to work like a slave. Well not quite, but nearly.
Guy brought home another notice for fees from school, and I told him I had made arrangements to pay. The evidence of his complete trust was the fact that the question on his face disappeared in seconds.
Vus returned on Sunday morning, rested and handsome. He was the only person I ever knew who could finish a ten-hour plane trip looking as fresh as new money. We exclaimed over our gifts; he brought a Zulu necklace for me and a chess set for Guy. We had a large Sunday dinner, and Guy left for the movies with some school friends.
We spent a lovely hour in the