The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [103]
I began cautiously.
“I saw David DuBois. We went to tea.”
“Oh great. How is he?”
“I asked him to help me find a job.”
Vus sputtered, then rubbed his mouth with a napkin.
His next reaction startled me. He began to laugh. At first a few chuckles but they increased to a hearty guffaw, then he lost his breath again. When he calmed down his first words were “You black women. Who knows what to do with you?” His laughter was more restrained. “Black and American. You think you can come to Egypt and just go get a job? That's foolish. It shows the nerve of the black woman and the arrogance of the American. I must say, my dear wife, those are not very attractive qualities. Don't pout, Maya, you know I love you. There are simply some things which do not become you. I gave you Gamal Nasser's book, didn't you read it? The UAR is committed to upgrading its citizens economically as well as politically. As my wife, and a foreigner as well, you would never find a job. Besides, I look after you. I like you to look after me and Guy, and …”—here he rubbed his chin lovingly—“and maybe we'll have a child, a little brother for Guy.”
There is a silent scream, which tears through the veins, separating the muscles, pinching the nerves, yet the body seems to remain immobile. We had never talked about having children. I had one son. I seemed to have given an order to my body that one was enough, because although I used no contraceptives, I had only been pregnant the one time.
He was still playing with his chin, pulling at the sparse hairs.
“Vus, the rent is past due. The collectors have been here for payment on the furniture and the rugs. Guy's school has sent two notes home. I've fired the gardener and paid Omanadia out of my food money. I have to go to work.”
“But I will see that everyone is paid. I always do, don't I?” I wouldn't answer and I wouldn't remind him of the New York eviction.
He raised his voice. “I don't throw away money you know that. I only receive an allowance for the office and living expenses. Travel is costly. Printing charges are high. I must keep up my appearance. And so must you. We are freedom fighters. We are not beggars.”
Craft and cunning were necessary and even as I schemed, I doubted if I was smart enough.
“Vus, you say you need me. You need a woman, not just a hostess. Your struggle is my struggle. I need to be more involved than serving dinner to refugees and keeping your house.”
He started to interrupt but I continued. “If I work, you can spend the living allowance on the office. Instead of a quarterly newsletter, you could send out a monthly. We would be able to buy some warm coats for the new escapees. My salary could take care of the house expenses.”
He listened and his eyes shone for a second, then the light went out.
“Darling, you are a wonderful woman. Excuse the harsh words. You're not arrogant. You are thoughtful. I appreciate your idea. But it's not possible. You'll never find work in Cairo.”
“Vus, I have a job. Associate editor of the Arab Observer. I start tomorrow.”
I watched the disbelief on his face turn to anger, then to rage.
“You took a job without consulting me? Are you a man?”
He stood and began to pace over the expensive rug. His tirade carried him from the sofa to the entry, over to the large chair and back to stand in front of me. His vilification included my insolence, independence, lack of respect, arrogance, ignorance, defiance, callousness, cheekiness and lack of breeding. I sat, watching him, listening and thinking. He was right. Somewhere in his swarm of words he had my apt description. I also understood that maybe I had gone too far. Even an American black man would have found such a headstrong wife unsuitable, and how much more an African husband, steeped in a tradition of at least the appearance of male authority. I realized that I had handled the thing badly. I should have been more delicate. I should have allowed Vus time to see me depressed