The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [106]
“Goodbye, Mrs. Make. I'm sure you'll do well.” He pushed the door open and disappeared through it, while my mouth was hanging open wide enough to allow in a swarm of flies.
I directed myself back to my desk. At least I knew that I was expected to cover the African affairs. It would be necessary to collect all newspapers, magazines, journals and essays. A large map and a set of the Oxford English Dictionary would help. Now, now that I no longer desired Vus, I needed him. Every fact he'd ever learned was filed neatly in his orderly brain. He knew tribes, leaders, topography, weather and the political stances of all countries on the continent.
Two reporters, the coffee bearer and I reached my desk at the same time. The server set down the small cup and walked away, as both the journalists drew up chairs. When I sat down, they told me their names again, and began to chat with me, quite cozily We agreed tacitly that our first introduction had never happened. They offered to show me the Telex machine and how I could acquire background material on any news release. They proposed that I move my desk into the adjoining room, where there was a library with hundreds of books in English. The grin began in my stomach or behind my kneecaps or under my toenails. It undulated in sweet waves, overrunning my body with warmth and well-being. I thought of Brer Rabbit. Like all Southern black children, I had heard folk tales since my early youth, and a favorite came back to me as I sat in that wide-open newsroom in Cairo.
For years Brer Rabbit had been stealing carrots from a garden, and after many attempts, after many elaborate but ineffectual snares, the owner of the plot finally succeeded in catching him.
The man was red as blood with anger. He shook the rabbit until his tail nearly fell off. He said, “Rabbit, I've got you now. And I'm going to do the worst thing in the world to you. I mean the baddest thing. I mean the meanest thing. I'm going to make you cry and scream and wish that God never put breath in your body.”
The rabbit started crying. “Please, Mr. Farmer. Don't do the worst thing to me. Do anything but that. But I don't think you know what the worst thing is. So just do me as you want to do me.” The rabbit started shuffling and grinning. “But don't do the worst thing.”
The farmer looked at the rabbit suspiciously. He asked, “What is the worst thing?” Rabbit said, “I won't tell you.” The farmer began to lie. “You can tell me, little rabbit. I won't do it. I promise you.”
The rabbit began to relax. He asked the farmer. “Do you swear if I tell you, that you won't do it to me?”
The farmer put his hand on his heart and swore. The rabbit relaxed even more.
He said, “Farmer, you've got a big black iron pot. You can fill it with lard and light a fire under it and cook me in boiling oil, and I wouldn't care.”
The farmer was doubtful, but the rabbit kept talking. “You can skin me alive and use my fur to make a coat for your little girl, and that would be all right with me.” The farmer looked at the rabbit with disbelief, but the rabbit continued. “You can cut off all my feet and give them to your friends for good luck and I'd like that. But the worst thing …”
The farmer was getting excited. “Tell me, little rabbit, what is the worst thing?”
The rabbit began to tremble, his voice got so little the farmer could barely hear him. “See that briar patch over there?” He pointed to a clump of nettles, “Please don't throw me over there.” The farmer's face became hard. He asked the rabbit, “Are you sure that's the worst thing?” Rabbit said, “They stick in my sides like burning needles, they pop in my eyes like thorns, they hold me like chains and lash my body like whips. Please don't throw me in the briar patch.”
The farmer picked up the rabbit by the ears, he lifted him high in the air and he began to swing him around over his head, all the time asking, “Are you sure?” And the rabbit answered, crying, “It's the worst thing!”
Finally, when the farmer had the rabbit turning at a fast speed,