The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [111]
Her name was Mendinah and she was obviously looking for a husband.
We complimented her on her beauty and welcomed her to Cairo, and I secretly wished her luck.
CHAPTER 18
One week later Vus returned from Addis Ababa. He asked what had happened in his absence. I reported on my work and that David had found another way for me to supplement my salary. I had agreed to write commentary for Radio Egypt, and I would be paid four pounds for a review and an extra pound for each one I narrated.
Guy had earned acceptable grades on recent tests and had generously spent more time at home while Vus was away. I also told Vus about the women's party and Mendinah. He accepted my news and told me drily of his trip. The once-exotic names no longer titillated me, and Vus had long since stopped trying to enchant me with tales of his perilous exploits. We returned to the sequence of our lives. Work occupied our days, and parsimonious love-making ended some stolid nights.
The news spread in the African diplomatic corps that Mendinah was a slut, a hussy, a whore, a home-breaking harlot. The rumor was hot oil poured into the ears of the African women who had admired her. She had sought appointments with four ambassadors. Three had reported to their wives that the pretty woman offered them her favors in return for money. In weeks she had cut a lascivious swath between members of the diplomatic corps and their wives. Her name became an alarm, forcing my female friends to assemble and close ranks against the dangerous intruder.
She would never be invited to another woman's home. She would be turned away from every door, and not addressed on the street. The husbands who had fallen for her charms would be dealt with in the privacy of their marriages, but her blatant disrespect of the African wives had to have public penalty.
Two months passed and for the African community Mendinah disappeared, lost her name, had no presence. Then one evening, an Egyptian woman, a close acquaintance of the African women, gave a party. Vus and I arrived late. When we entered the first room, the informal lounge, Banti, Kebi and seven ladies already sat on the sofas, their multicolored dresses radiant against dark-brown skin. They greeted Vus, who responded and continued into the salon, where more guests stood talking. I stopped to exchange regards with my friends and the other ladies I had come to know and like.
Our small talk was suddenly pierced by “Good evening, Mrs. Make.” The sound was disquietingly familiar. I looked up and saw Mendinah in the arched doorway leading to a hall passage. She was standing by a record player. I nodded to her and she lifted the machine's arm, stopping the music. When she turned her fabulous body to face me, I saw again the cunning face, the small hint of cruelty.
“Mrs. Make, Mr. Make has been trying to reach me all day long. He called all over Cairo trying to get my number.” Her words, voice and intent were pitiless and for seconds my heart opposed its natural function.
She poked her voice easily through my entire body. “When he finally reached me, he said he had to talk to me, to see me about something very important.” As she glanced at the seated women, I gritted my teeth and held on to the sternness of my long-dead grandmother.
“I refused to let him come to my apartment.” Her eyes hurriedly returned to fasten on me. “Then he said it had to do with you. That you needed someone to help you at the office. I have been looking for a job, you know.” Again, her eyes rushed to the African women, and quickly back to me.
Nothing happened. No angel came to take me up to a deserved heaven. No one shook my shoulder to awaken me from the immobilizing nightmare. No one moved. I raked through my mind, gathering every shred of skill, art and craftiness and stepped toward her.
“Mendinah?” I kept my voice soft and haughty. She looked up into my face as I approached.
“I am Mendinah, Mrs. Make.” The tone of her response was sassy.
“And