The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [63]
“Find a good apartment, in Manhattan, and furnish it well. It must be large and central.” I was unhappy at the prospect of going back to New York alone, but he assured me that he would return in two weeks or at most a month. After he concluded his business in Egypt he might have to go to Kenya. The thought of his exotic destinations cheered my spirit and strengthened my resolve. I was happy to return to New York and the task of finding an apartment which would fit his exquisite taste.
In one week I found an apartment in Manhattan on Central Park West, packed books and hired a mover. On our moving day, Guy and I sat among the boxes in the Brooklyn living room. He wanted me to tell him about London again. I described the speakers talking in the rain at Hyde Park Corner and the solemn guards at Buckingham Palace, but he wanted to hear about the Africans.
“Tell me how they looked. How did they walk? What were they called?”
The names were beautiful. “There was Kozonguizi and Make-Wane, Molotsi, Mahomo.”
Guy sat quietly. I knew he was running the sounds through his mind. After a moment he said, “You know, Mom, I've been thinking of changing my name. What do you think?”
What I thought was that my marriage to Vus had affected him deeply, but I said nothing.
“Johnson is a slave name. It was the name of some white man who owned my great-great-grandfather. Am I right?”
I nodded and felt ashamed.
“Have you chosen a name?”
He smiled. “Not yet. But I'm thinking about it. All the time.”
Guy spent the next few weeks adjusting to his new school, and I used my time seeing my friends and trying to beautify the apartment.
The Harlem Writers Guild members and Abbey listened attentively to my description of Africans in London. They nodded, appreciating the freedom fighters' dedication. They smiled at me, proud that I had been so close to the motherland.
Before Vus returned, I painted the kitchen and put brightly colored wallpaper in the bathroom. The apartment was crisp and elegant.
Vus came home like a soldier returning from a conquered battlefield. His sagas of Cairo were heroic. He had drunk coffee with President Nasser and talked privately with his assistant. Egyptian officials supported the African struggle for freedom, and soon he would take Guy and me to live in Cairo. Excitement shook away Guy's just-forming adult postures. He jumped up, wiggling.
“We're going to Egypt? I'll see the pyramids? Boy I'm going to be riding camels and everything.”
Vus chuckled, happy to be the cause of such elation. Guy finally took his thrills to bed and I rushed into Vus's waiting arms.
The next morning my interior decorating met with stony disapproval. The old sofa was wrong for a man in my husband's position and the secondhand-store bedroom set definitely had to go.
“I am an African. Even a man sleeping in the bush will lay fresh leaves on the ground. I will not sleep on a bed other men have used.”
I didn't ask him what he did in hotels. Certainly he didn't call the manager and say, “I want a brand-new mattress. I am an African.”
I said, “But if we're going to Egypt we shouldn't buy new furniture.”
He answered, “The things we buy will be of such quality they will have a high resale value. And anyway, we're not moving immediately.”
I followed him meekly around a furniture store where he selected an expensive bed, a teak coffee table and a giant brown leather sofa.
He paid in cash, pulling bills from a large roll of money. The source of Vus's money was a mystery. He evaded my questions with the agility of an impala. There was nothing for me to do but relax and accept that he knew what he was doing. My son and I were in his care and he looked after us well. He was an attentive father, making solo visits to Guy's school and sitting with him late evenings over textbooks. They laughed often and affectionately together. When other Africans visited, Vus would insist that Guy sit in on the unending debates over violence and nonviolence, the role of religion in Africa, the place and the strength of