The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [73]
“Where is your permit? You people have to have a permit to demonstrate.”
Three black men suddenly appeared, placing themselves between the policemen and me.
“What do you want with this black lady?”
“Watch yourself, Charlie. Don't mess with her.”
Instantly more police surrounded my protectors, and black people from the dragging line, seeing the swift action, ran over to encircle the newly arrived police.
I had to make a show of confidence. I looked into the officer's face and said, “Permit? If we left it to you whites we'd be in the same shape as our folks in South Africa. We'd have to have a permit to breathe.”
A man standing by my side added, “Naw. We ain't got no damn permit. So you better pull out your pistols and start shooting. Shoot us down now, 'cause we ain't moving.”
The policemen, eager to accept the man's invitation, snorted and fidgeted like enraged horses. The officer reined them in with his voice. He shouted, “It's all right, men. I said, it's all right. Back to your stations.”
There was a brief period of hateful staring before the cops returned to the street and we rejoined the larger group of black people shuffling along the pavement.
Rosa found me. “Carlos is inside.” Her eyes were narrowed. “Somebody said he's been in there over a half-hour. The Belgian Consulate is on the eleventh floor. Maybe the cops have got him.”
The knowledge of what police do to black men rose wraith like before my eyes. Carlos was little and pretty and reminded me of my brother. The cops did have Bailey and maybe he was being clubbed or raped at that very minute. I saw a horrifying picture of Bailey in the hands of madmen but there was nothing I could do about it.
I could do something about Carlos.
I said, “I'm going in. You keep the people marching.”
I searched the faces nearest me.
Vus once told me, “If you're ever in trouble, don't under any circumstances ask black middle-class people for help. They always think they have a stake in the system. Look for a tsotsi, that's Xhosa for a street hoodlum. A roughneck. A convict. He'll already be angry and he will know that he has nothing to lose.”
I continued looking until I saw the man. He was taller than I, rail-thin and the color of bitter chocolate. One deep scar ran from the flange of his left nostril to his earlobe and another lay between his hairline and his left eyebrow.
I beckoned to him and he came toward me.
“Brother, my name is Maya. I think Carlos Moore is in this building somewhere. He's the leader of this march. The cops may have him and you know what that means.”
“Yeah, sister, yeah.” He nodded wisely.
“I want to go in and see about him and I need somebody to go with me.”
He nodded again and waited.
“It'll be dangerous, but will you go?”
“Sure.” The planes on his face didn't change. “Sure, Sister Maya. Let's go.” He took my elbow and began to propel me to the steps.
I asked, “What's your name?” He said, “Call me Buddy.”
Rosa's voice came to me as we went through the revolving doors. “Be careful, Maya.”
The lobby was busy with police, guards and milling white men. Although my escort was pushing me quickly toward the bank of elevators, I had time to look at the building's directory. Above the eleventh-floor listing of the Belgian Consulate were the words AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY, 10TH FLOOR. A fat, florid police officer stepped in front of me and my companion.
“Where are you going?”
The tsotsi spoke. “None of your goddam business.”
I poked his side and said sweetly, “I'm going to the American Book Company.”
The cop and the tsotsi stared knowingly at each other. Loathing ran between the two men like an electrical current.
“And you. Where do you think you're going?”
“I'm going with her. Every step of the way.”
The cop heard the challenge and narrowed his eyes and I heard the protection and felt like a little girl. The pudgy cop followed us to the elevators and I pushed the tenth-floor button, holding on to the black man's hand. The ride was tense and quick. We walked out into the hall and turned to watch the officer's face until