The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [82]
It was obvious that the other actors also found effective motivation. The play became such a cruel parody of white society that I was certain it would flop. Whites were not so masochistic as to favor a play which ridiculed and insulted them, and black playgoers were scarce.
James Baldwin was a friend of Gene Frankel's and he attended rehearsals frequently. He laughed loudly and approvingly at our performances and I talked with him often. When I introduced him to Vus they took to each other with enthusiasm.
At dress rehearsal, on the eve of opening night, black friends, family and investors who had been invited hooted and stamped their feet throughout the performance. But I reckoned their responses natural. They were bound to us, as fellow blacks, black sympathizers or investors.
Vus and Guy grinned and assured me that I was the best actor on the stage. I accepted their compliments easily.
On the morning of opening night, the cast gathered in the foyer, passing jitters from hand to hand, like so many raw eggs. I looked around for Abbey but she hadn't arrived.
When we walked into the dark theater, Gene Frankel bellowed from the stage.
“Everybody down front. Everybody.”
He was having a more serious nervous attack than we who had to face the evening audience. I snickered. Roscoe Brown turned to me and made a face of arch innocence.
We filled the front rows, as Frankel paced out the length of the stage. He stopped and looked out at the actors.
His voice quivered. “We have no music. No music and Abbey Lincoln will not be opening tonight. Max Roach has taken his music out of the show.”
He threw out the information and waited, letting the words rest in our minds.
Anxious looks were exchanged in the front row.
“Abbey's understudy is ready. She's been rehearsing all morning.”
We turned and saw Ethel sitting poised stage left. Frankel added, “We can go on. We have to go on, but there is a song and the dance, for which we don't have a damn note.”
Moans and groans lifted up in the air. We had endured the work, the late nights and early mornings of concentration, the long subway trips, the abandoned families, Talley Beatty's complex choreography and the director's demanding staging.
Max Roach was a genius, a responsible musician and my friend. I knew he had to have a reason.
I got up and went outside to the public telephone.
Max answered, sounding like a slide trombone. “The son of a bitches reneged. We had an agreement and the producers reneged on it.”
“And Abbey is out of the play?”
“You goddam right.”
“Well, Max, you won't hate me if I stay?”
“Hell no. But my wife will not get up on that stage.”
Frankel had said we would open with or without the music.
I asked, “Max, would it be all right if I wrote the tunes? We can get along with two tunes.”
“I don't give a damn. I just don't want to have that bastard using my music.”
“I'll still be your sister.”
Max was an attentive brother but he could be a violent enemy.
“Yeah. Yeah. You're my sister.”
The telephone was slammed down.
If I stopped to think about my next move, I might convince myself out of it. Black folks said, “Follow your first mind.”
I beckoned Ethel from the aisle. She rose and we walked into the lobby. Ethel had musical training and I had composed tunes for my album and for Guy. Together we could easily write the music for just two songs.
Ethel had the air of a woman born pretty. The years of familial adoration, the compliments of strangers, and the envy of plain women had given her a large share of confidence.
“Sure, Maya. We can do it. It's just two songs, right? Let's get to the piano.”
We walked down the stage to where Frankel was in conference with Talley and Glanville.
“We'll write the music.”
“What?”
“We'll write it this afternoon.”
I added, “And teach it to the cast.”
Frankel nearly jumped into Sidney Bernstein's arms. “Did you hear that?”
Bernstein smiled and waggled his head happily.
“I heard. I heard. Let's let them do it. If they say they can do it, let's let them do it.