The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [86]
The constancy and delicacy of Roscoe's concern made him the ideal hero for fantasy and the necessary contrast to my real life. He was all pleasure and no offense, excitement without responsibility. If we had embraced or if we once discussed the torment of my marriage, our private ritual of romance would have failed, overburdened by ordinariness. If one is lucky a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities.
My controlled paranoia prevented me from realizing the seriousness of a phone call I received one evening.
When I picked up the receiver, a man's throaty voice whispered “Maya Make? Vusumzi Make is not coming home.”
The statement surprised me but I wasn't alarmed. I asked, “Did he ask you to tell me that? Why didn't he call? Who are you?”
The man said, 'Vusumzi will never come home again.” He hung up the telephone.
I walked around the living room trying to sort out the message. The English was labored but I could not place the origin of the heavy accent. Vus knew so many foreigners, the man could have been from any country in the world. He also knew many women, and just possibly an African diplomat suspected that his wife and Vus were having an affair. He telephoned, not so much to threaten Vus, as to awaken my suspicions. He had wasted his money and his time. When I left for the theater, Vus hadn't returned home.
During the play the memory of the telephone call lay just under the remembered lines. Helen Martin and I were engaged in the play's final duel when the idea came to me that Vus might be in danger. The angry husband could have already hurt him. Maybe he had been caught with the man's wife and had been shot or stabbed. I finished the play, and only Roscoe took notice of my distraction. Each time I looked at him, he raised an eyebrow or pursed his lips, or gave me a questioning glance.
After the final ensemble stare into the audience, I turned and rushed for my dressing room, but Roscoe caught up with me in the corridor behind the stage.
“Maya, are you all right?”
The care on his face activated my tears. “It's Vus. I'm worried.”
He nodded. “Oh yes, I see.” He couldn't possibly see and I couldn't possibly tell him. We walked into the lobby en route to the dressing rooms, and Vus stepped out of the crowd of playgoers.
“Good evening, my dearest.” He was whole and he was beautiful.
Roscoe smiled as they shook hands. He said, “Mr. Make, our Queen is a great actress. Tonight she excelled herself.” He inclined his head toward me and walked away. I knew that Vus didn't approve of public displays of emotion, so I hugged him quickly and went to change into street clothes.
I couldn't hold my relief. In the taxi I rubbed his large round thigh, and put my head on his chest, breathing in his living scent. “You are loving me tonight.” He chuckled and the sound rumbled sweetly in my ear.
He made drinks at home and we sat on the good sofa. He took my hand.
“You are very nervous. You have been excited. What happened at the theater?”
I told him about the telephone call and his face changed. He began chewing the inside of his bottom lip; his eyes were deep and private.
I faked a light laugh and said, “I thought some irate husband had caught you and his wife in flagrante, and maybe he …”
I shut up. I sounded silly even to myself. Vus was far away.
When he spoke his voice was cold and his speech even more precise than usual.
“We must have the number changed. I'm surprised it took them so long.”
I didn't understand. He explained. “That was someone from the South African police. They do that sort of thing. Telephone the wives of freedom fighters and tell them their husbands or their children have been killed.” He grunted. “I guess I should be insulted that they are just beginning on you. It indicates that they have not been taking me seriously.” He turned his large body to face me. “Tomorrow, I'll have the number changed. And I will step up my campaign.”
The telephone incident brought me closer to the reality of South African politics than all the