The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [89]
Vus and James Baldwin were waiting at the bottom of the stairs, so I dropped the befuddlement on them.
What did it mean? The stupid bastard was of a piece with the other arrogant thieves who took the work of black artists without even threatening them with drawn pistols. I wasn't locked into The Blacks.
Vus still paid most of the bills, so I wasn't dependent on the job, and since I had no theatrical ambition I didn't have to be afraid that the producers would bad-mouth me off and on Broadway. Vus and Jim stayed quiet.
Vus took my shoulders in his hands and pressed his thumbs into the soft muscles at the joint of my arms. The pain made me forget about Sidney Bernstein, Ethel Ayler, the music and The Blacks. I stopped crying and he released me.
“My dear. You will never return to this theater. You have just closed.”
I looked at Jim Baldwin. Vus's statement was as shocking as Bernstein's rejection. I knew that Jim would understand that I couldn't simply not return to the theater. He would explain that as a member of Equity, the theatrical union, I was obliged to give at least two weeks’ notice. Jim was silent. Although we three stood in arm's reach of each other, he watched Vus and me as if we were screen actors and he was sitting apart in a distant auditorium.
I said, “I can't close without giving notice. My union will have me up on charges. Bernstein can sue me …”
Vus walked away to the pavement's edge and hailed a taxi. I whispered to Jim, “Tell him I can't do that. Please explain. He doesn't understand.”
Jim grinned, his big eyes flashing with enjoyment. “He understands, Maya. He understands more about what Bernstein has done than you. Don't worry, you'll be all right.”
We crowded into the back seat of the cab. Vus leaned toward the driver.
“Take us, please, to the nearest Western Union office.”
The driver hesitated for a few seconds, then started his motor and drove us to Broadway. On the ride, Vus and Jim leaned across me, agreeing on the bloody arrogance of white folks. It was ironic that the producer of a play which exposed white greed so eloquently could himself be such a glutton. Whether we were in the mines of South Africa, or the liberal New York theater, nothing changed. Whites wanted everything They thought they deserved everything. That they wanted to possess all the materials of the earth was in itself disturbing, but that they also wanted to control the souls and the pride of people was inexplicable.
We walked into the Western Union office. Jim and I stood talking while Vus filled out a form.
He handed it to the telegraph operator. When the man finished copying the message, Vus paid and then, taking the form back, he walked over to us and read aloud: “Mrs. Maya Angelou Make will not be returning to The Blacks or the St. Mark's Playhouse. She resists the exploitation of herself and her people. She has closed. Signed, Vusumzi Linda Make, Pan African Congress, Johannesburg, South Africa. Currently Petitioner at United Nations.”
Vus continued. “That will be the last you will hear of those people, my dear. Unless Bernstein wants an international incident.”
Jim laughed out loud. “See, Maya Angelou, I told you, you have nothing to worry about.”
We walked out of the office, and linking arms, strolled into the nearest bar.
The fat Xhosa, the thin New Yorker and the tall Southerner drank all night and exchanged unsurprising stories on the theme of white aggression and black vulnerability. And somehow we laughed.
I sat beside the telephone the next day. The hangover and drama of leaving the show made me quick and ready to blast the ears of Bernstein, or Frankel or Glanville or anyone who would dare call me about Vus's telegram. The telephone