The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [91]
The Sierra Leone ambassador's suite was festive with brown- and black-colored people in African dress and the melodies of Ghanaian High Life music. Vus took me to the ambassador, who was standing with a group of women near the window.
The ambassador saw Vus and beamed. “Ah, Mr. Make. Welcome. Ladies, I would like you to meet our revolutionary brother from South Africa, Vusumzi Make.” Vus smiled and bowed, the light catching his cheekbones, and causing his hair to glisten.
He straightened up and spoke, “Your Excellency, I present my wife, Maya Angelou Make.”
The ambassador took my hand. “She is beautiful, Make.” He also bowed. “Madam Make, we have heard of you in Africa. Mr. Make has done the continent a great service. Welcome.”
I shook hands with the ambassador and each of the women and suddenly found the crowd had dispersed. I saw Vus near a table where a uniformed bartender mixed drinks. The ambassador was dancing with a pretty little woman in a very low-cut cocktail dress and I was left at the window. A roving waiter offered a tray of drinks. I chose a glass of wine and looked down on the lights of New York.
Strange languages swirled around me, and the smell of a spice, known among Arkansas blacks as bird pepper, became strong in the room. I stopped the waiter and took a glass of Scotch from his tray. Vus had taken over from the ambassador and now he was dancing with the little sexy woman, holding her too close, gazing too deeply into her eyes. I found the waiter in a group of laughing guests, took another Scotch and went back to the window to drink and think.
I had a fresh haircut and was wearing the prettiest outfit I owned. I could speak French and Spanish very well and could talk intelligently on a number of subjects. I knew national politics intimately and international subjects moderately well. I was married to a leading African freedom fighter and had daubed French perfume on my body, discreetly. Yet, no one talked to me. I had another drink.
The lights on the street had begun to blur, but I could see clearly that Vus was still dancing with the woman. I would have known what to do if the party had been given by Afro-Americans, or even if there had been a few Afro-American guests. Or if the African guests had all been female. But Vus was successfully teaching me that there was a particular and absolute way for a woman to approach an African man. I only knew how a wife addressed an African husband. I didn't know how to start a conversation with a male stranger, but I did know I was certainly getting drunk. If I could eat soon, I could stop the fast-moving effect of alcohol on my brain and body. I headed for the kitchen.
I nearly collided with the ambassador. He backed away and smiled. “Madam Make, I hope you're enjoying yourself.”
I made myself smile. “Thank you, Your Excellency,” and continued.
A black woman in a housedress was bent over, taking baking tins from the oven. When she straightened and saw me, she made her face and voice flat.
“Can I help you, ma'am?” Her Southern accent was strong.
“I just wanted a bite of something. Anything.”
“Ma'am, they will be serving in a few minutes.”
“Are you the ambassador's wife?” My question might have sounded stupid, considering the way she was dressed. But I knew that sometimes the chores of party-giving could increase so that guests arrived before the last tasks were done and the hostess had the time to change.
The woman laughed loudly. “Me? God, no. Madam Ambassador? Me?” She laughed, opening her mouth wide, her tongue wiggled. “No, ma'am. I am a Negro. I am the cook.” She turned back to the stove, her body shaking with glee. She muttered. “Me?”
I waited until she turned to me again.
“May I give you a hand? I am also a cook.” The laughter left her face as she examined me. Her gaze slid from my hair and gold earrings, to my necklace and dress and hands.
“No, honey. Maybe you can cook, but you ain't no cook.”
I pulled out a chair from the dinette table and sat down. She was right about my