The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou (73 page)

L’Abbaye was a bar owned by Gordon Heath, a Black American who provided his own entertainment. He sang in a weak but compelling voice and projected an air of mystery. After each song the audience showed their appreciation by snapping their fingers. Heath did not allow hand-clapping.

The Rose Rouge on the Left Bank was closer to my idea of a Parisian night club. It had velour drapes and a uniformed doorman; the waiters were haughty and the customers well-dressed. Acrobats and pantomimists, magicians and pretty half-naked girls kept up a continuous diversion. Bernard introduced me to the handsome Algerian owner, who I immediately but privately named Pepe Le Moko. He said if I wanted to do an act in his club, he’d find a place for me. I said I’d keep it in mind.

Around three o’clock in the morning my escort took me to the Mars Club, which he pronounced “Mairs Cloob” near the Champs-Élysées. It was owned by an oversized American man from New York and specialized in Black entertainment. Bernard pointed out the names printed on the door of people who had worked in the smoky and close room. The only one I recognized was Eartha Kitt. Ben, the owner, repeated Pepe Le Moko’s invitation. I said I was flattered and I’d think about it. I knew I wouldn’t. Where would I find a musician in Paris who could play calypso accompaniment?

Ben asked, “Why don’t you give us a song now?”

I looked at the pianist, who was white and thin and had a long sorry face. He sat playing a quiet moody song. When he finished, Ben called him to the bar and introduced us. “Bobby Dorrough, this is Maya Angelou, she’s a singer.”

He smiled and his face was transformed. His cheeks bunched under sparkling eyes and his teeth were large and white and even. He said, “Happy to know you, Maya,” and the drawl made my skin move along my arms. He couldn’t have sounded more Southern white if he had exaggerated.

Ben went to the microphone and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have with us tonight one of the stars of
Porgy and Bess.”

I was hardly that, but why correct him? I stood and bowed while the audience applauded fiercely.

The pianist said “Welcome to Paris” in a molasses accent. For months I had been away from the sound that recalled lynchings, insults and hate. It was bizarre to find myself suddenly drenched with the distasteful memories in a Parisian
boîte
.

I made myself speak. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from San Antonio.” At least he didn’t say “San Antone.” “Where are you from?”

“San Francisco.” I said it so briskly I almost bit my lip.

“Would you like to sing something? I’d be happy to play for you.” The graciousness dripped honeysuckle all over the old plantation.

I said, “No. I don’t think you can play my music. It’s not very ordinary.”

He asked, “What do you sing? The blues?” I knew he would think I sang blues. “I play the blues.” I was sure he’d say he played the blues.

“No, I sing calypso. Do you also play calypso?” That ought to hold him.

“Yes. I know some. How about ‘Stone Cold Dead in the Market’? Or ‘Rum and Coca-Cola’?”

I followed him to the piano in a mild state of shock. I told him my key and he was right. He played ‘Stone Cold Dead’ better and with more humor than my accompanist did at the Purple Onion. The audience liked the song and Bobby applauded quietly. Everything about the man was serene except his piano playing and his smile.

“Want to sing another? How about ‘Run Joe’?”

Although that had been the song which started my career and I always used it to close a show or as a dramatic encore, it was not really well known. I was surprised that the pianist knew it. “Yes. I’ll sing one more.”

He took only a few bars to fall into the mood I was creating and then raced along with me and the story, never drowning my effects but always holding his own. When we finished I felt obliged to shake his hand over the loud applause.

“Aw, Maya, there was nothing to it. You’re very good.”

Bernard and Ben met me back at the bar. They were still clapping as I approached.

“How about doing one spot a night for me, Maya?” Ben was grinning as he shook my hand. “One show a night. You’ll be a sensation in Paris.”

Bernard said,
“Chérie
, it’ll knock them out.”

“But I don’t get out of the theater until eleven-thirty.” It was nice to be begged to do what I liked to do.

“You could do a show here at twelve-thirty.”

I thought about the money. I would be able to move out of the grim little pension that had no luxuries and was minus certain things that I as an American considered necessities. I could afford a room with private bath again and a toilet that wouldn’t be at the end of dark stairs. And I could continue sending the same amount of money home. Or, it
occurred to me, I could stay where I was—the pension wasn’t all that bad—and send more money home. Mom could buy something wonderful for Clyde every other week and tell him I’d sent it. Then perhaps he would forgive my absence.

I asked Ben, “Could you pay me in dollars?”

Ben had been in Paris a long time. His large, round face became wise and hard. “You’ve got a good connection for exchange?”

I knew some people in the company sold their dollars on the black market and received a higher percentage of francs than banks would give.

I said, “No. I have a son at home. I have to send money for his keep.”

His expression softened a little. “Of course, of course, kid, I can give you dollars and you’ll be paid every night. That’s the way we do it in Paris. You want to talk it over with Bobby? He’ll be playing for you.”

I waited until the pianist joined us at the bar. “I’m going to start singing here. Ben has offered me a job.”

Well, isn’t that nice.”

Oh God, I didn’t know how I could bear that accent. If he would only play the piano and never speak to me, we’d get along very well.

“When are you going to start?”

Ben asked, “How about day after tomorrow. You could rehearse with Bobby tomorrow and next day and begin that night. How’s that, kid?”

That was fine with me and the musician. Bernard bought drinks and we closed the deal by clinking glasses all around.

Bobby Dorrough had a pitch as fine as crystal. I sang snatches of songs to him in the empty bar and as if he were a music machine, the notes went into his ears and immediately his fingers pressed them out of the piano keys. In the first afternoon’s rehearsal we ran over my entire repertoire and agreed to spend the next day polishing the numbers. It was nearly dusk when we walked out of the bar.

“Do you want me to get you a taxi, Maya?”

I said, “No, I just live near the Place des Ternes.”

“All right then, I’ll walk you to your hotel.”

“Oh no, thanks. I mean, I feel like walking slowly.”

“Well, I wasn’t planning to race you down the streets.”

“I mean, I’d just as soon walk by myself.” I tried to tell him, without hurting his feelings, that I didn’t really want to be with him. Suppose some of my friends from the opera met us. I didn’t know one person who would be surprised or offended if I was seen with a white man, but neither did I know one who wouldn’t be shocked into uncomfortable recall by the Southern accent.

“Would you like to have lunch tomorrow? Before rehearsal?” He was very slow in getting the message.

I said, “No, thank you.”

Rejection dawned on him and his pale face flushed with understanding. He said, “All right then, Maya, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I walked away, heading toward the Arc de Triomphe.

Martha and Lillian said they’d come down with me to the club. Ned Wright and Joe Attles and Bey promised to drop by for the last show. The news that I had a second job did not displease the company’s administration because any publicity I received was good for the opera.

After the midnight show I introduced my friends to the full audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, some members of the
Porgy and Bess
company.”

The audience stood up to look at the suddenly modest singers, who refused to rise, but simply nodded grandly from their seats.

I knew what was wrong. I hadn’t singled them out and made individual introductions giving their names and the roles they played. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to meet Miss Lillian Hayman, who sings Maria and Serena.” She was understudying the two roles. Lillian stood and graciously took the applause. She sat down gratified. “Joseph Attles, Sportin’ Life.” He stood, waved his long hands and blew kisses. “Ned Wright, Robbins.” Ned stood and flashed a smile like a beacon around the room. “And Miss Martha Flowers, Bess.” Martha stood up slowly and solemnly. She inclined her head,
first to the right, then to the left, then to the audience directly in front. Only after she had bowed did she smile. Her sense of theater was never better—she began the smile slowly, keeping her mouth closed and simply pulling her lips taut. Then she allowed a few teeth to show and gradually a few more, and then more. When her lips were stretched as tight as possible and her teeth glimmering like a row of lights, she snapped her head back and laughed, the high sound tinkling like chimes.

The audience was bewitched. They began to shout,
“Chantez
, Bess.
Chantez, chantez
, Bess.”

Martha suddenly became demure, and shaking her head in refusal, draped her small body in her seat. Her action incited the crowd and their clamor rose in volume. At exactly the correct moment, Martha stood up and shyly went to the piano. She leaned and whispered to Bobby. He struck one note and took his hands from the keys.

She was singing the vendor’s song a cappella and her voice floated free in the quiet room:

I looked around—everyone was beguiled, including our fellow singers. Martha ballooned her voice, then narrowed it, dipping down into a rough contralto, and then swung it high beyond the lyric soprano into the rarefied air that was usually the domain of divine coloraturas.

For a second after she finished there was no sound. Then people applauded her and began to crowd around her table. She coyly accepted the attention as if she hadn’t worked hard for years to earn it.

One of the lessons I learned from
Porgy and Bess
was that jealousy is conceived only in insecurity and must be nourished in fear. Each individual in our cast had the certainty of excellence.

After the din over Martha’s singing diminished, I asked Lillian to please sing.

She stood up without reluctance and sang,

Her voice was as colorful as Martha’s was pure, and the customers were again enchanted. Ned Wright sang a medley of popular songs, beginning with “I Can’t Give You Anything but Love,” which the French people recognized and loved. Joe Attles gave the audience “St. James Infirmary” and they literally stood in the aisles.

Maya Angelou was a crazy success. A smash hit! The audience thought they had never been better entertained. Ben was certain I would improve business; the bartender and waiters smiled gratefully at me. If I hadn’t memorized a story my grandmother told me when I was a knee-high child, I might have become conceited and begun to believe the compliments I did not totally deserve.

The old story came to mind: