by Maya Angelou
The opening night of our European tour was a smash hit. The Italians were the most difficult audiences to sing for. They knew and loved music; operas, which were mainly for the elite in other countries, were folk music and children’s songs in Italy. They loved us, we loved them. We loved ourselves. It was a certainty: if Italy declared us acceptable we could have the rest of Europe for a song.
—
We stayed in Venice for one sold-out week. During that time the stars were feted by city officials and the well-to-do, while the chorus was adored by the ordinary folk. We were hailed in the streets like conquering heroes and given free rides on the canals by gondoliers, who sang strains from Porgy and Bess. One owner of a glass-blowing factory presented us with delicate figurines, which we stowed in layers of cotton for our imminent trip to Paris.
I bought a French-English dictionary and packed it with the Italian-English phrase book and other belongings and had them taken to the bus which waited in the square. Fans crowded around us, offering cheeks to be kissed, hands to be shaken and flowers. We exchanged hugs and some tears with people who hadn’t known of our existence only seven days before.
When the bus drove toward the station where we were to take a train to Paris, I thought of the city as a larger replica of some of its museums. Venice was itself an object of art, and its citizens the artists who had created it and were constantly re-creating it. I waved my hands, wagged my head and made sorry, sad faces to the well-wishers, as if I was being carried off against my will. Loving Venice and Venetians nearly made me Italian.
The Blue Train sped through Italy. I sat in a compartment with Lillian, Martha and Barbara Ann, listening to them talk about recital salons, and concert halls. Lillian mentioned a voice teacher whom someone in New York had recommended. Martha drew herself up and said the greatest voice teacher in the world was her teacher, in New York, and she wouldn’t stand for anyone else messing with her voice. (Operatic singers are fiercely loyal to their teachers.) Lillian told her that was stupid: “Your teacher couldn’t be the best vocal teacher in the world because I’ve heard some terrible stories about her.” An argument grew and thrashed around the small space between us. I had nothing to add, since Wilkie was the only voice teacher I’d ever met, and I didn’t want to mention his name in case I’d be obliged to defend him. I kept quiet. Barbara Ann said conciliatingly, “Well, you know, it’s hard to say who is the best voice teacher in the world. That is until you’ve heard everyone. There are teachers in Texas no one has ever heard of who are very good.” That was for Martha. She turned to Lillian and said, “Just because a person is gossiped about doesn’t necessarily mean that the person is guilty.” She looked at me for confirmation and added, “I mean, look how they talked about Jesus Christ. Am I right or wrong?”
I said I didn’t know, and all three singers turned to me, their questions pouncing on my ears.
“What do you mean you don’t know about Jesus?”
“They talked about him like a dog.”
“Don’t you remember about the Philistines and the Pharisees?”
“Your grandmother would have been ashamed of you.”
“What about the money lenders in the temple?”
Martha said, “What about ’buked and scorned?” and then she began to sing: “I been ’buked and I been scorned.” Her voice was the most perfect I had ever heard in my life. It was like hot silver being poured from a high place.
Lillian laid her full contralto under the glistening sound:
“I been ’buked
And I been scorned
I been talked about
Sure as you’re born.”
Barbara Ann wedged her clear soprano between the other voices, embracing first one tone then the other, getting so near the other trills that her sound almost melted into theirs. The music written hundreds of years before soared in the Italian train, erasing the dispute, and placing us all somewhere between the agony of Christ and the ecstasy of Art.
As the train pulled into the Gare du Nord I heard my name shouted above the clamor of luggage carts and the calls of porters: “Maya Angelou,” “Où est Mademoiselle Maya Angelou?” I knew I shouldn’t have left my son. There was a telegram waiting for me to say he had been hurt somehow. Or had run away from home. Or had caught an awful disease. The train ground to a halt and I forced the conductor aside and opened the door.
Five feet away stood the handsome and rugged Yanko Varda and Annette March, as svelte as a model. They were searching the train and yelling, “Maya Angelou,” “Mademoiselle Maya Angelou.”
I felt weak with relief. “Yanko, Annette, je suis ici.”
We caressed one another like lovers. Annette handed me a basket that held cheese and fruit, a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread. They motioned to me to look back along the track. Victor Di Suvero, Mitch Lifton and Cyril March were handing out similar baskets to some of the singers as they detrained. They said, “Welcome to Paris. This is in honor of Maya Angelou. This is in honor of Maya Angelou. Welcome to Paris.”
Yanko called to them, and when they saw me they ran over. Mitch and Victor hugged me and grinned. Cyril, who was always more reserved, gave me the European embrace.
I asked what they were doing in Paris, and they asked me to go with them for a glass of wine. They would explain everything.
I went to Bob Dustin to get the name and address of my hotel and an advance in francs. He agreed to send my baggage along, and my San Francisco friends took me to a sidewalk café.
They had not come to Paris together. Yanko was returning from a trip to Greece.
“Maya, I have found the only beautiful brunette in the world,” Victor said. “She is a sculptor, a Greek, a goddess. You will meet her here. She will come to Sausalito. She will light up San Francisco with her black eyes and the men will fall at her feet like Turks. She is Aphrodite.”
Victor was en route to Italy on family business. Mitch was on a visit, and the Marches had moved to Paris, where Cyril was practicing medicine. San Francisco papers had run a notice that I had joined Porgy and Bess. My friends in Paris had read the company’s advance publicity and found when and where we were due to arrive.
I described the fabulous success in Venice, giving myself a little more credit than I deserved. We drank wine, talked about San Francisco and they promised to attend opening night.
CHAPTER 20
Paris loved Porgy and Bess. We were originally supposed to stay at the Théâtre Wagram for three weeks, but were held over for months. After the first week I discovered that I couldn’t afford to stay in the hotel that had been assigned to me. The policy of the company was to pay the singers half their salary in the currency of the country we were in and the other half in dollars. I sent my dollars home to pay for Clyde’s keep and to assuage my guilt at being away from him.
I moved into a small pension near the Place des Ternes, which provided a Continental breakfast with my tiny room. There was a cot-sized bed and just space for me and my suitcase. The family who owned the place and my fellow roomers spoke no English, so perforce my French improved.
One evening after the theater a group of Black American entertainers who lived in Paris came backstage. They enchanted me with their airs and accents. Their sentences were mixed with Yeah Man’s and Oo la la’s. They fluttered their hands and raised their eyebrows in typically Gallic fashion, but walked swinging their shoulders like Saturday-night people at a party in Harlem.
Bernard Hassel, a tall nut-brown dancer, worked at the Folies-Bergères, and Nancy Holloway, whose prettiness brought to mind a young untroubled Billie Holiday, sang at the Colisée. Bernard invited me to see the night life of Paris.
“Alors, something groovy, you know?”
We went to the Left Bank, and he showed me where F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway did some flamboyant talking and serious drinking. The bareness of the bar surprised me. I expected a more luxurious room with swatches of velvet, deep and comfortable chairs and at least a doorman. The cafe
’s wide windows were bare of curtains and the floor uncarpeted. It could have been the Coffee Shop in San Francisco’s North Beach. High up over the façade hung a canvas awning on which was stenciled the romantic name DEUX MAGOTS.
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.
“O they so fresh and fine
And they right off’n the vine.”