by Maya Angelou
The specter of the New York City deputy sheriff stood in the doorway, hid just behind the heavy drapes, waited nearly visible in my well-tended flower garden. Eviction in New York was bad, but at least I was at home, where my friends would have helped if I called on them. And always there was Mom. I could have gathered my son and flown back to San Francisco. But if we were thrown out into the streets of Cairo … along with the other homeless waifs, whom could I ask for help? When I was young, poor and destitute I had resisted welfare in the U.S. I certainly wasn’t about to ask for assistance in a country which was having trouble feeding its own nationals.
I had to get a job.
David answered his telephone and when I said I had an emergency, he agreed to meet me at a tearoom in downtown Cairo.
The restaurant was luminous with crystal chandeliers, polished mahogany counters and jeweled women drinking Turkish coffee from dainty china cups. It was the wrong setting for my pitiable tale.
David had chosen a table in the center of glitter, and when he held out a chair for me, I decided to lie—to tell him the emergency was contrived, that I just wanted a chance to get out of the house. Or that I was planning a banquet and couldn’t decide on a menu. He ordered whiskey and I prattled about embassy parties, and dinner near the pyramids, and how well I was learning Arabic, and how Guy was settling down in his new school.
I noticed he hadn’t smiled once. When I finally stopped chattering, he asked quietly, “The emergency. What is the emergency?”
“Nothing really.” We had had no time to build a friendship. I was about to use him simply because we were both black Americans. My mother’s saying, “We’re colored but we’re not cousins,” echoed in my mind. I shouldn’t presume that our uniqueness gave me license to ask him for a favor.
“Does it have to do with Vus?” He looked at me directly and I thought, Doesn’t everything have to do with Vus?
I said, “I’m getting a little bored sitting at home. I’ve worked all my life. So really, I thought maybe you might know how I could get a job. Just to have something to do.”
He relaxed and grinned. “You want a job? Nice women don’t work in Cairo. I thought you knew that. Why don’t you join one of the women’s organizations? Or set up a club among the wives of African diplomats. You could write some articles for black American newspapers. The Amsterdam News or something. Nothing to do?” He laughed. “Girl, I thought you were serious.”
I was more than serious, I was desperate. And putting on silly airs, I had appeared to David like the frivolous women I scorned.
“David, I’m broke. Every piece of furniture in that house was bought on installment. The rent is past due, and Guy’s school fees are in arrears. I don’t have enough money to go back home and I can’t stay here unless I get a job.” The smile faded from his face and he nodded. “O.K., O.K. I figured it was something like that. Maybe. Maybe, I can get something for you. I’ll do what I can. What about Vus? Will he let you work?”
“If I can get a job, I’ll handle the rest of it. I’ve been through too much to turn back now. I’ve been a frycook, a waitress, a strip dancer, a fund-raiser. I had a job once taking the paint off cars with my hands. And that’s just part of it.”
David shook his head. “Black women. Huh, huh. O.K. Let’s have another drink. I’ll call somebody I know this afternoon.”
I left the restaurant emboldened by alcohol and a lot of boastful conversation and I felt as secure as the cared-for women still pointing honey-filled baclavas into their red mouths.
Two days later, David took me to meet Zein Nagati, president of the Middle East Feature News Agency. Dr. Nagati was a very large handsome man in rumpled tweeds who had the air of a university professor.
He spoke rapidly, never repeating himself, as if he was used to talking to efficient shorthand secretaries.
He had started a magazine called the Arab Observer. It was not strictly speaking an official organ of the Egyptian government; that is, it did not come directly under the heading of the Ministry of Information. Its editorial position, however, would be identical with the national politics. He was hiring a Hungarian layout artist, and already had twelve reporters working. DuBois said I was an experienced journalist, wife of a freedom fighter and an expert administrator. Would I be interested in the job of associate editor? If so I should realize that since I was neither Egyptian, Arabic nor Moslem and since I would be the only woman working in the office, things would not be easy. He mentioned a salary that sounded like pots of gold to my ears and, standing, he reached for my hand.
“Very good, Mrs. Make. You’ll begin on Monday. I’ll be there to introduce you, and DuBois can show you around. Salaam.”
He picked up his brief case, inclined his head to me, shook hands with David and left the room.
I wanted to speak but I felt I had fallen into a deep trench with steep muddy sides.
When I regained a degree of consciousness, David was talking.
“You won’t find it that hard. I’ll help. Call me at any time. You’ve done reporting, and you’ve run offices. Anyway, you wanted a job.”
He offered to show me his office, which was in the same building, and then take me to lunch. I followed him meekly, but I don’t remember seeing his desk or meeting any other person. We went to the Cairo Hilton, but I could have eaten air sandwiches and a salad made of clouds. My thoughts nibbled on David’s exaggerations to Dr. Nagati based on the lies I had told him. And the larger chunk in my throat which prevented me from swallowing solid food consisted of wondering what cleverness I could devise which would allow me to tell Vus and keep both the job and my husband.
David dropped me off at Ahmet Hismat and patted me on the shoulder. “Girl, you realize, you and I are the only black Americans working in the news media in the Middle East?”
I gave him a phony smile and got out of the taxi with that new mind full of responsibility.
In the United States, when I faced any new situation I knew what to do. I had half educated myself by spending nights and long days in libraries. I had given my son a fair smattering of general information from borrowed books. But in Egypt I faced the dilemma without help. Only the American Embassy would have a collection in English, and since I had spoken so harshly to Africans about the United States’ racist policy, going there was out of the question.
I fingered the books Vus and I had brought from the States. George Padmore’s Africa and World Peace, DuBois’ Souls of Black Folks, collections of Langston Hughes’s and Paul Laurence Dunbar’s poems and Baldwin’s Nobody Knows My Name.
The Baldwin book gave me heart. Nobody seemed to know my name either. I had been called everything from Marguerite, Ritie, Rita, Maya, Sugar, Bitch, Whore, Madam, girl and wife. Now in Egypt I was going to be called “associate editor.” And I would earn the title, if I had to work like a slave. Well not quite, but nearly.
Guy brought home another notice for fees from school, and I told him I had made arrangements to pay. The evidence of his complete trust was the fact that the question on his face disappeared in seconds.
Vus returned on Sunday morning, rested and handsome. He was the only person I ever knew who could finish a ten-hour plane trip looking as fresh as new money. We exclaimed over our gifts; he brought a Zulu necklace for me and a chess set for Guy. We had a large Sunday dinner, and Guy left for the movies with some school friends.
We spent a lovely hour in the bedroom, reacquainting our bodies, and then I brought hot tea and cakes to the living room. Vus joined me in his robe and slippers.
I began cautiously.
“I saw David DuBois. We went to tea.”
“Oh great. How is he?”
“I asked him to help me find a job.”
Vus sputtered, then rubbed his mouth with a napkin.
His next reaction startled me. He began to laugh. At first a few chuckles but they increased to a hearty guffaw, then he lost his breath again. When he calmed down his first words were “You black women. Wh
o knows what to do with you?” His laughter was more restrained. “Black and American. You think you can come to Egypt and just go get a job? That’s foolish. It shows the nerve of the black woman and the arrogance of the American. I must say, my dear wife, those are not very attractive qualities. Don’t pout, Maya, you know I love you. There are simply some things which do not become you. I gave you Gamal Nasser’s book, didn’t you read it? The UAR is committed to upgrading its citizens economically as well as politically. As my wife, and a foreigner as well, you would never find a job. Besides, I look after you. I like you to look after me and Guy, and …”—here he rubbed his chin lovingly—“and maybe we’ll have a child, a little brother for Guy.”
There is a silent scream, which tears through the veins, separating the muscles, pinching the nerves, yet the body seems to remain immobile. We had never talked about having children. I had one son. I seemed to have given an order to my body that one was enough, because although I used no contraceptives, I had only been pregnant the one time.
He was still playing with his chin, pulling at the sparse hairs.
“Vus, the rent is past due. The collectors have been here for payment on the furniture and the rugs. Guy’s school has sent two notes home. I’ve fired the gardener and paid Omanadia out of my food money. I have to go to work.”
“But I will see that everyone is paid. I always do, don’t I?” I wouldn’t answer and I wouldn’t remind him of the New York eviction.
He raised his voice. “I don’t throw away money, you know that. I only receive an allowance for the office and living expenses. Travel is costly. Printing charges are high. I must keep up my appearance. And so must you. We are freedom fighters. We are not beggars.”
Craft and cunning were necessary and even as I schemed, I doubted if I was smart enough.
“Vus, you say you need me. You need a woman, not just a hostess. Your struggle is my struggle. I need to be more involved than serving dinner to refugees and keeping your house.”
He started to interrupt but I continued. “If I work, you can spend the living allowance on the office. Instead of a quarterly newsletter, you could send out a monthly. We would be able to buy some warm coats for the new escapees. My salary could take care of the house expenses.”
He listened and his eyes shone for a second, then the light went out.
“Darling, you are a wonderful woman. Excuse the harsh words. You’re not arrogant. You are thoughtful. I appreciate your idea. But it’s not possible. You’ll never find work in Cairo.”
“Vus, I have a job. Associate editor of the Arab Observer. I start tomorrow.”
I watched the disbelief on his face turn to anger, then to rage.
“You took a job without consulting me? Are you a man?”
He stood and began to pace over the expensive rug. His tirade carried him from the sofa to the entry, over to the large chair and back to stand in front of me. His vilification included my insolence, independence, lack of respect, arrogance, ignorance, defiance, callousness, cheekiness and lack of breeding. I sat, watching him, listening and thinking. He was right. Somewhere in his swarm of words he had my apt description. I also understood that maybe I had gone too far. Even an American black man would have found such a headstrong wife unsuitable, and how much more an African husband, steeped in a tradition of at least the appearance of male authority. I realized that I had handled the thing badly. I should have been more delicate. I should have allowed Vus time to see me depressed and mournful. Then he could have coerced from me the reason for my mood. I could have so manipulated the situation, that he would, himself, have suggested that maybe I should find a little something to do. A small part-time job. Perhaps a little secretarial work in the afternoon. With the awareness of my unfortunate mismanagement came the shocking knowledge that I was no longer in love.
The man standing over me venting his fury, employing his colorful vocabulary was no longer my love. The last wisps of mystery had disappeared. There had been physical attraction so strong that at his approach, moisture collected at every place where my body touched itself. Now he was in hand’s reach, and tantalization was gone. He was just a fat man, standing over me, scolding.
His anger was finally spent, his energy flagged. I waited until he backed away and sat down in the chair facing me. He was exhausted from the outpouring of reproach and I was benumbed by the loss of love. We sat looking at each other, at the floor, at the tapestries, at each other again.
He was the first to speak. His voice was soft.
“You must call David and explain that you acted as an American woman, but that I returned home and reminded you that now you are an African wife.”
I knew that neither threats nor inducements would cause me to give up the job.
I made my voice silken soft. “I have given my word. Not only to David but to Dr. Zein Nagati. He is a friend of Gamal Abdel Nasser and he knows that I am your wife. He said they need me. It might reflect badly on your name if I withdraw now.”
Vus stood again. “You see? You see how your foolish headstrong American ways have endangered the struggle?”
He tried to build up to the earlier anger but was too tired to do so. He went back to the bedroom and reappeared dressed. He walked past me and out of the house, slamming the door.
I stayed in the pretty living room, thinking. I had a son to raise, and a lovely house. I had a job for which I was unqualified. I had an angry husband, whom I no longer loved. And I was in Cairo, Egypt, where I had no friends.
The doorbell rang, and thinking Vus had stalked out leaving his keys, I opened it. David DuBois stood smiling in the dim light. I grinned because he looked like Deliverance itself.
“Girl, I thought you might be getting nervous about tomorrow. So I came ’round to tell you everything’s going to be all right.”
We sat in the living room talking lightly about journalism and expectations. I wanted to unburden my aggravation. To tell him that I not only didn’t know how to be an associate editor, but that my husband was bitterly opposed to my being anything but his obedient wife.
Vus walked in on our inane chatter. When he saw David his face lightened, the heavy cheeks lifted and he smiled delightedly.
They embraced as he called David “My brother.” David must have noticed that he didn’t speak to me.
“Vus, you must be proud of your wife. I mean about the job.”
Vus cooled, and drew himself inward. “Job?” He said the word as if he had never used it before.
David looked at me, caught the misery which I didn’t try to hide. He turned back to Vus. “When you were away she telephoned me. I took her out to tea and she said you were working so hard, stretching yourself so thin, that she was beginning to worry about your health. She said that as your wife she had to carry some of the load. That no one man could continue to do all you do without help.”
Vus’s body began to relax. His shoulders eased down to their natural position, a slow smile began to slacken his tightened features.
With words David was stroking away his hostility. “She said that most African men, in your position, would never allow their wives to work, but that you were a revolutionary, and that the success of the African conflict was your goal. And you meant to reach it by any means necessary.”
Vus nodded. “True. True.”
David was persuasive, convincing and a liar. He was also my supportive, fast-thinking inventive brother.
I was surprised to find when Vus and I went to bed, that being in the arms of a stranger in no way lessened my physical pleasure.
Vus insisted on accompanying me downtown to the Arab Observer offices. When we entered the enormous loftlike room, David called from a far corner. He greeted Vus first, then me. He introduced Vus first to my colleagues, and all the men shook hands, asked after each other’s health and thanked God in Arabic. I was outside their ceremony like a foundling on an orphanage doorstep. After they finished saluting and bowing and grinning, David beckoned to me and I
was presented.
Although I sensed little cordiality, I relaxed, because at least the men were not antagonistic. Vus’s presence had assured them that I was not an audacious woman challenging their male community. I belonged to a man who, probably in straitened circumstances, was putting his wife to work. By introducing Vus first, David had followed established ritual and dissipated the hostility before it could collect.
I had to admit that although Vus’s decision to escort me to my job (my father never accompanied me on the first day of school) infuriated me, his attendance had been a godsend.
I was shown my desk and a servant brought us all small cups of coffee from a brazier near the window. The coffee-drinking ceremony finally finished, Vus shook hands again with all the men, nodded to me and left the office. David stayed a few minutes, then shook hands around the room. When he took my hand, he said quietly, “You’ve made a good impression. I’ll call you later.”
I had said nothing, done nothing, shown no intelligence, wit or talent. Was I to assume that was the good impression?
Ignorance held me in my chair for at least an hour. Men, whose names I had already forgotten, or hadn’t heard clearly at the first introduction, passed my desk, their hands full of papers and their eyes averted. The servant brought me cup after cup of sweet sluggish coffee, which I drank dutifully.
Suddenly there was a great sound of swishing papers, thumping feet, the tacking of typewriters. Dr. Nagati had arrived. He bobbed his head to the now industriously bustling reporters and came directly to my desk.
“Mrs. Make?” I stood.
“How are you getting on? David was here? You’ve been introduced? Good.” He raised his voice, and speaking in Arabic, caused the employees to gather around him. Again, I stood outside the circle of men, not understanding as he continued to speak in an explosive tone. He slid into English without changing the force of speech.
“Mrs. Make?” It was a shouted order to come to attention, in a full-dress parade.