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THE HEART OF A WOMAN |
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CHAPTER 18 One week later Vus returned from Addis Ababa. He asked what had happened in his absence. I reported on my work and that David had found another way for me to supplement my salary. I had agreed to write commentary for Radio Egypt, and I would be paid four pounds for a review and an extra pound for each one I narrated. Guy had earned acceptable grades on recent tests and had generously spent more time at home while Vus was away. I also told Vus about the women's party and Mendinah. He accepted my news and told me drily of his trip. The once-exotic names no longer titillated me, and Vus had long since stopped trying to enchant me with tales of his perilous exploits. We returned to the sequence of our lives. Work occupied our days, and parsimonious love-making ended some stolid nights. The news spread in the African diplomatic corps that Mendinah was a slut, a hussy, a whore, a home-breaking harlot. The rumor was hot oil poured into the ears of the African women who had admired her. She had sought appointments with four ambassadors. Three had reported to their wives that the pretty woman offered them her favors in return for money. In weeks she had cut a lascivious swath between members of the diplomatic corps and their wives. Her name became an alarm, forcing my female friends to assemble and close ranks against the dangerous intruder. She would never be invited to another woman's home. She would be turned away from every door, and not addressed on the street. The husbands who had fallen for her charms would be dealt with in the privacy of their marriages, but her blatant disrespect of the African wives had to have public penalty. Two months passed and for the African community Mendinah disappeared, lost her name, had no presence. Then one evening, an Egyptian woman, a close acquaintance of the African women, gave a party. Vus and I arrived late. When we entered the first room, the informal lounge, Banti, Kebi and seven ladies already sat on the sofas, their multicolored dresses radiant against dark-brown skin. They greeted Vus, who responded and continued into the salon, where more guests stood talking. I stopped to exchange regards with my friends and the other ladies I had come to know and like. Our small talk was suddenly pierced by "Good evening, Mrs. Make." The sound was disquietingly familiar. I looked up and saw Mendinah in the arched doorway leading to a hall passage. She was standing by a record player. I nodded to her and she lifted the machine's arm, stopping the music. When she turned her fabulous body to face me, I saw again the cunning face, the small hint of cruelty. "Mrs. Make, Mr. Make has been trying to reach me all day long. He called all over Cairo trying to get my number." Her words, voice and intent were pitiless and for seconds my heart opposed its natural function. She poked her voice easily through my entire body. "When he finally reached me, he said he had to talk to me, to see me about something very important." As she glanced at the seated women, 1 gritted my teeth and held on to the sternness of my long-dead grandmother. "I refused to let him come to my apartment." Her eyes hurriedly returned to fasten on me. "Then he said it had to do with you. That you needed someone to help you at the office. 1 have been looking for a job, you know." Again, her eyes rushed to the African women, and quickly back to me. Nothing happened. No angel came to take me up to a deserved heaven. No one shook my shoulder to awaken me from the immobilizing nightmare. No one moved. 1 raked through my mind, gathering every shred of skill, art and craftiness and stepped toward her. "Mendinah?" 1 kept my voice soft and haughty. She looked up into my face as 1 approached. "I am Mendinah, Mrs. Make." The tone of her response was sassy. "And were you willing to work for me? At a very high salary? With an allowance for rent and possibly your own car ? Were you willing?" Deceit left her face, and suddenly she became a young girl, who could have been my baby sister. Her defenses were down, she was vulnerable and 1 thrust at her with all my will. "Unfortunately the job has been filled, but if it had not, dear Mendinah"-- I was still speaking low -- "you would never do. You are ignorant and you are a tramp." I gave her a filthy smile and walked past her into the salon. Luckily a row of chairs was lined against a near wall. 1 went directly to a seat. Wind and pride had left my body. My stomach felt empty and my head light. 1 sat erect from habit and early training. Banti and Kebi rushed in and took seats beside me. Banti took my right hand and Kebi the other. They both murmured consolation. "You were wonderful, sister, wonderful." That was Banti. "You made me proud of you, Maya." Kebi squeezed my hand. "You looked like a queen mother." "A princess." "Don't cry. Not now. You have handled it. It is over." Banti leaned toward me, forcing me to look in her serious face. "Sister, you will be avenged. Not to worry. You know what old man say in my country?" She had slipped from standard English into the melodic Liberian country accent. "Old man say, 'If you mess with Jesus Christ, God will make you shit.' " She nodded her head, asserting her own affirmation. The blasphemy and humor struck me at the same time. I was shocked and tickled. To arrange in the same sentence God, Jesus Christ, righteousness, revenge and the word shit was so incongruous I was startled away from the humiliation of Mendinah's announcement. Both friends' faces were solemn with concern, both heads bobbed in agreement with Banti's old man's wisdom. At last I nodded, smiled and rose. Vus was standing alone near a distant window. "Ah, my dear. Nice party, isn't it?" "Vus, who is that girl playing records over there?" He turned and looked straight at Mendinah, whose profile was distinct against the white walls. Vus shook his head, "I don't know. No." Shaking his head, his eyes dark with puzzlement. "Vus, you know her. Don't lie. At least don't lie." He twisted toward me, sudden recognition smoothing the planes of his face. "Oh, say, is that that Mendinah you were telling me about?" I wanted to slap him until he snapped and split open like popcorn. I walked away. I wasn't sure what God would do if someone messed with His only Son, nor how I would fare when I dropped the obeisant attitude of an accepting wife and allowed my black American femaleness to emerge. The silent ride home seemed endless. Vus drove slowly, letting the old rickety car choose its own speed. When we were at last in the apartment, I checked Guy's room, and found him asleep. That part of my life was comfortably accounted for. Now all I had to do was face my lover and one-time love, whom I heard dragging furniture around in the living room. I went into our bedroom and stood in the dark, wondering how to begin. "Maya. Maya, don't go to bed yet." I walked out and down the hall. The big man sat composed, and had arranged a chair to face him. "Sit down here, Maya. I want to talk to you about Mendinah. Mendinah and all the others." There was a moment's relief. At least I didn't have to start the conversation. That brief easement was pushed away with an abysmal fear. If he insisted that I accept his infidelity, I'd have to leave him. Condoning it would increase the misdeed. I had heard of men who brought other women into their bomes, into the beds they shared with their wives. If Vus was planning such flagrancy, I would have to pick up my son and my heels, and get on the road, one more time. I sat facing him, our knees touching. "I am a man. An African man. I am neither primitive nor cruel. A nation of interlopers and most whites in the world would deny me on all counts, but let me deal with each of those stated conditions." It was going to be a long night. "A man requires a certain amount of sexual gratification. Much more than a woman needs, wants or understands." "That's a lie, Vus. You're not a woman, how do you know what I need?" "I do not choose to argue a point which cannot be proved, but which is tacitly agreed upon. I will continue. As an African man, in my society, I have the right to marry more than one woman." "But that is not true in my society and you knew that when we met." "I met you in the U.S."-he smiled-"but now we are in Africa." Was he implying that geography affected his gonads? I reminded him that he had been unfaithful in New York. He looked shocked. "You have no evidence of that." He was almost correct. I had only the lingering scent of perfume, and the unforgotten cosmetics on his clothes. When I said nothing, he relaxed and leaned back in his chair, spreading his vast thighs. "To an African man, the act of sex is only important as long as it lasts. It is not the factor which holds a family together. It pleases and relieves tension, so that one can get about the business of living." I asked with sarcastic sweetness, "And what about African women? Don't they want pleasure and release?" He frowned, offended. "Haven't I always satisfied you? Have I ever left you wanting? I have come home many nights, physically drained, and abstracted with my work, but I have done my duty to you. Deny that if you can." The conversation was getting away from me. Onus and guilt were shifting into my lap, where they surely didn't belong. "I don't love you anymore, Vus." It was the truth, but I used it not for declaration, so much as to startle him and take back a little advantage. He stayed at ease. "I know that, my dear. I've known it for a long time. Nor am I, any longer, in romantic love with you. However, we respect and admire each other. We have the asset of mutual goals: the struggle for freedom, loyalty to Mother Africa." He paused for a second, then went on in a softer voice. "And Guy's future as an African man." At that second, I hardened my heart. I didn't believe all the legitimizing drivel Vus concocted about African male infidelity and I would not allow him to teach such nonsense to my son. "What about Mendinah l Tell me about her. Tell me why you put my name into your mouth, when all you wanted was to get her in bed?" "I apologize to you for that. Sincerely." His quick mind served him quickly. "Although I did hear you say you wished there was another black woman in your office." There have always been, for me, periods in arguments when my thoughts swirl around in semi-solid circles, leaving no protruding phrase for my mind to grab. I am rendered mute until the eddying jumble slows down and I am able to pick out enough words to form a first sentence. The moment had come. Ideas rushed around like crazed children in a mad tag game. Vus was African and his values were different from mine. Among the people I knew, my family and friends, promiscuity was the ultimate blow in a marriage. It struck down the pillars of trust which held the relationship aloft. It was also physically dangerous. Venereal diseases could easily be the result of indiscreet momentary gratification. It was disloyal and, finally, unfriendly. Nor was it a characteristic solely of African men. From the beginning of human history, all societies had tried to cope with the custom. The Judeo-Christian Bible forbade adultery, for both sexes. Usually, however, women paid the highest price, losing their hair to rough barbers, or their lives to an affronted community that stoned them to death. In the United States white men, with the implements of slavery and racial oppression, had taken from black men their names, languages, power, wives, daughters, innate senses of self-value, their confidence. Because they had been unable, however, to kill the sexuality, white men began to envy it, extol it, adore and fear it. A number of black men, finding that they had one thing left which was beyond the reach of their enemies' grasp, commenced to identify themselves, to themselves, as sexual masters, possessors of the big dicks, the artful penises, the insatiable lust. White men greedily and enviously agreed. White women, in secret fantasies and rare public displays, yearned over the huge private parts. Some black women agreed that black men had rapacious appetites, and allowed their husbands and lovers the freedom of the fields. Some other women, with knives and guns, boiling water, poison and the divorce courts proved that they did not agree with the common attitude. "Mendinah. It is said that she is a sexual glutton. Women like that are only good for one, at most two experiences." He had been talking for some time. I suddenly remembered the drone of his voice. "The men who have spoken about her consider her a pretty but temporary vessel." I nodded, assured. I had finally found my words. ''I'm leaving you, Vus. I'm not sure when or where I'm going. But I'm leaving you." His face didn't change from the placid sheet of control when I got up and went to bed. Banti's telephone call at my office came unexpectedly. I had gone to her house early the morning following the Mendinah incident and told her of my plans to leave Vus. Her response had been that of a wife who had a faithful husband. "Sister, you have been a giant. Everyone admires your patience. Truly, you have proved yourself." With my decision made, the burden of tolerance lifted and the approval of my friend, I had gone to work buoyant. "Sister," I heard her say on the telephone, "Joe and I want you to come to us, this evening. After dinner. Nine o'clock. Will you?" I agreed. The day rushed along. Entire paragraphs leaped out of my typewriter, needing little, if any, revision. Vus didn't appear for dinner, so Guy and I ate alone. He was reading, so was happy to hear that I had an appointment and he would have the house quiet and to himself. The heavy door of the Liberian Residency was opened by a servant. I stepped into the foyer and heard a cloud of low voices. Banti hadn't advised me to dress for a party. But then, the tone wasn't party-like. I walked past the doorman two paces, and I was at the door of the salon, where a multitude of faces peered at me. It was a surprise birthday party, months off schedule and lacking the gaiety of a fete. About twenty people sat in a crescent of chairs. Kebi, Jarra and Banti were together. I hastily examined the familiar faces and felt that I had stumbled, unluckily, into a secret ritual or a dangerous kangaroo court. No one smiled, not even my friends, and the awkward moment could have lasted forever. Joe Williamson's high melodic voice preceded his presence. "Sister Maya. We are waiting for you. Come in. Come in. Abdul will bring you a drink. Come, you are to sit beside Brother Vus." My eyes followed the general indication of his right hand. Vus sat, stiff and sober at the center of the row of chairs. I knew that I was befuddled, thrown and totally mystified, so I smiled and obeyed Joe's directive, finding an empty seat beside my husband. The low thrumming of voices did not stop. I leaned toward Vus and whispered, "What is this? What's happening?" He gave me a calm look and said, "This is all for you." There was only weariness in his tone. "Brothers and sisters." Joe walked in the center of the floor. "You know why you are here." I was handed a drink of Scotch. "Our sister from across the seas, and across the centuries, is planning to leave our brother from South Africa." Damn. Vus knew it, I knew it, and I had told Banti a few hours earlier. I gazed at the African men and women, and found that the information was not news to them. No eyes widened, no jaws tightened at the announcement. "Our sister and her son have returned to Africa. We all know that she has worked very hard and that she feels herself an African." A mumble of agreement followed his statement. "Our South African brother wages a fight for all of us. No day passes but that he is on the battlefield. No night comes without Vusumzi Make at the gun, threatening the fortress of white oppression." Another rumble of accord lifted and floated in the room. "Now, I, the brother to all of you, have called for palaver. Neither of these young people have family in Egypt, outside this small community. So I have asked you so that we can examine the points and weigh the matter." Panic was rising in my mind and paralyzing my legs. Joe said, "I will ask this side of the room to argue for our sister, Maya, and this side of our brother, Vus." I shook myself away from the numbing shock and stood up. "Excuse me, Joe, but I'm not on trial. I'm going home." Joe spoke to me over the undertone of disapproval. "Sister, you are going to stay in Africa. You have a son and a name. If you can sit through this palaver, the outcome will be news in Africa. You know, Maya, our people do not count on papers or magazines to tell us what we need to know. There are people here from Ghana, Mali, Guinea, Nigeria, Ethiopia and Liberia. Sister, try hard and sit down." Years before I had understood that all I had to do, really had to do, was stay black and die. Nothing could be more interesting than the first, or more permanent than the latter. In truly critical moments I reminded myself of those discoveries. I walked back and sat down beside Vus, who had become a large, black stranger. Joe Williamson placed a dining-room chair in the middle of the half-circle, talking all the while. "The group from Maya, going right, will defend our brother. People left of Vus will support our sister. And please remember, folks, we are the only family they have in this strange land." I looked to my right, and my heart raced. My friends, Banti, Kebi, Margaret Young, a Nigerian close friend, and Jarra would be arguing for Vus. I turned and looked across to the other side and saw three infamous lechers, a few old indifferent men and three women whom I didn't know well. My team looked hopeless. Joe took his seat and spoke to me. "Sister, tell your complaint. Tell your side." Black Americans had no custom of publicly baring the soul. In old-time churches, people used to rise and complain about the treatment they had received from fellow members, but those conferences had died out, leaving only the memory in ribald jokes. Mrs. Jackson stood up in church and reported, "Reverend, brothers and sisters. I accuse Miss Taylor of going 'round town saying my husband has a wart on his private part." The congregation's "uh huh huhs" sounded like drumrolls. Miss Taylor got up and said, "I have to speak to clarify what I said. Brothers and sisters, I did not say that Mr. Jackson had a wart on his private part. I never did. 'Cause I never saw it. What I said, and this is all I said, was it felt like it was a wart." There was no precedent in my life for airing private affairs. I held myself still and erect. Joe repeated, "Sister, tell your part. Why do you find our brother impossible as a husband?" I looked at Joe, then at my dear friends, lined up in Vus's defense. Banti, Kebi and Margaret know all my complaints, I had cried in their arms, and laid my head on their laps uncounted times. Now they sat with straight flat faces, as if we were strangers. I turned to look at the company gathered in my behalf. Their faces were also cold, unsupportive and strange. I was alone again, but then, since I was already black, all I had to do was die. I said, "The man stuffs his thing in any opening he finds. I am faithful, he is not." A few coughs fell from the mouths of my squad, and Vus's troop twitched and cleared their throats. "I slave my ass off." (African women hardly ever used profanity in mixed company, but I wasn't strictly an African, and, after all, they had gathered to hear me speak and I was a black American. Mentioning slavery in present African company was a ploy. Their forefathers had been spared, or had negotiated for the sale of my ancestors. I knew it and they knew it. It gave me a little edge.) "I put money into the house. At ten o'clock I go alone to the Broadcast Building to narrate an essay, and I'm paid one pound. Vus spends money as if we are rich. He expects me to be faithful and steady and he comes home smelling of cheap perfume and a whore's twat." They may not have heard the word before but everyone knew what it meant. I reveled in the rustle of discomfort. They asked me and I told them. Joe Williamson clapped his hands. "All right, Sister Maya has spoken. I call upon Vus's defense." In a snap, queries were directed at me. "Have you kept yourself clean?" "Do you refuse your husband his marital rights?" "You are an American, after all; how well can you cook African food?" "Do you curse and act unbecoming?" "Do you try to dominate the man?" "Do you press him to have sex when he is tired?" "Do you obey him? listen to him carefully?" I answered every question with openness and sass. The sooner they rejected me, the sooner this odd ritual would be over. I would be free or get whatever was corning to me. When I finished responding, Joe turned to my squad. Their interrogation of Vus was weak and without heart. "Do you love her?" "Have you provided for her?" "Do you satisfy her?" "She had a child when she came to you. Have you tried to give her more children!" "Do you want her?" Vus answered honestly and quietly. There was a hiatus when he finished while Joe called for drinks for the crowd. We remained seated, holding fresh icy glasses. Joe began to prance in the clear plot of floor. Dainty, sure and masculine. "It seems to me, brothers and sisters, that Maya is in the right. Her objection is stronger than our brother's reply. I suggest that in this palaver our brother is the loser." He turned to Vus's supporters. "Do you agree!" When the heads nodded, for the first time that night friendliness and smiles returned to the faces of my confidantes. Joe went to stand in front of Vus, an arm's reach away. "Bro Vus, it is decided that you are in the wrong, and Sister Maya is in the right. Do you agree!" Vus lowered his large head in assent. Joe bowed, taking the agreement, and continued. "You must provide drink for everyone who has met here tonight. You must bring a lamb or goat for us all to chop." A rampage of laughter followed the pronouncement but was quelled with Joe's next words: "And our sister has the right to leave you. " Silence settled on the shoulders of the listeners. Falling from the air like particled smog. Joe faced me. "Sister, you have done well. You have sat through African palaver and you have won. Now you may leave." I was wrung dry by the ritual and only a little pleased by Joe's statement that now I had the right to leave. I never thought I needed anyone's approval but my own. Joe stepped up to me, close enough for me to see clearly the whites of his eyes. "Now, sister, now that the triumph is in your hands, now that people from six countries agree that you can leave your husband, and no guilt will fall on your head. Now. Now in your position of strength, we throw ourselves on your mercy." The group responded with jubilant laughter. "We ask you, from your righteous pinnacle, would you please give the man one more chance?" I looked at Banti, who instructed me with a nod. Kebi gave me a small smile. Margaret Young, my Nigerian friend, lifted her perfect eyebrows. I should say yes. I hadn't decided where to go, I had no date to leave, and if Joe was right, which I suspected, if I acted graciously, my name in Africa would be golden. "Stay six months. Sister, give the man six months." I looked at Vus. He was anxious. I knew immediately that his concern had less to do with me than it had to do with his repute. He had never knowingly or wittingly mistreated me. I could stay with him six months. I said, "I will stay." Chairs scraped the floor. Vus took me in his arms, and whispered. "You are a generous woman. My wife." Joe Williamson shouted, "This time, we party. We wait for the fatted calf, but now we drink and celebrate the reunion of our brother and sister. We toast Mother Africa, who needs all her children."
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