Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas (26 page)

“Mother Afrique, your long-lost daughter is returning home …” Lillian was composing another toast and no one was waiting for her to complete it.

“Cheers.”

“Salute.”

“
votre santé.”

“Doz vedanya.”

“Skoal.”

An officer at the captain's table stood up, kissed the women's hands, bowed to the men and began to pick his way out of the dining room. He was tall and moved gracefully, hardly shaking the braid that looped across his wide shoulders. He turned his head and looked at our table. He had the most sensuous face I had ever seen. His lips were dark rose and pouted, and his nostrils flared as if he were breathing heavily through them. But his eyes were the most arresting feature. They were the “bedroom eyes” sung about in old blues—heavy-lidded, as if he were en route at that moment to the boudoir of the sexiest woman in the world.

“Mart, Ethel, look at that,” I said.

My friends, who usually had a high appreciation of male beauty, were so occupied with their party that they gave the officer only a cursory look.

Ethel said, “Yeah, he's cute.”

Martha said, “I'll check him out later. Pour a little more of the bubbly into my slipper, please, for I am Queen of the May.”

I watched the man leave the dining salon and knew that when the sexy women in our company got around to noticing him, they would take some of the arrogance out of his swinging shoulders and lessen the bounce in his narrow hips.

After lunch I returned to my cabin, leaving the party in full hilarity. By midafternoon when we were well away from the coast of Greece, the ship began to shudder under the attack of a storm. My luggage shot back and forth across the tiny space between my bunk and the wall, and had I not stood up I would have been thrown out of bed. I shoved my bags tightly into the closet and jammed a chair under the closet's doorknob. I took a book and headed for the main deck.

In the passageway I met my suddenly sober and suddenly sick fellow singers. Those who were able to talk said the party had broken up as drinkers and players became too ill to continue; the waiters had removed all bottles and glasses and were tying the tables down.

The dining room was empty and dark, and I struggled, rolling from wall to wall, up the passageway to a small red sign which invited:
BAR.
The door opened on a small, empty but lighted room. I sat at a table, trying to glue my mind to the plot and away from the roiling sea. After an hour or so, a young crew member came in, saw me and was surprised. He asked if I was all right. I lied and told him in Greek that I was. He looked at me, astonished for a second, then left hurriedly. A few moments later the purser arrived.

“Mrs. Angelos, are you well?”

“Yes, of course.” My composure was paper-thin, but it covered the fear.

“You didn't drink. I noticed.” He was proud of himself and of me.

“No. I ate bread and a piece of cold chicken.”

“Very good. It is going to be worse tonight, but tomorrow will be calmer. You are not to worry. We have a doctor, but he is very busy. Both the opera company and the movie company are sick and he is kept running between the two.”

I didn't know about the movie company. “Who are they? From America?”

“No. They are English. Except the star is French. Brigitte Bardot. They are all in their cabins and I don't expect to see either the singers or actors until we reach Alexandria.”

He took my hand. “Mrs. Angelos, if you want me, please ring this bell”—he pointed to a button on the wall—“and tell anyone to come for me. I will be with you immediately.” He kissed my hand and departed.

A waiter entered and said tea was being served in the dining room. I thanked him and said I wouldn't have anything.

The ship pitched and rolled and quivered and sometimes leaped, seeming to withdraw entirely from the surface of the water. I was frightened at the violence and my inability to control any part of the experience except myself and there was no certainty that my mental discipline would outlast the physical anxiety. But at least I wasn't ill.

The purser pushed his head in the door. “Dinner is being served. I suggest that you eat. Again the plain bread. And again a small piece of meat. No wine. No water.” His head disappeared as the vessel rolled over on its side.

Although I had no appetite I decided to continue following his suggestions. The dining room was not quite empty. The captain and his officers sat quietly in their corner; a few teetotalers from
Porgy and Bess
were at separate tables; and two men whose faces I recognized from British movies occupied a table near the wall. I joined Ruby Green and Barbara Ann and ate sparingly.

Barbara asked, “Where have you been? You haven't been sick?”

I told her I'd been reading and I wasn't sick because I didn't drink the champagne.

“You ought to see downstairs. Everybody's sick. I mean, people are moaning like they're dying. The poor doctor no sooner leaves one room than they call him to another. That man's got his work cut out for him. See, here he comes now. Poor thing. Just now getting a chance to eat his dinner.”

I looked up, following her gaze, and saw the voluptuous face that had startled me at lunchtime.

“That's the doctor?” I would have more easily believed him to be a gigolo, a professional Casanova.

“Yes. And he's very courteous. He gives the same attention to the men that he gives to the women.”

I looked at his retreating back and wondered if Barbara in her naïveté had described the man better than she could have imagined.

After a somber dinner we went below, where the groans of suffering escaped mournfully from each room. I paused before my friends' doors, but I knew I could do nothing for them except sympathize and I could do that without disturbing their agony.

There was a soft rap on my door. When I opened it and
saw the purser, I thought he expected me to compensate him for my sound health. I held the door and asked icily, “Yes, what do you want?”

He said meekly, “Mrs. Angelos, I want to show you how to strap yourself in the bed so that you won't fall out and be hurt.”

I started to let him in and thought better of it. “No, thanks. I was planning to sleep on the floor. I'll be all right. Thanks, anyway.”

He shot his hand in the narrow door opening and grabbed my arm.

“Mrs. Angelos, thank you. You are very sad and very beautiful.” He bowed and kissed my hand and released it. I slammed the door. How could he tell I was sad? That was a strange romantic come-on.

I made my actions fit the lie. I stripped mattress and covers from the bed and lay down on the floor to sleep in miserable fits and starts.

The morning was dreary and wet, but the sea was more restrained. The purser was waiting for me outside the dining room door.

“Mrs. Angelos, good morning. You may eat a full breakfast. We will have good weather by evening.” He looked at me lovingly, concern seeping out of his pores. “How did you sleep?”

“Beautifully, thank you. Just beautifully.”

Some members of our company who had survived the storm exchanged stories of the night before.

“Honey, I was so sick I tried to jump overboard!”

“Did you hear Betty? She prayed half the night, then she got mad and screamed, ‘Jesus Christ, this ain't no way for you to act so close to your birthday!’”

My visits to Martha's and Lillian's cabins were not welcome, so I made them brief, staying only long enough to see that although their faces were the color of old leather boots, they would survive. I walked around the ship, enjoying the luxury of solitude. For the first time, there was a tender behind the bar and I ordered an apéritif. The very large British movie actor and his companion came in, ordered and sat near me.

“So you're a sailor too, are you?” The man's gruff voice was directed to me.

“I suppose so.”

“But the rest of your company have no sea legs?” He laughed and his eyes nearly closed beneath dark, thick eyebrows.

“Some have been a little sick,” I said. The man always played friendly characters, so without knowing his real personality, I felt friendly toward him. “But they're better now.”

“My name is James Robertson Justice.”

Of course I knew the name and had thought it fitted his giant size and huge laughter. He pointed to his smaller, quieter friend. “And this is Geoffrey Keen.”

We talked about opera and movie making and I felt decidedly international. I was on a Greek ship, talking to English movie stars, en route to the African continent.

I ate lunch and dinner alone, but joined Ned Wright and Bey in the bar after dinner. James Robertson Justice was there again and the three men exchanged stories. They all laughed together, but it was not clear if they understood each other. Ned tended to talk and snap his fingers in the air like a flamenco dancer, meanwhile wiggling his head. Bey grumbled in a bass-baritone without moving his lips.
Justice spoke in all the British accents, gamboling from upper class, middle class to Welsh and Irish like a skittish lamb on the heath.

I left the men laughing and talking loudly and walked down the passageway. The doctor passed me, lips distended and full, his eyes low and dense.

“Good evening,” he said.

I said “Good evening,” and wished vainly that he would stop. The purser knocked at my door. I opened it a crack.

“Mrs. Angelos, we will dock at eleven. Everyone will be asked to come to passport control. There will be a crowd. I suggest that you meet me after breakfast, at nine o'clock, and I will see that your passport is stamped first.”

“Thank you.” I held on to the door. “Thank you very much. Good night.” I closed the door firmly.

At nine o'clock the next morning he met me outside the dining room. He took my elbow and guided me to the upper deck. An official handed me my stamped passport and medical documents. The purser led me away.

“Now, Mrs. Angelos, I suggest you get your belongings, not your luggage, but handbags and other things you want to carry. Bring them on deck and then you will not have to stand in line with the others.” He kissed my hand and gave me a lingering look.

When the two companies lined up on the main deck and on the stairs leading to the officials' temporary office, I stood beside the rail watching the coast of Africa. The ship was being pulled into the harbor by a small, powerful tugboat.

The sea was a beautiful blue, and the tall white buildings on the shore belied the old statement that all Africans lived in trees like monkeys. Alexandria was beautiful.

I had all my hand luggage and was eager to step out on Egyptian soil. A camera swung from my right side, a shoulder bag from the left. I carried my mandolin and Mr. Julian's heart (I was too ashamed of my treatment of him to throw the thing away), and at my feet was a make-up case and a small box of books.

As the ship neared land, streets and the details of buildings became more visible in the bright sunlight, and I fantasized the Africans who designed the houses and laid out the streets. Tall and dark-brown-skinned. Proud and handsome like my father. Bitter-chocolate black like my brother, lightly made and graceful. Or chunky and muscular, resembling my Uncle Tommy. Thick and sturdy, walking with a roll to their hips like boxers or gandy dancers. The fantasy was mesmerizing, and before I knew it men were lashing the ship to the dock.

Except for their long gowns and little skullcaps, the men did look like my father and brother and uncle, and there appeared to be thousands of them, screaming and shouting and running up and down the pier. From my high perch I tried to distinguish the differences between these Africans who had not been bought, sold or stolen and my people who were still enduring a painful diaspora. But I was either too far away or they moved too fast for my purpose. Still, I was determined and kept my gaze fastened on the area below.

“Mrs. Angelos.”

I turned and was face-to-face with the doctor.

“Mrs. Angelos, what are your first impressions of your native continent?”

I retrieved my thoughts and longings and made a
snappy remark. “It is colorful. And noisy. And the sun shines on Africa.”

He fished two cigarettes from a package and lighted them simultaneously (he had seen
Now Voyager
too, and I wondered how often he had imitated Paul Henreid). He put one between my lips.

“Where are you staying in Alexandria?”

I told him the company was booked at the Savoy.

“Will you honor me with dinner? They have a decent dining room and you won't have to leave your hotel.”

I quickly weighed his lips, shoulders, hips and eyes against the chances of finding an interested Egyptian man on the first day. The sea had been smooth for nearly twenty-four hours, which meant that the huntresses were feeling well and would be back in the chase and any available men would be at a premium. “I'd be delighted,” I said.

His eyes smoldered wonderful promises; then he tried a smile that was incongruous on the lascivious face. “My name is Geracimos Vlachos. I am called Maki. Expect me at eight o'clock. Until then.” He bowed and kissed my hand.

Martha said, “You got him, you fast thing, you. Took advantage of all your sick sisters and snatched that man while everybody was flat on their backs. Dying in the hold.”

We were lined up at the rails, ready to disembark.

Lillian nudged us. “Look at the people, will you? Africans. My God. Now I have lived. Real Africans.”

Ethel and Barbara were a little more reserved, but just as excited. Our voices nearly equaled in volume the shouts and yells of the dock workers.

I saw that the older singers were as fascinated as we. Katherine Ayres, Georgia Burke, Eloise Uggams, Annabelle
Ross and Rhoda Boggs stood facing Bob Dustin, but their eyes continued to steal away to the dock and to the people who were unloading the vessel. When they walked between the gowned stevedores on the way to the buses, their usually reserved smiles broadened into happy grins, and they doled out money, whose value they had not really considered, to the beggars who stretched out their hands.