An Ounce of Practice

by Zeilig, Leo;

  He sees the fear in Violetta’s eyes and hears the sigh from the audience. She drops her head and answers, ‘Yes.’

  Then the terrible second question comes out: ‘You love him, then?’

  Her head still bent: ‘Well – I love him, yes.’

  And Viktor knows she is lying, she has never loved the Baron – she loves him, and is trying to protect him, but he can’t help himself. Viktor feels the heat from the stage lighting, the eyes of everyone on him, he follows the direction of the words, the feelings, the music, the scene, the tragedy.

  Suddenly there is a violence in his heart as intense as his love. He clenches his fists and the echo of his rage sounds across the theatre. He runs to the cardboard door in the false wall. Throwing open the door, he calls, ‘Everyone, come here!’

  Immediately the room is full of people. The chorus of guests asks, ‘You called us? What do you want?’

  Viktor feels his arm lift. His finger points to Violetta, who leans exhausted on a table, her shoulders raised, her chest heaving. Viktor looks at the guests, then the audience, and half-sings, half-shouts, ‘You know this woman?’

  The guests look at Violetta and answer him: ‘Who? Rosa?’

  Viktor is confused. He loses his way, forgets the words. He turns and, where Violetta had been standing, he sees his daughter. Her head is just above the table. He can see she is trembling, her eyes flinch – there is fear on her face and something else, something worse, incomprehension. Rosa looks around her to the mass of faces in the audience, to the painted set, up to the lights, the theatre rising high into the rafters, to the cast standing with her on this great stage – this fabricated universe of human cruelty with its unnecessary pain, its troupe of fools.

  Rosa’s face is frozen, her mouth open and dry. Incredulous, unbelieving, his daughter holds out a hand to him. Viktor’s finger is still pointed at her. He can see it all: how she is being broken, how they have beaten all sense from her – destroyed her childish instincts of love.

  But Viktor can’t help fulfilling the role he has been given. He sings, ‘You don’t know what she has done?’ His voice rings with condemnation, with justice and anger.

  Rosa whispers, ‘Ah, be silent. Daddy, be silent.’

  Viktor falters, his vision blurs, the haze of light confuses him. He listens to the music, tries to find himself.

  The chorus sings again, ‘No. What has she done?’

  Viktor answers as Alfredo, his voice rising with confidence. He lets the cruelty take him, he feels it spread through him, possess him. ‘This woman was about to lose all she owns for love of me, while I, blinded, vile, wretched, was capable of accepting everything. But there is still time! I wish to cleanse myself of such a stain. I have called you here as witnesses that I have paid her all I owe.’ With violent contempt, Viktor throws a purse down at Rosa’s feet.

  Rosa screams – her voice is high, it reaches the circle, the gods. ‘Daddy!’ she cries, and collapses.

  Viktor stares at the body of his daughter on the stage. Two women from the chorus rush to her and fan her small face.

  And now the tide of anger has left him and he feels exhausted, lost. The swell of indignation dissolves. His chest heaves and his head drops in humiliation. Finally, with the lucidity of the dream, he knows that Rosa is all of life. Are those the words he hears from the chorus? Is it over? Has the pain really passed? The chorus sings, ‘Rosa is everything, not just for him but everyone. He has learnt his lesson; he can still go back to his love and there receive the longed-for prize, wrapped in his sweetheart’s arms.’

  He wonders, no longer sure who he is – Alfredo or Viktor - if she is also loved by everyone, she can still be saved. Saved from me.

  His heart beats loudly in his chest at the thought. Viktor stirs but doesn’t wake.

  He stands over Rosa, and where the baron stood he now sees Isaac. His father looks at the scene, sees his granddaughter on the floor, his son – ‘dressed like this, with those boots, oy vey’. He bows his head in shame and then rushes to Rosa.

  The chorus sings, ‘Oh, what a terrible thing you have done! You have killed a sensitive heart! Ignoble man, to insult a child so, leave this house at once, you fill us with horror! Go, go, you fill us with horror! Ignoble man, to insult a child.’

  Viktor falls back into Alfredo’s body, into the riding boots, the black trousers, the dinner jacket and cries, ‘Alas, what have I done? I am horrified!’

  Isaac looks up, broken, and his voice lifts, growing louder with each word. ‘Whoever, even in anger, offends a child exposes himself to the contempt of all.’ Then, staring into Viktor’s eyes, he declares, ‘Where is my son? I cannot find him, for in you I no longer see him.’

  Involuntarily, without thinking, the words erupt through Viktor’s clenched chest to his throat: ‘Ah, yes – what have I done? I am horrified. Maddening confusion, disillusioned love tortures my heart – I have lost my reason. She can never forgive me now. I tried to flee from her – I couldn’t! I came here, spurred on by anger! Now that I have vented my fury, I am sick with remorse – oh, wretched man!’

  The chorus, the other guests, ignore him. Have they even heard his words of remorse, his regret? Do they know that he has sung? Instead they look at Isaac kneeling on the floor, cradling Rosa in his lap, and they sing, ‘Ah, how you suffer! But take heart: here, each of us suffers for your sorrow; you are here among dear friends; dry the tears which bathe your face.’

  Viktor tries to shake off the dream. He thrashes, beats at the sheets, but remorse fastens him to the bed. He groans. The night breeze thumps dully at the curtain. Outside, in the distance, there is a scream.

  He hears Rosa’s voice – she has regained consciousness. Her head is raised on Isaac’s lap. She doesn’t have the strength, but she tries to turn her head to Viktor, to address him directly: ‘Alfredo, Alfredo, you cannot understand fully the love I have in my heart; you do not know that even at the risk of your disdain I have put it to the test!’

  Rosa’s voice is soft. Even if the words are meant for him, they touch everyone, speak to all loss. Sitting up now, Rosa sings more loudly, ‘But the day will come when you will know. You will admit how much I loved you. May God save you then from remorse. I shall be dead, but I shall love you still.’

  Viktor turns again on the mattress and cries out once more. Through the open window the sadness moves into the street, reaches the trees, climbs onto the branches and neighbouring houses, into other flats, to the distant townships. Soon Viktor’s voice is joined by others, the whole weary agony of Harare. Along the silent, potholed roads, splashed by streetlights, the cries of the city ricochet and blur; there are faces and people tumbling, falling over each other.

  The chorus has stepped forward and now the whole city is on the stage, their arms out, their chests open, singing. Everyone is awake. The president, alone in his bed, sits up, listens, sees the light outside his window, recognises the pain of the city. He wonders if it is a message to him: ‘May God save you from remorse. We may be dead, but still we love. Still we come back for what is ours.’ The president is in a fever; he moves in his bed and sings, ‘Alas, what have I done? I am horrified!’

  Viktor thrashes on the mattress. The sheet sticks to him. He is covered in sweat. Even his own cries cannot properly be heard and he struggles in his sleep to wake, to escape.

  Isaac sings, without any of his old reserve, ‘I will show you that I am well able to break your pride.’

  Finally Viktor wakes panting, breathless, relieved, horrified. He throws the sheet off, swings his legs off the bed, rests his head in his hands. A hollow pain fills his stomach, bloats him – his very blood feels infected. What difference does it make, he asks, that this was a dream? He sees the image of Rosa, slandered in public, terrified, alone. He shakes his head violently; still she won’t go. Viktor feels his lungs emptying of air, his chest filling with emotion. He stands, steadies himself on the wall by the bed, tries to reach the light, stumbles.

 
; The curtain flaps like a flag on currents of warm air. Quickly, he looks around the room for Rosa, in case all this time she has been in Zimbabwe with him without him knowing, hiding, scared to come out of the corner of the room he shares with Anne-Marie.

  There are shadows, but none of them is his daughter. He hears a noise from somewhere near him. Hope rises briefly, but the only sound in the room is his own tears. He mutters, ‘Alas, what have I done?’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  On the walk to the café there was a large skyscraper, built in the mid-nineties for the Reserve Bank of Zimbabwe, that rose forty floors, narrowing to a sharp summit. On its sides were large plates of reflective glass, so that the rest of the low-rise city was reflected in the mirrored patchwork. The automatic doors slid open and closed for a tide of politicians and bankers, driven to the front door in chauffeured black Mercedes-Benz. The staff cast quick, contemptuous glances around them before being swallowed by the building. As Viktor walked past the door a blast of cool air briefly enveloped him. If I chained myself to the reception, threw paint on the marble floor, would they listen? Would they release Biko? On the side of the entrance was a plaque. Viktor read it aloud, his face crumpling in disgust:

  THIS BUILDING WAS OPENED ON 8 MAY 1993 BY HIS EXCELLENCY, COMRADE

  RIGHT HONOURABLE PRESIDENT ROBERT GABRIEL MUGABE

  He’d spent another night dreaming brief, brutal dreams. A circus of oversized cats, badly tamed, leering at him, demanded to be fed, their worn, patchy fur raised on their arched backs, their teeth snapping at him. Then he woke and grabbed his phone from the corner below the bed. The clock showed that the time had only edged hesitantly forward. He needed to wake Harare so he could resume the campaign, phone his contacts, speak to the embassies, High Commissioners, email, free Biko.

  As Viktor approached the internet café where he occasionally worked, where Lenin worked, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and answered quickly.

  ‘You tried to get me yesterday. My secretary tells me you’ve left fifteen messages,’ the voice said.

  Viktor pressed the phone hard against his ear, kicked open the glass door to the internet café, waved to Lenin, cleaning the tables with a dirty rag, and found a chair. ‘Sorry, who is this?’

  ‘It’s Kevin Saunders, Deputy High Commissioner.’

  Viktor remembered the hurried calls he’d made the previous day, desperate for some leverage, with no news on Biko for a fortnight. In Bulawayo all visits had been refused. Viktor imagined Biko beaten, stubborn in his cell, overturning the bowl of sadza and sauce, demanding food fit for human beings, challenging his jailors: ‘You dogs. Dogs of a master who wouldn’t wipe his feet on you. Dogs. Muri imbwa dza Mugabe.’

  ‘Yes, Deputy High Commissioner,’ Viktor answered breathlessly, ‘it’s about Stephan Mutawurwa – he’s known as Biko – he was arrested several weeks ago in Bulawayo. He’s being held for inciting disorder, but we’ve heard nothing for two weeks. The police don’t respond and we’re not allowed to visit.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ The voice was clipped, irritated.

  ‘We worked together at the Independent Media Centre. I was with him when he was arrested. I’ve given a statement and he has a lawyer.’

  ‘What do you think I can do?’

  ‘We hoped you could contact the authorities in Bulawayo. Write to the president, issue a statement.’

  ‘How long have you been in Zimbabwe?’

  ‘A few months.’

  ‘Then how do you think our engagement could possibly make a difference?’

  ‘I think it can. You have better contacts than us, and in the current climate—’ Viktor was cut off.

  ‘In the current climate we can do exactly nothing.’

  ‘Mr Mutawurwa could die if you don’t, sir.’

  ‘Listen, I have heard about this Stephan Mutawurwa and this so-called Media Centre that you run, illegally. Quite honestly, I find it peculiar – you seem to be purposely stirring up trouble. And this Mutawurwa is involved with Nelson Chitambere’s group ... what is it called, the Society for Educated Minds? We know about them. Socialists. Linked to groups in Europe, in the UK, in the US.’

  Viktor could feel his blood rising, his face flushed. ‘It’s the Society of Liberated Minds, though I think that’s irrelevant. Stephan is a pro-democracy activist who the British government claim to support.’

  ‘There are many shades of activists, sir—’

  ‘Viktor. My name is Viktor Isaacs.’

  ‘There are all shades of activists, Mr Isaacs, and Stephan and quite frankly your Media Centre—’

  ‘It’s a website of opposition voices.’

  ‘Whatever it is, we do not want to be associated with it.’

  Viktor was perspiring. He battled the desire to raise his voice and denounce this man, with his heartless coherence, his Oxbridge English and hypocrisy. The sensation was new for Viktor. He felt his stomach burn. To steady himself, he held the phone away from his ear, gripped the table and breathed deeply. ‘I see, Deputy High Commissioner,’ he said finally, bringing the phone back to his ear. ‘Well, if you have a change of mind, we’d really appreciate it if you could help us find out what’s happened, why there has been silence for two weeks. You’ll understand we’re concerned. His family is concerned.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do. If you want to be useful to Zimbabwe, I would suggest you return to the UK and please stop phoning my office.’ The call rang off. Viktor threw his phone on the floor. It shattered into three pieces. He leant forward and cradled his head.

  What did it mean that Biko was still in prison and that no one could help? His shoddy lawyer had spoken confidently about Biko’s imminent release and then fallen silent and couldn’t be reached for days. The money the campaign raised flowed healthily into the account that Louis had set up in London. The NGOs that had taken over the terrain now also donated. All of these funds, including the unnamed donations, had not yet managed to buy Biko’s freedom. Money had been paid to the absent-minded lawyer who didn’t answer his phone. Anne-Marie found someone who would be more attentive. The great, cascading inflow of donor money into Zimbabwe from and to foreign NGOs, Care International, the Rosa Luxemburg Foundation, the Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung Foundation, the Norwegian Student Federation, had fixed the prices, raised the hourly fee of human rights. Now legal firms brimmed with self-righteousness and defended the Arundel Eight, the Bulawayo Six and now the Biko One.

  So Viktor fought harder than before.

  He published daily updates, posted articles, appeals, blog posts in a frenzy of action, a barrage of activity and information that he believed would bear down on the Zimbabwe High Commission in London, the prison switchboard in Harare, the ZANU and MDC MPs. This torrent of protest and noise, telephone, email, social media traffic grew to such an intensity that the regime would be forced to its knees, obliged to plead for the crowds, public opinion and the online masses to release their grip. Only then did Viktor envisage that Biko would be freed and the storm, the international frenzy, the social movement crowd that he had stirred into such tumult, would lift. If Viktor kept moving quickly enough between tasks, plugged the holes that opened between emails, online petitions and phone calls, his activism would free Biko.

  He wondered if this was how it felt to be totally, completely immersed in practice. Was this the life of a militant, of Tendai, Nelson, Moreblessing? Biko lived by the same principles of involvement, a life given in total measure, no sinew of effort held back for tomorrow, just fanatical loyalty to a single purpose. Viktor felt himself infected by the struggle against X-Party, Y-Party for the new dawn, which caused each of them to be cursed by a throbbing fear and the dull pain of trapped hope.

  *

  ‘Brother,’ Lenin said, ‘You need to rest.’

  ‘I need to get Biko out.’

  ‘But you’ll only do that if you’re rested.’

  ‘I have no time.’

  Lenin picked up Viktor’s phone, put the p
ieces together, turned it on and placed it next to the computer. ‘Why are you so stubborn, brother? So, what do you call it? Why are you so anti-rest?’

  Viktor sat back in the chair, looked at Lenin and smiled. ‘Anti-rest,’ he repeated. ‘You are right. I am anti-rest. There is too much discord in my head to rest.’

  ‘There is too much discord in Zimbabwe,’ Lenin corrected him.

  ‘Yes, too much.’

  Viktor was one of two customers in Mandela’s Internet Café, which was normally filled with students completing their CVs, sending them to friends, family, contacts outside Zimbabwe, in South Africa, London. All of them Viktor knew by face; some he spoke to. For days students came in and sat blankly at a computer. They could only afford thirty minutes of connection. Through the day, every hour, they’d check their emails – they timed their connections to two minutes an hour, five times a day from eleven. So a single dollar, one tatty greenback, if they were careful, would last them three days of emailing – checking, their backs straight, their hands shaking each hour, their unblinking eyes fixed on the screen. They were waiting for an email with the identification code for a Western Union payment, for the transfer from a brother or sister, or cousin or aunt, in London. As soon as Viktor learnt about this system, this two-minute hourly lottery, he bought internet time for the students who visited the café regularly.

  Today Viktor sat next to Ebenezer, a graduate from the University of Zimbabwe, who was drafting and redrafting applications for positions out of Zimbabwe. ‘Maybe if I wasn’t Zimbabwean, anything but Zimbabwean. Should I pretend to be from England? South Africa? Maybe if I was Haitian? And my degrees? My years at university, to be treated like this – this life is not fit for an intellectual. And I only followed Mugabe’s lead. Degrees, hard work, qualifications.’