by Lisa Grekul
I suggest that the African students perform different material. I tell Mrs. McBain that they would do a far better job of African music. Aren’t we supposed to be showcasing different cultures? They could wear their national costumes, too.
Mrs. McBain shakes her head. She says that the Rotarians want to see that the Africa music students have been civilized, so to speak, by the music program. The Rotarians want to hear Western music.
I remind her that I’m performing non-Western music.
Mrs. McBain glares. She says that I’m an exception. The African students look African. But if I don’t sing in Ukrainian, how ever would the Rotarians know that I’m Ukrainian?
I have to go. I have no choice. I’m the show’s only hope. I have to perform, with or without the Ukrainian costume. I think. I’m not convinced. A few days before the Rotary luncheon, I imagine that Katja is watching me as I dress in her costume. I see her throwing back her head, and cackling like the Wicked Witch of Poland. “You don’t know who you are, do you?” she says, in my daydream. “You don’t know what you want to be. Canadian? Ukrainian? No! It’s best to be Polish, isn’t it? Isn’t it Colleen?”
What I need is Rosa’s advice. There’s only one day to go before the luncheon. Twenty-four hours. My Ukrainian costume is never going to arrive in time. Do I give in and wear the Polish costume? It’s just clothing, really. Just fabric. Right? And I have benefited from the Rotary Club’s money. And the concert is going to be a flop without me. And this could be my big chance to get Mrs. McBain to approve my Extended Essay.
While I talk, Rosa lies on her back in the sick bay bed. This is her sixth visit. She knows the whole story because I’ve been talking about it ever since Mrs. McBain asked me to perform at the luncheon.
I ask her if I should wear the Polish costume.
Rosa says, “No. Yes. Maybe. “
I tell her that I’ll feel guilty if I disappoint Mrs. McBain.
“So wear the costume.”
“But I’ll feel like her puppet if I put the thing on. And it would be degrading, after all that’s happened between Katja and me.”
“OK. Don’t wear it.”
“Or maybe I should rise above Katja.”
“Or rise above.”
Then Rosa turns her face to the window of the sick bay. She’s thinking about Siya again. I know it.
“So I should wear the costume?” I say.
Rosa turns back to face me. “Sorry, what costume are you talking about exactly?”
I walk away from sick bay angry. Rosa didn’t hear a word I said. She couldn’t set Siya aside for five minutes to help me, to think about me.
By the morning of the luncheon, the package from home still hasn’t arrived. Packages arrive at the college once a day, in the evenings. My costume hasn’t made it in time.
Mrs. McBain knocks on the door of my room. She’s come to help me with Katja’s costume. To make sure that I wear the outfit, is more like it. When she enters my cubie, I’m lying in bed with my blankets pulled up to my chin. I tell her that I’m coming down with something, a flu bug probably; that I’ve got the chills. I’m dizzy. All my joints are aching, my head hurts, my throat is sore. I tell her that I should probably go to sick bay for the rest of the day.
“Sick bay,” says Mrs. McBain, “is occupied again by Ms. Rosalind Richardson.”
In one, fluid motion, Mrs. McBain drops a garment bag on my bed and yanks the blankets off my bed.
I ask if I could do the performance in regular clothes. A nice skirt and a nice blouse maybe? High heels? Or I could wear half of the costume. The Polish blouse only, with a pair of black slacks.
Out of the question.
Mrs. McBain unzips the garment bag, handing me pieces of Katja’s costume. Katja, thank God, is in class. Otherwise, she would see that I look ridiculous in her outfit, that none of it fits me very well. Katja’s blouse and vest are too snug in the shoulders, I swim in the waistband of her skirt, and my feet are pinched in at the toes by her boots. Mrs. McBain pins the waistband tight before she pulls the blouse over my head and my shoulders. Then she helps wedge my feet into the boots; arranges the lace around my collar; adjusts the headpiece. When she’s finished dressing me, Mrs. McBain says that the costume is flattering to my figure. I look absolutely lovely.
But as Mrs. McBain and I make our way through the girls’ hostel, on the way to the car park, we pass by a full-length mirror, and I see for myself. I see the frilly, round clown’s collar around my neck, and the bulky wreath of cheap, waxy plastic flowers on my head; the fabric of the skirt, pleated and plastered with enormous roses and giant leaves; the billowy sleeves of the blouse embroidered with garish red and yellow and blue flowers. I don’t look the least bit lovely. Katja’s costume isn’t the least bit flattering to my figure. All in all, I look short and fat and Polish.
Mrs. McBain waits until I’m safely seated in the college bus before she informs me – informs all of the performers on the bus – that she won’t be coming along to the Rotary luncheon.
“Urgent hostel business,” she says, making her way down the stairs of the bus. “Mrs. Dlamini will be with you every step of the way. Remember: break a leg!”
I nearly do break a leg chasing after Mrs. McBain, tripping on the last stair of the bus as I race toward her across the car park. I tell her that I’m not going without her. I’m not going alone. Going alone wasn’t part of the deal. What if someone recognizes that I’m not wearing a real Ukrainian costume? That I’m not a real Ukrainian?
In a half-whisper, half-hiss, Mrs. McBain orders me to get back on the bus. She says that we have to keep in mind the wellbeing of Waterford’s music students. We have to sacrifice, and do what’s best for the Waterford Music Department as a whole. For the last three years, the Rotary Club has seen Mrs. McBain direct the Waterford performance. This year, the Rotarians will be impressed to see that the show is being coordinated by a black African music teacher, a Swazi teacher.
“I’m not going,” I say, setting down my guitar.
“Consider it a personal favour to me,” says Mrs. McBain, the corner of her mouth twitching, her voice hardly audible. “I need not remind you, Colleen, that I am a powerful woman. Let me assure you that there are steps I can – and most certainly will – take if you don’t get on that bus instantly. Do we understand one another?”
I understand that I’m condemned to go through with the charade. Go through with it or be sent home. Mrs. McBain’s threat is unmistakable. On the drive to Mbabane, through the pre-luncheon cocktails, through the meal, her words echo in my ears. I talk to no one – not the other students, not Mrs. Dlamini, not the Rotarians. I’m supposed to be Ukrainian, after all. I can’t exactly talk in English with a Canadian accent. The banquet room is filled with two hundred bodies, but I might as well be alone.
The lunch itself is a blur. A blur of multiple forks and knives, fine bone china plates, and crystal glasses of various shapes and sizes. I’m seated between two Form Five Zambian cellists who don’t seem remotely underprivileged, who know exactly what to do with each course of the meal and each utensil. They raise their eyebrows when I use the same fork and knife for the salad and the main course, and when I use the same teaspoon to stir my coffee and to eat my dessert. To keep my spirits up, I daydream about my trip with Rosa. She’ll come around. Final exams are probably worrying her. And the heat really is hard on her. Once we hit the road, she’ll be herself again.
When the meal is over, several Rotarians make after-dinner speeches. Most of them are fat, and all of them seem drunk. The President sways a little at the podium, and the Treasurer tells a half-dozen vulgar jokes. One ancient Rotarian at the front of the room snores loudly throughout the speeches. His ascot is askew. It looks like he’s spilled wine on his shirt.
The order of the Waterford program is organized according to age, youngest to oldest. I’m the last to perform. After the other students have stumbled through their numbers, Mrs. Dlamini gets up to introduce me, m
ispronouncing my name – Colleen Loose-Sack – and placing the wrong emphasis on “Tsyhanochka.” It should be Tsyhanochka. Mrs. Dlamini says Tsyhanochka. She says Ukrainian properly, at least, and Ukraine. But if there is an encore, I’ll have to introduce “Chervona rozha” myself.
I’m midway through the first refrain of “Tsyhanochka” when I first spot the Rotarian near the back of the banquet room. He’s hard to miss, actually, as he’s the only black person in the room – aside from the Waterford students, and Mrs. Dlamini, and the meal servers. He is the only black Rotarian at the luncheon, and he gets up from his chair while I sing to move closer to the stage. Most of the other Rotary Club members seem to be enjoying my performance. Some are smiling, others are nodding their approval. The black Rotarian is the only man in the crowd who looks puzzled, who appears to require a closer look.
By the last refrain of the song, I’ve got him figured out. It isn’t hard. Once he settles on a spot against the wall at the front of the room, I can see his face, watch his eyes. His expression isn’t one of amazement or awe – he doesn’t look impressed by the power of my voice or the intricacy of my guitar accompaniment. Instead, the black Rotarian has a sort of smug look on his face, a look that has I-know-you’re-an-impostor written all over it. Maybe his work brings him in contact with Polish people or he’s married to a Polish woman. Or he’s an expert in Slavic languages. Or he’s visited Eastern Europe.
Regardless, he knows. And I know that he knows. And, the longer he stares at me, the more nervous I get. Is there, I wonder, a law against what I’m doing? He could be a lawyer or a Swazi judge. I could be deported for impersonation. For fraud. There will be no encore this afternoon, no “Chervona rozha.”
After I’ve finished my song, I can’t put away my guitar fast enough, can’t get out of the banquet room soon enough. There’s no time to enjoy the applause. While the rest of the Waterford students take their time disassembling their instruments, as they chat with members of the Rotary Club, I’m at the curb outside the building, waiting for the college bus to arrive. The temperature must be forty degrees. Several minutes on the street and my entire body is wet with perspiration.
He follows me, of course, the black Rotarian. When I feel his tap on my shoulder, I’m not surprised. I’m sick to my stomach, but I’m not surprised.
Then he starts speaking to me. In Ukrainian.
What am I supposed to do? Mrs. McBain wants me to pretend that I’m from Ukraine. A Ukrainian would understand this man, would respond – in Ukrainian. I can’t. I can’t say anything. If I start speaking English, he’ll know that I’m not Ukrainian. If I say “I don’t speak Ukrainian” – in Ukrainian – he’ll know that I’m not Ukrainian. Either way, I’m in trouble.
We should have had a backup plan, in case something like this happened. Mrs. Dlamini should have been instructed to step in. She could have told the black Rotarian that I’m – I don’t know – deathly shy, and then whisked me into the bus. But who could have guessed that there is, in Swaziland, a man who speaks Ukrainian? Who would have known?
The man is puzzled by my silence.
“You don’t speak Ukrainian, do you?”
“No. Not exactly.”
The bus pulls up beside us. One by one, the other Waterford students start boarding.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” says the black Rotarian. “My name is Eduardo Shabalala.”
He’s the person who donated Ukraine: A History to the library at Waterford. I’m sure of it. I remember his handwriting in the book. A donation from E. Shabalala to the students of Waterford Kamhlaba.
I try to slip away. I tell Mr. Shabalala that I’m in a hurry. That the bus is leaving any minute. No sooner are the words out of my mouth than the bus driver steps out of the bus to smoke a cigarette. Mr. Shabalala takes it as his cue to tell me his life story.
He works for the Swazi government at the Ministry of Agriculture in Mbabane, but he’s not from Swaziland, originally. He’s part South African, part Mozambican. That explains his name, apparently. “Eduardo” is Portuguese – Mozambique was colonized by the Portuguese – and “Shabalala” is Zulu. I’m not actually interested. My goal is to get in the bus as soon as possible. End this conversation before it turns ugly.
The bus driver sits down on the curb, in the shade of a tree. Mrs. Dlamini joins him. They talk together in SiSwati, laugh at a shared joke. Neither seems in any rush to get back to school.
Mr. Shabalala explains that he was raised in Maputo. After he graduated from high school, he spent six years studying in Kiev. There, he learned Russian and Ukrainian. He speaks both. Not to mention Zulu, Portuguese, and, of course, English.
“I enjoyed your song,” he says. “But I wondered about you. You didn’t pronounce the words correctly.”
Here we go again. It’s Dauphin all over again, and my Ukrainian class at the university in Edmonton. My pronunciations aren’t good enough. I sing with a Canadian accent. My Ukrainian is all wrong.
“And the costume that you’re wearing.” Mr. Shabalala leans in close to me, as though he’s about to let me in on a secret. “I believe it’s Polish.”
Yes it’s Polish. I feel the blood rise to my cheeks. I know that it’s Polish. Mr. Shabalala has no idea what I went through with Mrs. McBain. How I begged her not to make me wear Katja’s costume.
As the bus driver meanders over to the bus, Mr. Shabalala asks how I came to learn the Ukrainian song, who taught it to me. Did I learn it, perhaps, from a book? Before I have a chance to answer, he comes at me with more questions. Where do I come from? What part of the United States? How long have I been in Swaziland? I feel like I’m being interrogated. He wonders if I’ve ever been to Ukraine – to Poland, perhaps? And then he tells me about his fondness for Ukrainians.
“Everywhere I went in Ukraine,” he says, “the people loved me. They said, ‘You’re one of us! You learn to speak our language, you touch our hearts!’ I feel very close to the Ukrainian people. I feel –”
“I’m Canadian, actually.” I interrupt Mr. Shabalala, mid-sentence. “Ukrainian Canadian. My grandparents immigrated from Ukraine. I’ve never been there. My mother taught me the song.”
End of conversation. The bus driver revs the engine a few times. As I pick up my guitar, I tell Mr. Shabalala that I really have to be going.
“A Canadian, singing Ukrainian songs in a Polish suit!”
Mr. Shabalala laughs while he follows me to the doors of the bus.
“My head is spinning!” he says, shaking his head.
Mine too, I think, from the heat, and the strain of talking to Mr. Shabalala. Mrs. McBain is going to hear about this. I’ll never forgive her.
“You’re a fine singer,” he says, calling after me as I make my way up the stairs of the bus. “Not much of a Ukrainian, but a fine singer!”
The bus driver closes the doors on Mr. Shabalala, as he chuckles to himself, and waves to me from the curb.
Not much of a Ukrainian. What does he know? Who made him the expert on being Ukrainian? I’m tired of people telling me what I am. The adjudicators in Dauphin, Dr. Pohorecky in Ukrainian class, Katja – and now Mr. Shabalala. Total strangers, all of them, who have judged me without bothering to get to know me first. I might not speak Ukrainian, but I still feel Ukrainian. And I might feel Ukrainian, but that doesn’t mean I’m guilty for every historical injustice perpetrated by other Ukrainians. So what if I’ve never been to Ukraine? The Ukrainian people accepted Mr. Shabalala. Why wouldn’t they accept me? A person can be more than one thing at the same time. Mr. Shabalala said so himself. He’s South African and Mozambican. I don’t see why it’s so hard for people to get. Ukrainian Canadian. Ukrainian and Canadian.
The bus snakes its away out of Mbabane, along Oshoek Road, then up the Waterford hill to the car park near the gates of the college. By the time we arrive, it’s five o’clock, nearly dinnertime. The senior hostel is empty. Everyone is in their final class of the day.
I’m supposed to sl
ip into my history class, but I’m going to skip it. I’m going to take off my clothes – rip them off, tearing seams if I have to – and then, with Katja’s national dress in a plastic bag, all of the garments rolled into one wrinkled ball of sweaty cloth, I’m going to pay a visit to Mrs. McBain. Maybe I’ll spit on the costume after I dump it out of the bag and onto the floor of her house. This is her fault. And she wasn’t even there to help me.
Standing outside my cubie, fumbling with the lock to my door, I spot Katja out of the corner of my eye. She should be in the classroom block but instead she’s walking up the corridor towards me. My first impulse is to run. Run where, though? To my left are Katja and the only entrance to the girls’ hostel; to my right are several girls’ cubies and a dead end. As she approaches, I start to walk away from her, in the direction of the dead end. I’ll be trapped but I have to try something. I can’t face her. Not now. Not while I’m wearing her clothes.
When Katja calls my name, I’m forced to stop, forced to wait for her to do with me what she likes. There will be no yelling, I’m sure. Yelling isn’t Katja’s style. She’ll question me quietly but firmly – “What are you doing in my clothing?” – and then she’ll give me a stiff reprimand, a scathing lecture on Ukrainian oppression of Poles, or some sarcastic praise for the way I look in Polish national dress.
Here we go, I think, my back to Katja, my eyes closed.
“I had no choice!” I say, panicking as Katja reaches me. “Mrs. McBain gave me no choice. I didn’t want to –”
“Forget that, now. Put it out of your mind. McBain told me everything, I knew beforehand. It doesn’t matter.”
“But I didn’t want to –”
“Quiet!” says Katja, pulling me by the arm down the hostel corridor. “Listen to me while we walk. It doesn’t matter. We have no time. She’s gone. She’s been gone for hours, since you left. Her cubie is empty. Nobody knows yet. They were all in class. I wouldn’t have known myself except that I had to come back for a book I left in my cubie.”