One Man Dancing

by Patricia Keeney

  They eat. They do not drink. Some sleep. But not Charles. He is alive to every new sensation. Hanging in space among so many possibilities.

  It is announced they will land soon in Cairo. A forty-five-minute refuelling stop. But they cannot get off, cannot see the pyramids. Charles is disappointed.

  “Another time,” says Beth.

  With touch-down, there is a mighty thump and then a huge roar. Beth tells him to raise the window shade. He is sure they are still careening through the air and will tumble to earth any moment. He is sweating when the plane comes to a stop.

  The scene is repeated as they leave Cairo. And again when they arrive in Amsterdam. Charles lifts his shade and sees Europe for the first time. All cement. So many planes. So many men in orange suits. Lights.

  Europe is truly amazing.

  The company files into the immigration building, show passports, have them stamped. Signs glare. A wait for their bags. Then onto the bus that will take them to their hotel.

  Charles feels homeless under the overcast skies, in the chill October dampness. The air smells of rain. But not African rain. This is concrete rain. Big city rain. Old rain. Rain that has fallen for centuries on pavement.

  As they enter the city, he is fascinated by the maze of waterways around them and the large number of small boats on the water, some glass covered. Railings rising symmetrically from the dams and bridges, directing the water, turning it this way and that, around corners and under houses.

  Everything is so ordered, Charles thinks. The tall buildings, their wooden tops curling and draping into fanciful shapes. He watches the autumn leaves flutter restlessly between the buildings.

  Beth points out the large hooks on each floor of the skinny houses. “To get furniture up,” she tells him. “I read that the staircases are too narrow.” He tries to imagine living in one.

  The bus edges forward, past a flower market. A little further on, stalls sell coats and combs and socks. Not so different from Kampala. He sees a barrel organ making relentless circus music, and a tame monkey grinding along.

  In their tall, skinny hotel, Charles has a room to himself. And a bathroom in the hallway. Exhausted, he sleeps and sleeps.

  They are to visit the theatre the next afternoon. Then in the evening there will be a technical rehearsal.

  Breakfast is odd. Meat and cheese, bread and coffee. They have all slept fitfully.

  Only one street away, they are told, is Holland’s most important theatre museum. Charles wonders what could possibly be kept in it. They trudge off to see what Dutch theatre tradition is about. Mostly costumes and sets. Devices for sound effects. A sign invites them to create their own storm. They shake a wide hunk of metal. Thunder. Beth adds rain, her voice pattering like drops on parched leaves.

  “And I am wind,” bellows Charles, his cry released like pain through a body, screaming then fading.

  Photos and promptbooks and programs. Charles is assaulted by a history not his own.

  Lunch is rijsttafel in a small Indonesian restaurant where dish after dish is placed before them. Tangy tastes of many colours. Some sharp like real food.

  They have two hours off before a rehearsal at the strangely named Mickery Theatre — Amsterdam’s premiere experimental venue. A few company members decide to have their own look around the town. Charles is delighted to escape Robert’s rigour for a bit. He takes Beth’s hand.

  She guides him through cobbled streets, keeps him barely afloat so he does not drown in his wonder. He stands transfixed by a naked wooden angel smiling at him from under an awning. He is fascinated by a delicate birdcage in a window worked into a tangle of levels and areas as complicated as the dense foliage of high trees. He is enchanted by a wooden rocking horse in an antique shop with wheels and bright eyes, ready to take him anywhere.

  When he finally looks around for Beth, she is nowhere to be seen. He is surrounded by extravagant strangeness. And entirely alone. Lost.

  He comes to a narrow maze of streets buzzing with nightclubs and large bold signs that remind him of Mombasa. He realizes how revealing clothing can be when it is a scrap of material strategically placed, a satin ribbon or a gauzy scarf. One club advertises “erotic live shows” and displays over its door a red fringed curtain with the legs of a woman. She is upside down, the rest of her falling into a yellow pillow. On her legs are black net stockings studded with stars, garters that plunge down into the billowing material, and shoes as long and sharp as daggers.

  Charles stands in front of another shop window looking directly at a woman in a bikini. She moves. She is not a mannequin. She is real. She is all red sparkles and he cannot tell how anything stays on. She is smiling at him and turning this way and that. She is available to him. Like merchandise on display. Under a red neon light.

  He sleepwalks past window after window of many such powdery bare-limbed girls, all white and wiggling and winking. But he must not be late for rehearsal. If only he had a watch.

  He begins to walk faster and then faster. Out of this maze of streets, as confusing as bush tracks. He doesn’t want to be fondled or eaten or attacked. He only wants out.

  Totally lost now, he steps in front of a vast complicated church with high spires and long windows, larger than anything he has ever seen. Looking for someone to direct him, he enters by a wooden door and disappears into the grand gloom. He sits alone in a pew, allowing the pillars and arches and vaults — the secret, sacred corners where the angels and apostles of Jesus live — to comfort him.

  “We don’t know where he is,” chorus the three young women simultaneously. Robert is furious.

  “You are responsible for one another,” he says. “Check the hotel again. He could get robbed. Or worse. Was he carrying his passport?”

  “He doesn’t let it go,” says Beth.

  “Tell me next that he is carrying his whole month’s per diem.”

  “He is.”

  Having missed the rehearsal completely, Charles finally creeps into the hotel with his haul: a pair of new shoes, two blue shirts and a knock-off watch. He sees Robert in the bar. Worse, Robert sees him. “Stop!” comes the imperious voice. “You think you are invisible?”

  Charles freezes, his whole being concentrated in guilty apprehension. “I’m sorry Robert, I was exploring the city with the others and I got lost.”

  “You didn’t come here to sightsee. You came here to work. Even if you are not on the stage, you have responsibilities — like showing up for rehearsals. You deserted us.”

  Charles melts under the erupting volcano.

  “I am not paying you to be a tourist. You are an actor in a theatre company. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

  The company has gathered around, witness to his public humiliation. “Go and pack. I will arrange for a car to pick you up later tonight and take you to the airport. You will return to Kampala.”

  “No,” says Charles. “Please. I’m sorry. I got lost.”

  Looking around at his fellow company members, he realizes what a shambles he has made of his first foray into the big world. But most of all how he has failed Robert.

  Staring pointedly at his delinquent, Robert says with finality, “Didn’t you hear me? Go.”

  No-one — including the director himself — is sure how serious he is.

  “Give him another chance,” interjects Kiri, speaking for everyone. “He has been a good worker except for today. He is a good actor. And he makes us laugh.” Kiri has become expert at wooing Robert, teasing him with her imprecations. He can rarely resist her but even she feels his steely edges at this moment. “Give him some time. He deserves another chance. And we need him in the show.”

  “He is stubborn,” the director finally says. “But so easily seduced.”

  “Just like you,” she purrs, leaning into him. The others have drifted quietly away. This night, Robert does not even try
to resist.

  Charles is given a reprieve. Probation until the end of the tour. He is ecstatic.

  Expectations fly high for Abafumi. The Festival has arranged numerous interviews for Robert. He wants to speak of art, total theatre, Antonin Artaud. But the journalists only clamour for the politics of Africa, the real news of Idi Amin and the chaos he makes.

  The theatre is sold out for all eighteen performances of Renga Moi. The director of the festival has already spoken with Robert about extending the tour. About Belgrade, Brazil, and perhaps even Tokyo. Even the Ugandan Embassy will be attending the opening. A reception afterwards. They must all come. Meet the officials. First company from Uganda. Africa. Interviews. Charles is slightly bored with all of Robert’s public relations.

  Although the opening performance is a huge success in the press, it is only passable for Robert. He lectures the whole company late that night on what he calls the discrepancy between popularity and artistic relevance. In the light of their positive reviews, however, Charles finds his dissatisfaction ungenerous.

  Although careful, he finds himself occasionally challenging Robert lately. “The public and the journalists are too easily pleased,” is all Robert will say.

  “But the audience…”

  “Audience response is no indicator. Crowds also react to sex and circuses. You know that.”

  “How can we be responsible for audience tastes as well?” asks Charles.

  “Artists are also teachers. Teaching is hard work.”

  “But you are the toast of Amsterdam,” pleads Kiri, “An African theatre magician. They compare you to Peter Brook, to Grotowski.”

  “False flattery,” he shoots back. “They don’t know what else to say. And if merely prancing about in feathers and loincloths is enough, then we might as well go back home.”

  “Maybe we should go back,” says Joseph soberly. “Have you seen Amin’s latest edicts?”

  “Every day we hear news of more gruesome deaths,” Beth adds with a catch in her voice. “My cousin…”

  “Right now we can do more good here,” Robert retorts. “We would probably be thrown in jail at home like everyone else who speaks out. And we would die there.”

  Robert wants to extend the tour. There is agreement.

  “Only when Renga Moi is as sharp as a spear can we go home with confidence,” he finishes.

  Robert has even suggested playing in the U.S. He meets often with Americans. Government people too. But there are no invitations from the States and no American performances scheduled. Still American money is the coin of their realm. Each week they are paid in crisp U.S. bills. Where does it come from? Charles wonders.

  He asks Beth about the currency. “Don’t stick your nose in too far,” she cautions him one day. “Don’t ask questions about that sort of thing. If he pays in U.S. dollars, it’s fine. Okay?”

  Charles agrees to bite his tongue. But the question remains. For weeks. For months. For years.

  In a flurry of activity, new agreements are reached, contracts signed, visas obtained for everyone. Who is opening these doors for them?

  From Holland, they move on to Bitef in Yugoslavia, then to Tampere, a small city in Finland. Similar successes. Similar interviews. Similar talk.

  On a cold Sunday afternoon, the actors have toiled up a long steep path to an old-fashioned sauna deep in the Finnish countryside. Mingling easily with the local people at this shrine, they breathe in sweet honey wafting up from clover. A wooden tea-shop on top of the small mountain creaks like a ship at sea. Charles is gaining confidence each day. In a photo, he stands next to Robert, beaming. The caption on the picture reads “Africans Find Finland Bracing.”

  Charles is appreciative of his new celebrity status, enjoys being introduced to reindeer meat, lingonberry jam, and lakka berry preserves. In this rewarding fashion, weeks flash by. But he needs to speak with Robert before they leave the Tampere Festival.

  He peers through the steam of the hotel’s sauna trying to find his director. It is hard to see as water hisses off heated stones. The glistening forms of Joseph, Joro, and Willy sitting in rough white towels on wooden benches look like holy men.

  Uganda seems so far away. Dark and hot and lost.

  He looks through the mist and recognizes Robert seated close by. He suddenly hears the strike of birch on bare skin. “It is good for the circulation,” booms Robert’s voice. “Beat out all the sins. Sweat them out.” Charles feels the sting of the branch on his own back.

  “Have you learned your lesson yet, Charles?”

  “Which one is that?” Charles asks in response.

  “How to use a sauna of course.” Robert laughs. “You know you remind me so much of myself. When I criticize your shortcomings, I am criticizing my own. You realize that.”

  Charles is surprised by this sudden candour. It is hard for him to imagine what similarities the maestro sees between them.

  “You have my weakness for the good life. Pleasures of the flesh. Food, clothes, drink. And women.”

  Charles has certainly sampled a few of the items from Robert’s list of delights. And knows he is attracted by all of them. He has been caught in flagrante once with Beth.

  “I created this company on group loyalty and self-discipline. If I personally indulge in ‘mistakes’ once in a while, it is my privilege. You have to earn those privileges. That way lies freedom.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  Charles is determined now not to lose his place in this pantheon of pleasure. He’s heard talk of other exotic places. Jamaica. Brazil. He is in awe of Robert’s abilities to find them venues, his connections and power.

  “How, how do you do it?” he asks Robert hesitantly. “How do you know so many people in so many places?”

  Beth has told him more than once that this is none of his business. And he knows it.

  “Too many questions, Charles.”

  “Why do we always get paid in U.S. dollars?”

  Robert now heads out of the sauna. “Not so much thinking. Enough for today. Let’s try the lake. Maybe it will wake us up.”

  “Yes, sir. The lake.”

  His smile brittle as ice, Robert winks at Charles and veers off.

  The American government. Could the rumours be true? Why would they be paying Robert? His head full of questions, Charles plunges after his director into the freezing lake.

  3. ON THE MOVE

  IN JAMAICA CHARLES MEETS AFRICANS for the first time outside Africa who call this land of palm trees and beaches home. Who call him and his fellow actors “the Africans.” Who call themselves the chosen people. “Why don’t they want to return to Africa?” he asks Joro. “Why would they want to stay here in permanent exile?”

  “Because Africa sold them out, sold them as slaves to the whites.”

  “The Arabs in Kenya. They were the ones who sold East Africans like us as slaves. They should blame the Arabs,” says Charles.

  “But it was black Africans who were complicit with the Arabs. And with European slavers. Without African cooperation in slavery, there would be no blacks in Jamaica. It started with us. We have to take some responsibility for the slave trade. That’s how they see it here. So why should they go back?”

  Charles is fascinated by the political anger and aggression he finds among these Africans he meets in Jamaica. He listens carefully to the English and even the Creole spoken — with its mix of Spanish and French — and hears traces of his own story in it. Echoes of languages the whole company speaks, as though it had been forgotten in some remote time and then re-discovered, syllable by syllable, achieving new patterns, fleeting ensigns from different cultures fluttering on many tongues.

  And he sees what isn’t Africa.

  Cruise boats plying back and forth in their prescribed patch of ocean between the invisible fences that separate one “whites only
” hotel resort from the next. Bright sun umbrellas shading nearly naked bodies stretched out on blankets all over the beach. Canvas chairs spread flat to match, each hotel marking its spot, assertively planting its own special tourist flags along the shore.

  He sees the striped awnings and the white painted steel drums of reggae bands while Joro continues to share with Charles his recent readings on the politics of the African diaspora. “Some of the slaves who were brought here escaped,” Joro informs him as they sit watching pale green waves whisper over white sand. “My book said that they became known as maroons”

  “Why maroons?”

  “It’s from a Spanish word for untamed. That’s how the British saw them.”

  The British. Charles does not know how to think about them anymore. They were everywhere.

  “They started coming here as slaves in the 1500s. They were mostly from West Africa — Senegal, Benin, Nigeria. Many Yoruba. Mandinke. But once here, some escaped to the mountains. Then they began raiding the plantations, stole cattle, burnt crops, and freed other slaves. The British could never catch them. They believed these Africans possessed witchcaft.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they were so clever and because the British needed a reason for never being able to catch them. There are all sorts of legends about warriors disappearing into rocks or turning themselves into trees before slitting the throats of British redcoats marching through the forest.”

  “I like their jerk cooking. Spicy, like our food.”

  “Pure West Africa. But still Africa!”

  “So we are at home,” says Charles, smiling broadly at the concept, smiling at the women admiring him, knowing how much the local men also admire their women.

  He feels calm when he looks up and sees cows and chickens moving lazily among a handful of shacks, or at a woman with a suitcase full of strung shells that she will sell to tourists, telling them the names of the various coral: brain, finger, staghorn.

  Two days later, Robert is waiting at the university residences where they are staying. He has given three press interviews already and a lecture at the Creative Arts Complex on the evolution of Renga Moi. The entire three-week run is already sold out.