One Man Dancing

by Patricia Keeney

  But Robert is angry again. He hears that some of his actors have been strutting around the university like movie stars. Now he gathers them all but speaks most directly to Charles. “You are not Bob Marley.”

  Kiri laughs out loud. “That’s true. We’re not paid enough.”

  “And you won’t be,” he snaps at her. “If you want to be real artists you have to live truthfully. Real artists don’t show off that way. Even here.”

  “We’re just having a bit of fun,” says Beth.

  “Hey mon,” quips Willy. “I be Bob Marley. Me great.”

  “You don’t know what it is to be great. You want real greatness then look at Derek Walcott. There’s greatness.” At rehearsal the previous afternoon, they read Walcott’s poetry out loud.

  Charles knows Robert’s gaze at these times. Can’t look at him when he gets so serious. When his mood is dark.

  “Smoking pot and wiggling your bums on the beach to bongos is not how you become great. I don’t want to see that, especially when my own kids are around. It’s not acceptable.”

  Ah, Robert’s children. That’s what it’s about. Charles and Willy have seen Robert’s pubescent daughters on the moonlit beach on more than one occasion, cold beers in hand, watching limbo dancers and fire-eaters, listening to the sea heave and sigh.

  “I don’t know why you brought the family here,” says Kiri. “They get in the way.”

  For several in the company there is even a bit of jealousy around this situation. Robert and his own family are installed at a four-star hotel while the actors are made to bunk in with students at a dormitory. The family’s presence is an issue for them all.

  Robert has targeted every company member at some point for one misdemeanor or other. Now it is Charles’ turn. Again.

  “We had better find you more to do Charles. You seem to be spending really excessive amounts of time with the local women. I have been given a list of several girls already by university security who have suggested to me that you are compromising them.”

  “They’re compromising me, Robert,” says Charles to general laughter.

  “And you can’t say no?”

  The truth, of course, is that Charles doesn’t want to say no. In fact, the first night, he actually found himself involved with one of the security women who had initially shooed him out of a student’s room. Ten years older than Charles, Safety Sue, as he calls her, turned imperiously on him under starlight and he found he simply could not refuse her command that he kiss her. The next day they were spotted driving together, careening through Kingston on the creamy seats of her father’s convertible.

  Charles admitted to Joro that he was still seeing images of her body in front of his eyes all the time, naked in the sea, naked when night dropped down and the crickets sang. Naked while the screen sucked wind and curtains billowed like white sea ghosts, urging them roughly on through thick blackness.

  Only onstage is Charles able to recover his primary focus. Robert has to stop being his parent. After all, Charles is now nineteen.

  That evening, Robert continues the attack. “You realize,” he says calmly to Charles, “they are writing about us in the press. They say that they love our theatre because we are expressing their stories. We are heroes here and we must act like heroes.”

  “That’s exactly why this woman wants me,” reasons Charles.

  “She wants you because you are good looking. You are just another scalp in her belt. Don’t you know the difference between real and fake? She doesn’t love you, Charles. She doesn’t worship you. You are just a prize. In Trenchtown at the Marley house, you saw the real life of this island. It is crumbling concrete like at home, gang wars and deserted schools, rusting tin roofs and barbed wire fences, garbage gutters and broken bridges. That is the reality here too. Not just resorts. Not this policewoman. She could be a spy.”

  A spy? For whom? Amin? This stops Charles cold.

  “We have a responsibility here, Charles. You simply cannot parade around like a playboy. That is not on. And you are driving me mad with your antics. You really are.”

  “It is not my intention, sir, but it is you who have given me that strength. Anyway, Why would Amin or the CIA care what we do in Jamaica?”

  “Both of them are watching us.” Charles is stunned.

  “I’m giving you a week’s notice.”

  “Notice of what?”

  “Show me you can behave for a week and you can have some of your social life back.”

  “What does that mean?”

  As it turns out, Robert’s idea of proper behaviour means that after each performance, Charles must return directly to the residence. What Robert does not know is that Safety Sue meets him there each night. After almost every performance, with meals and high quality pot — all in the service of the pleasure that is their nightly ritual.

  She even puts on her own very private performances for him, swinging and swaying breasts, with wisps of clothing, a wave of red and yellow, a gold turban piled high on her head, her long thick lashes hooding a sexuality directed only at him.

  He sees her everywhere, moving under blue sky, against waxy green leaves. He watches her like a flower found in grass.

  Even under house arrest, his daytime schedule remains the same. The whole company are up at six, run three miles, have breakfast, do warmups and vocals for an hour, work on text and improvisation.

  The second morning after his talk with Robert, he is disastrously late, kept up most of the night by Sue-induced pressures of the flesh. At nine, he realizes he has slept in, jumps into a cab — still pulling on socks and shoes — in a frantic attempt to get to the rehearsal hall and insinuate himself into what is happening. Robert sees but opts to ignore Charles, staring resolutely past him, as though he is not there. He is lecturing the group about interviews and whether they should be speaking out on social issues, political issues.

  Amin, Robert tells them, has decided to invite a delegation of Jamaican film stars to Uganda to exchange views about “self-determination in black societies.” Given that Amin is destroying Uganda, should they try to discourage the visit? They will be asked, says Robert.

  “Surely we do not support Amin’s policy of Uganda as an anti-Asian state,” remarks Joseph who, like Joro, is always probing the political edges, a custodian of the group’s higher purposes.

  “We are not politicians,” declares Robert after a pause. “Many artists have said that it is the purpose of art simply to raise the appropriate questions. It is up to others to answer them. Personally, I think we do need to know our political position on this going in.”

  That evening, Robert is watching from a distance as Charles enters the dressing room. For a change, Charles is early. When he sits down in front of the communal mirror to prepare himself for the performance, Robert’s deep voice booms out. “You cannot sit there Charles. Your place is gone.”

  Charles is stunned. Staring straight ahead he responds firmly, “This is my place. I am part of this group.”

  “No longer.”

  “Robert. You cannot kick me out. This is my life now. You can’t just take it away. You are not God. I’m sorry I was late this morning. I was not feeling well.”

  “If you stop cavorting all night you might feel better in the morning. You cannot continue to break our rules. I will not allow that. You are good on the stage, Charles, but you have to be as good off the stage. And you are not helping things.”

  As the others arrive, they listen to the debate. Whatever Robert is going to do, they know he has his reasons.

  Charles stands up. He bows his head before Robert’s gaze. Before the rest of the group. “I know I have put you through hell and I am sorry. But…”

  “But what, Charles.”

  Charles looks at his leader. “I have never seen a woman so beautiful. I love her.”

  Robert ask
s the company to wait outside. Clearly, Charles is the devil himself. Robert no longer resists.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “To look at this girl naked, Robert, would drive you crazy. Her breasts are round milky moons. Come out with us. You will see. I mean really see. She’s watched you onstage. She’ll agree.”

  After the performance, Robert drives with Charles and his lady to a beach pavilion where the moon bronzes a sea undulating like silk. There, the three of them get drunk. As the island breezes blow and patio peacocks shudder colour into the air, as small sharks cruise in lights shooting off the pier, Robert’s gaze drinks her in. Jointly they toast the glories of Jamaican women and the treachery of beauty. Then all three swim naked in the sea. Charles sleeps alone that night. His woman is on loan to the hero of his life.

  The next day Robert says simply to Charles, “I want your energy on the stage. You are dissipating your force. You are performing in too many places and in too many ways. We have to find out how to channel that energy…. And she is extraordinary, Charles. I’ll give you that.”

  Charles tries to call Mother from the hotel. There is only one working phone in Mother’s village and no one is picking up. He then tries Samuel who has been staying at Charles’ house in Kampala for the week.

  Samuel describes the city as hell. Streets clogged with beggars. People missing body parts. Hands. Legs. “The whole place is crippled and deformed,” his friend says over a crackling connection. Like somebody fondling a phantom limb, Charles cannot believe so much is gone. Amin’s security people are everywhere.

  “Is my place okay?” Charles asks.

  “Two windows have been broken,” he is told.

  “Also, the lock on the front gate was badly dented from hammer blows.”

  He imagines the rest from Samuel’s careful words. Furniture hacked by vandals, bright fabrics torn, the immaculate white walls gouged, paintings taken, the chandelier smashed.

  “Thieves had broken in before I arrived,” Samuel finishes, almost apologetically, “and they were thorough. Nothing of value was left untouched.”

  “Before I left home, I did go over to your house to see your family,” Samuel says. “Debra is recovering slowly. Returning breath by breath. But she is only a faint semblance of your sister. Your father is away more and more. Your mother is always sad. And seems so much older.”

  “I should be there, Samuel,” he moans urgently into the phone.

  Charles has no argument when his friend tells him to stay out of Uganda.

  His only hope now is Robert and the work that is Abafumi.

  A few weeks later, they are off again. This time their plane floats over Brazil, a ring of foamy sea nuzzling against dark rounded hills called the Moros that herd Rio’s stately white buildings into a glistening phalanx on the edge of the sea. All blue and green, netted in pearly humidity.

  “This place is large and generous,” Robert tells Charles. “Like a fine woman who flaunts herself because she knows she is irresistible. This woman, this Rio, is the soul of Brazil.”

  At the airport, the company is met by a handful of enthusiastic hosts. Charles watches Robert separate from the group for a few moments to speak with yet another white man in dark glasses. Joro mutters “CIA” under his breath. Charles sees Robert take a bulging envelope from the stranger and quickly put it in his pocket. Robert passes a brown envelope back.

  Clearly their tour now has many agendas. Is the CIA involved? If so why? What can Robert possibly be offering them?

  The actors take an official “artistic” walk around the city. They are to observe and absorb. Robert is the only one near the guide. If Robert thinks it important, he informs the others of some place or thing. They hear Portuguese for the first time.

  “Some of the roots of Brazilian Portuguese are African,” says Joro. “Did you know that, Charles?”

  As they walk, the heat reminds them of home. But the Spanish and Portuguese influences do not. Robert leads them toward what looks to Charles like a mountain of rubbish. As they get closer, he sees roofs stacked one upon the other and then realizes he’s looking at shacks, each flimsy lean-to balanced precariously in a house of cards. Favelas.

  “Our village huts are better built than these,” Charles comments without thinking.

  “Yes they are,” agrees Robert. “Because our village huts are built for rural living. These are thrown together from scraps, never meant for a permanent urban world. They are without water or proper sewage. These slums of Rio are an open sore. You remember the socialist reforms of Obote? He wanted proper housing for all. Socialism thinks about things like that.”

  What’s he trying to tell us now? wonders Charles.

  Robert has really taken to speaking in riddles lately. When he is with the group, he can no longer say anything directly. He implies everything. He is not free here, thinks Charles. In fact, Robert always seems to be looking behind, anticipating eyes upon him by someone unexpected.

  “We are artists, not politicians,” Joro says to no one in particular. “We can’t make these decisions in our art. But in our lives, maybe we can. And if we need more help maybe we should ask the CIA.”

  Everyone takes a deep breath. The word has been spoken aloud.

  “As artists,” counters Robert, “we might be able to influence decisions. Let’s leave the CIA out of our vocabularies.”

  Is this a direct command or the slightest indication of uncertainty?

  Charles looks up over the sweltering hotbox favelas that culminate in a high hump-backed rock, rounded and hardened by wind. Then, before them, rising from the middle of this unforgiving shape called Corcovado is a three-story statue of Jesus Christ, arms spread wide — in despair or hope or supplication — looking straight out to sea, the ultimate icon of Rio. Cristo Redentor. Christ the Redeemer, breathtaking and disturbing. Watching them.

  To Charles, the city seems self-assured. Elements in harmony. He walks past windows spilling light onto dark gardens alive with fireflies. Rio is elaborate. Blue bays lacing tight the extravagant rock cones that frown over it day and night.

  For the first few days of their visit, the main topic of local newspaper headlines is the kidnapping of a baby girl. Will it affect the audience? They find themselves discussing the fate of the child — Isobelita as everyone calls her — over meals and during their walks. Inflation and the cost of living, the usual political crises, have been put aside to focus on the fate of the child. Joro tells them that Brazilians actually have a special name for dead children. They call them “little angels.” And the coffin-makers do a booming business in tiny paper-trimmed boxes. Blue for boys and pink for girls. Strange.

  “They are poor,” says Robert. “They die of malnutrition or bad food. In the favelas, parents spoil their kids with all the wrong things because they cannot afford the right things. They can kill their children out of love with bad medicines and sweet syrups.”

  The idea that love can kill stays with Charles.

  The opening is one of the strongest performances yet of Renga Moi. The death of the twins brings an audible gasp from the packed audience. Real tears flow from the balcony. The orchestra floor is filled with less emotional viewers, mostly the wealthy of Rio who have come to get a dose of culture. And politicians. And ambassadors. Eyes everywhere.

  The opening night party prances, struts, and shimmers with style and verve, lavishing rich Brazilian food and drink on its high society guests. Churassco in its appetizing variety and caipirinhas, the alcoholic fantasy of sugared lime and ice. The celebration is especially solicitous of its visiting artists in their traditional dress.

  Robert adopts an ironic stance, observing the sharply tailored tuxedoes and seductively flowing gowns that corner and curtain his brightly African troupe of vulnerable young performers. He fears he has let them loose to the lions, blinded by faith, their gaze resolutely on heaven wh
ile their flesh is torn to pieces.

  He knows even better who is watching.

  Tonight they will suffer in ecstasy. Time enough to resurrect, he decides, after a day off.

  The Ministry of Culture asks if the company would like anything special. Some want to go to the ballet. Charles, however, knows he is in the country of Pele, the great footballer, and asks if it would be possible to get seats to the match on Sunday with Argentina. When you are a star, apparently, anything is possible. Though the game has been sold out for months, four spaces are found. “Not the best seats but pretty good,” they are told.

  Charles and his companions couldn’t be happier as they join 130,000 Brazilian football fans in the national stadium. They are perched high enough to see everything but close enough to the field to get a sense of the personal dramas unfolding before them. The sea of people roars more deafeningly than crowds in Kampala. When a sure goal is missed, players and spectators weep theatrically. When a goal is scored, the stadium bursts into ecstasy, players kiss and fans hug. When Pele himself scores, the somewhat inebriated Brazilian man next to Charles grabs him by the shoulders and plants two wet kisses on his cheek, yelling over and over, “Coitado, Coitado!”

  “It means ‘poor thing’” shouts the translator beside him. “He is lamenting for anyone not on the Brazilian side.”

  “And because his team is victorious, he loves you.” Joseph laughs. “He has given you a Brazilian embrace. And you know what? He also loves you because he thinks you are beautiful. I believe the secret ingredient of beauty in this country is to have a drop of real African blood in you. That’s why they adore Pele to such a degree. He is truly African.”

  The final score pleases everyone:

  Black Brazil: 1. White Argentina: 0.

  Charles soon learns that there is much African blood in the soil of Brazil. In fact, oceans of it.