in case a policeman or shopkeeper came to question him. Up until today he hadn’t minded, because there was some strange pleasure in giving his pass over and having it found to be in order.
Roland was at the back of the room, stirring his sour spirits at a table. The bar was decorated with signed photographs of sportsmen in blazers, standing in black-and-white cricket pavilions, alongside portraits of Natal prime ministers and a painting that depicted, in heavy brush strokes, King Shaka bending his legs behind a cowhide shield.
Besides the actor there were only Europeans, a bartender in a short-sleeved white shirt, and several older men sitting at the counter. Roland passed for white in their eyes, although he had never claimed to be a European in Victor’s earshot. The sunshine revealed his golden-brown skin. Yet he appeared to enjoy the freedom of entering a bar or hotel, a restaurant or the beach, without worrying about being caught on account of the idle syllables in his voice which sounded nothing like a European. He seemed to settle back into his skin when unobserved.
Victor approached, hoping that nobody would stop him from entering the room, and saw that on the stained wooden table, covered in burn marks, was a thin-necked bottle, Mainstay rum, and an extra glass with ice. Roland’s attention was at the bottom of the bottle. But then he put down the drink and seemed to straighten out his expression.
Victor sounded ruder than he felt.
—Mr Polk sent me to fetch you, Mr Adams. You must come now.
—Is Peter waiting in his car? He comes to fetch me and can’t be bothered to come in. Let him wait until I have decided what to do with the rest of this bottle. He’s not the policeman of me.
—The whole cast is waiting.
—I can’t pretend and put on a performance. I told Peter to leave me behind for this one. I told him I cannot work with Janet. What can you know about it? With your name, at your age, you can only expect to win. Whereas I am the master of losing.
Victor didn’t sit down. He was dizzy, and didn’t know if it was still from happiness. He needed Roland to come. Otherwise he would never dislodge Mr Shabangu from his roost and take his pass book back. He would never be safe.
—I can see that you are unhappier when you are separated from Janet. So I don’t think Mr Polk is to blame.
—On every production Peter has to have a favourite, apart from Janet. Do you know that I used to be his favourite when I was a few years older than you are right now? Today you happen to be the favourite. Although you are only a helper on the set. He has plans for you.
—Your life is still good.
—It only looks like that from the outside. Inside I am still as desperate as when I was your age.
Victor wasn’t sure how to reply this time. He had heard it before. There was so much feeling in the man. When Roland had sent Victor on a mission at any point in the past few weeks—to take money to a jockey at the turf club who might send back information on the condition of the horses, to take a receipt to the Tattersalls, to make an appointment with Janet—he spoke from his throat.
—I will come after I’ve finished my bottle. In the meantime, I can tell you something you haven’t noticed. Do you want to hear it, Victor?
—Please.
—That caretaker, Samuel, is jealous of you and Peter.
—Don’t worry. Just come. So long as the play starts on time, I can handle Mr Shabangu.
—He is trying to be a father over you. Even Peter would be better than that.
In the car Roland continued to talk to him in the back seat. He ignored Polk. To Victor’s surprise he was more interested in what was happening in sports than in anything to do with the play. It wasn’t just the luck of horses and jockeys that Roland depended on, but cricket and rugby teams, Arsenal and Manchester United, and the Cape Town league games. He was someone, like Polk, you could learn from.
Roland fell silent when they went past a building site in the centre of town. The crane was crowned with a line of red lights and protected by a security gate. Two soldiers sat at the boom. They were armed with long rifles that lay in their laps.
You heard the occasional gunshot, then distant sirens, yet no report came on the radio or in the newspapers. After an incident, the police were surly, interrogating Bantus, checking the details on their endorsements, listening gravely to military radios at the roadblocks that sprang up, and hauling anyone for any reason into a Black Maria. Every Bantu was in trouble. If you were caught so much as smiling at a European it would go badly. Nonetheless, directly after an attack, Victor sometimes found that he was looking a policeman straight in the face and wondering if he was going to be hit with the man’s truncheon. He knew that his gaze was too direct.
Roland continued talking.
—Look at what people read about, Peter. They want to know about the war in Biafra, to justify how they keep the Bantus down, and what the service is like on the Concorde, and the lifestyle of Aristotle Onassis. That’s what your plays want to take away from them. So they’re not interested. They care about what gratifies them. However, there is someone who does pay close attention. I have it on good authority that the Security Branch will be in attendance tonight.
—You’re telling stories again. You have the disease of telling stories, Roland.
—I have it on good authority, Peter. For now, that is all I am permitted to say.
Polk was annoyed.
—Considering the state of the border, I hope the National Party has a better sense of priorities. If they have nothing better to do than listen to every word of my poor play, then we are truly lost.
The evening proved Polk wrong. The strike at the Clover factory, and the collaboration between some theatre groups and the trade-union movement had aroused the government. On the other side there were rumours about a new Mandela plan, a Mandela day on which freedom would be created at a single stroke.
Most of the men staying in the hostel came to see Polk’s play. They were tough, did stick-fighting in the road, worked as security guards or assistants to plumbers and electricians. The Christians among them wore their church clothing, Jewish shirts and pants on credit, while others wore hand-me-down jackets and re-soled Bata shoes. Victor was helping Janet with her costume. She released him after twenty minutes.
When the play was about to begin, the main light was switched off. Victor found a place sitting cross-legged at the side of the room. The hum of the electric fan rose as the men in the audience stopped their conversations.
In the dusk he was aware of the breathing ranks of people, their washing-powder smell, and the proximity of their legs and arms. There was a young woman, no older than he was but more confident, whose hand was close enough he could hold it. She wore beaded blue and red bracelets on her arms. She was intent on the stage. He ached to look her properly in the face. She was good enough to hypnotise Mr Shabangu.
Roland and Janet were standing, folding and unfolding their bodies like dancers, to indicate the start of the performance while the curtain was unfurled in front of them. Someone put on the eight-track cassette that had Polk’s carefully chosen music on it, songs by Duke Ellington and Dollar Brand. After some time the curtain came down. It was rolled up like a carpet by a stagehand, and transported behind the stage. Victor thought he had never been so happy at such a moment of danger. He couldn’t understand his own feelings.
It was the first time he had the chance to see the play from beginning to end. The setting was a private Christian school near Cradock, in the eastern Cape, where Janet was a teacher, head of the History Department, and Roland was the guard on the property. You first saw Roland alone, nailing a blackboard to the wall to the tune of a wireless radio, and complaining to himself about the wrongs in his life. He was unexpectedly large in the middle of the canteen.
Victor was surprised to see Roland on stage. He became a different person. Even his arms were more muscular. Roland spoke too much in real life, a sing-song man, but on stage he talked in