“I have no idea to whom or what you are referring to,” Robert responds.
“I think you do,” says the white man quietly. “There are not so many of us lately who can fly in and out of Kampala as easily as you and I can. Here’s my card. In the next few days, you will know more about what I can do to help. What I will do to help. You’ll have to excuse me now. I believe they are starting to serve dinner.”
“There’s no dinner being served,” says Charles.
“In First Class,” says the stranger getting up, “dinner is always being served. Nice to meet you young man.” And then he adds, “Forget everything you heard. It will be safer for you.”
What can Abafumi do, Charles wonders, except put on productions? Why would they want guns?
The fact is, he realizes, the company has the freedom to travel. Clearly, they are good publicity for Amin. Before they left, in fact, army officials and the actors were photographed together many times. The general himself even showed up in one. Grinning broadly. His arm around Robert’s shoulders.
Charles is at the mouth of a cave, a gaping hole in a mountain where ferocious beasts prowl, a lair roaring out warning from the depths of its belly.
Guns?
5. AMIN
JUNE 28TH, 1976. ABAFUMI STEPS off the plane into the summer sunlight of Rome. A representative of Africa House greets them, ushering the group into a cramped minivan. With news they cannot avoid. Absorbed as they breathe, seeping in through their pores.
By the time they get to their quarters, they know the essence of disaster, how Uganda’s own national tragedy is affecting the world. An Air France flight has apparently been hijacked and has landed at Entebbe Airport. The details emerge from television and radio.
Robot-like, Abafumi gathers in Rome to rehearse. But now they cannot concentrate. How do they justify this play-acting? In Rome, this indulgence in make-believe while real events in the real world are wreaking such havoc, events taking place on a bloody stage in Uganda.
Even Robert seems distracted.
June 29. Details are emerging from Entebbe. The flight had set out from Israel’s Ben Gurion Airport for Paris. During the flight, German hijackers took over the plane and rerouted it first to Athens, then to Benghazi, Libya, and then to Entebbe. Idi Amin allowed the plane to land. At the airport, the passengers were taken by the hijackers to a hangar where they were separated into groups at gunpoint.
Visiting the wide square of St. Peter’s Basilica, Charles gazes up into the stony eyes of divine shepherds and saints with crosses and staffs who study him from the high, round dome of this Catholic world.
Inside the huge church, Charles studies what Robert has called God’s “Centre of Operations.”
June 30th. In Tel Aviv, a retired Israeli Defense Force Colonel named Bar Lev, who had spent some time in Uganda, is led into a sterile military planning room. He makes an international call through to Kampala. This is the first of several calls that the Colonel makes to his old acquaintance Idi Amin, massaging his ego, reminding him that Amin had received his paratroop training from the Israelis and eliciting every scrap of relevant information while Defense Minister Shimon Peres listens in on an extension.
At that same moment, forty-seven of the hostages — all non-Israeli — are released as a goodwill gesture. They include the captain, his crew, and a French nun. The captain refuses to go. The crew joins his protest. As does the nun. The Ugandan military forces the nun to cooperate but allows the others to remain behind with the Israelis. Paris, Tel Aviv, and Washington are in close contact.
In Israel, three possible plans emerge: a parachute drop at Entebbe, a large-scale military crossing from Kenya, and a direct landing at Entebbe followed by a quick assault and a fast removal of the hostages by air.
Inside St. Peters, Charles sees himself arched splendidly over everything. Glimmering in bronze and gold and ivory, ruby and emerald and deep polished wood, carved and majestic. He towers and twists, streams holy pictures in flowing patterns.
It is what he always wanted to do. Send rays of light.
The church radiates pure light on him. A sunburst beams into the dark. His art will take him there.
July 1. Israel’s highest military personnel burrow through blueprints of Entebbe’s airline terminal, a terminal built by the Israeli construction company Solel Boneh.
The first freed hostages are now being debriefed in Paris.
A full-scale model of the Entebbe terminal is erected in the Israeli desert. Rehearsals begin for a landing in a Hercules aircraft.
A flight plan is drafted that will secretly bring the Israeli soldiers to Entebbe Airport. There is concern. What about the element of surprise? A white Mercedes limo is delivered to the Israeli desert.
By the time it arrives in Entebbe, the car will be black, a painted disguise.
Abafumi visits the Sistine Chapel. They all strain their necks to take it in. God Creates the Sun and the Moon, The Creation of Man, The Original Sin and The Expulsion from Paradise. In pulsing colour. Naked muscular forms that live and breathe.
These are not the pious painted saints and idols that Charles remembers from his first Catholic Church. These are real people, he thinks. They are strong and they are struggling to understand, their bodies animated with effort.
“God brought us here,” says Robert, “to give us strength.”
“You brought us here,” says Kiri.
The members of Abafumi want to scatter and hide, dissociate themselves from the news about Uganda that is happening without them, that they cannot control. Terrible events that accuse and blame. They consider once more their return. They know they must go home.
It is late evening on July 3rd when they board their Air France flight. They will arrive in Kampala the next afternoon.
That same night a camouflaged Israeli plane commanded by Lt. Col. Yoni Netanyahu of the celebrated Sereyat Makhtal brigade flies into Ugandan airspace. Touching down at Entebbe undetected, the plane — still rolling, its rear ramp already open — sends vehicles and assault teams speeding across the tarmac. By the time the rescue is over, forty-five Ugandan soldiers are dead. One Israeli soldier — Lt. Col. Yoni Netanyahu — is dead. Six of seven hijackers are dead.
The hostages — all but one — have been freed.
When the Abafumi plane arrives, they are immediately surrounded by reporters in the VIP lounge who bombard them with questions. They are the first plane allowed to land at the airport since the Israeli’s surprise attack.
“Did you see anything as you were landing?”
“Did you have any idea what was happening when you were in the air?”
For a moment, Robert and his actors seem dazed, believing the brace of journalists are there to interview them. But once it is clear that the commotion is a result of what is already being called by Israeli commandos “the raid on Entebbe,” he concentrates on getting his company away from the press. But they follow Robert and continue to ask questions.
“We circled the airport for a long time. That was the only unusual thing.”
“Why didn’t you stay in Europe until this was over?”
“We felt we needed to be back. We had been away long enough. And President Amin has always ensured our safety.”
Amin’s soldiers do surround them now and roughly escort them onto a bus, then downtown where they are dropped, as always, at the National Theatre.
Suddenly their old space seems emptier and more silent than usual. This house of work and pleasure where all their stories begin and end. They cannot resist going inside for a moment.
“It is silent, but it is still ours,” says Robert. “I don’t know whether we can bring it back to life but we can try. We will begin our work again next week. This will be our refuge.”
But their theatre now seems a tomb. Can they really revive it? Will anyone come to see their wo
rk? What will they be allowed to perform?
Robert is determined to spend some time with Byron Kawadwa, still the National’s Artistic Director. They have not met since Brazil. Robert wants to make sure that all the arrangements for use of the National remain as they were. He is also hoping that Byron will allow the company to play both of their shows in the main space.
“I’ll let you know next week how my meetings go,” says Robert in a low voice. “For now, return to your homes. Stay low. Stay out of trouble. The fact is that we really don’t know what’s going on with anything. I will be in touch. Go now. Help each other.”
Nobody wants to be alone. Charles, Joro, and Willy gather for dinner the next night. In his borrowed Indian house, Charles hopes they can all relax in the bright tranquility that has become home. Damaged though it is.
Fear is palpable around them though. Soldiers are truly everywhere. Stores shuttered. Schools closed. As though everyone is waiting for some Armageddon.
Charles knows they are between worlds — one disintegrating, the other yet to be made. They sit secluded in his square of Hindu heaven.
Over the garden wall, gunshots and sporadic shouts are heard. Like snapping foliage, wrinkled and brown, from over-ripe trees. Dropping to the ground and churned into mud.
Charles fiddles with the radio. A station crackles into their dusty sitting room like a gust of stormy wind from behind curtains. The president’s voice. Amin’s voice. “I want to tell you that Hitler was right about the Jews.” So Amin is not dead. Or is he?
“What has happened at Entebbe Airport proves that the Israelis are not working in the interests of the people of the world and that is why they were burned alive with gas on the soil of Germany. People everywhere now agree with me that the Israelis are criminals.”
Fresh from their experiences at Auschwitz, the three artists stare at one another. “What did he expect Israel to do?” asked Charles. “He has really gone mad.”
“It seems he is not dead,” whispers Willy, his eyes narrowing as the radio booms on.
“We must work with our Muslim brothers now,” Amin drones on. “General Gaddafi and I have already had many talks. He agrees with me, with the people of Uganda. Libya and Uganda will work together for a greater Africa, an Africa for Africans.”
“Gaddafi!” exclaims Joro. “Another devil who swaggers around in gold gowns.”
“Who speaks in riddles,” Charles adds.
“Apparently, he hates the Jews too. Gaddafi can supply arms and help Amin kill everyone who isn’t a Muslim,” adds Willy, tapping softly on a drum.
They sleep on sofas. The next morning they are again assailed by shouts from the streets. Throughout the day, the reports from Entebbe continue to change. First they hear that the Israelis killed all of Amin’s soldiers who were guarding the terminal. Then they wander outside to try and gather information.
“The Israelis apparently had huge planes,” says Joro later, who heard the story from a soldier. “One plane was rigged up as a hospital. They flew in at night between other flights when the runway lights were still on. One of the planes had cars and jeeps.”
“A lot of people were killed,” he continues, “but in the end the Israelis got the hostages out. All of them. It was amazing.”
A few hours later they hear on the radio that one hostage still remains in Kampala. An old woman, now hospitalized. The Prime Minister of Israel had been on the phone to Amin demanding that she be returned.
They all knew, however, that this one would be sacrificed as payment for Uganda’s butchered military pride. Some days after, the confirmation comes.
“Amin had her killed in her hospital bed,” they hear from Mara. “They took her body to Namanve. My soldier friend told me. It hasn’t been announced yet.”
Charles puts his head in his hands. It aches with bad news. Mother is also ill. Debra continues to languish. He cannot help them. With almost all the phones down, a storm of guilt and anxiety pounds at him constantly. And fury.
Namanve, the forest of the damned. The dark place into which Amin’s victims disappear, never to be heard from again. Dumped into shallow jungle graves, pieces of them scattered so families can never mourn properly. Souls not free.
“What did that one sick Jewish woman have to do with Uganda’s troubles?” asks Joro. “It’s perverse.”
Charles walks the city that afternoon under darkening rain clouds that touch the ground. Black shapes begin to move. Growling through the streets towards him. Big guns now churning ahead on metal wheels. Ready to shoot thunderbolts. Tanks.
Two young soldiers from his home district recognize him. Whisper fiercely to him. Trying to save his life. “The country is under attack. Amin has gone mad. Run!”
Charles turns and runs. Streaks into a garden where mangoes hang like hand grenades. He lies down in the scented darkness of this refuge breathing slowly, gulping in its rare air, clenching and unclenching his jaw, his fists, his whole being. Hardening into readiness.
When it is quiet again, he creeps home.
As the new week begins, they all meet again at the National that now seems secure. The company shelter. They sit in silence. Robert has not yet arrived. Unusual.
Gunshots. They wait. They eat lunch near the theatre. When they return, there is noise on the stage. A rehearsal is apparently starting. They walk in quietly. A stage manager tells them they are welcome to watch. It is a new play by Byron Kawadwa. Byron, they are told, is supposed to be directing it but he has not arrived yet. One of the actors is directing in his place.
“We were told,” says the stage manager furtively, “that the play has not been approved yet by the censor. We think Byron must be meeting with them.”
The rehearsal begins.
Soldiers wander through the auditorium. Sit silently. Watch. And leave.
Joro and Charles have often spoken of Byron’s plays. How honest his work has been. How blatantly political as compared to Abafumi’s work, which is disguised in myth.
“What does the title mean?” asks Charles.
“What do you think Song of the Cock means?” blurts Robert suddenly from the row behind. “It’s about greed and ambition and too much sex. It is also,” he adds in a loud whisper, “the title of Uganda’s entry to the pan-African theatre festival in Nigeria later this year. A great honour for Byron.”
“And us,” asks Charles. “Will we be there?”
Robert is unlit dynamite with all his secrets, thinks Charles. Soon something will ignite him and he’ll explode his mysteries high as the sky.
“Who knows?”
Charles shrinks down into his seat, feeling fire move closer.
The rehearsal continues. Scenes of palace life, royal extravagance. The story weaves like coloured twine on royal baskets, around the larger than life figures of prominent kings. Monarchs like Mtesa, Causer of Tears. Who roasts bodies. Mutilate them with knife-sharp reeds for the slightest infraction.
And Mtesa’s son, Mwanga, who butchers students. Hacks off limbs and burns them in front of his victims just before their merciful release into death.
Drumming booms a signal for revolt. Chaos.
When the play finishes, the stage goes dark and lights come up in the auditorium.
Suddenly the theatre doors swing open and the military swarms in. “What is your name?” a young soldier with a Kalishnikov demands of Charles.
“Hajib. My name is Hajib,” says Charles. Robert has told them to use false names if they are ever challenged by military people.
The others are challenged as well. Robert answers to Omar, Mara to Layla. Muslim sounding names are best.
The soldiers are from the State Research Bureau, Amin’s most-feared henchmen. They are searching for Byron. The excesses of royal power in the play have not gone unnoticed. The actors feel their insides turn liquid. Then one of the soldiers stri
des to the centre of the stage pulling along with him a little boy.
“Your father is somewhere in this theatre,” he tells the boy. “He is hiding. It’s a game. I want you to find him.”
The child is hesitant but the soldier reassures him. The boy walks into the aisle. “Are you here Father? Are you here?”
“Where are you Byron?” says the soldier loudly. “Your son is calling.”
Suddenly a voice is heard from the balcony. “I am here. Leave him alone. I will come down to you.” In a moment Byron is on the edge of the stage hugging the boy.
He says softly to his actors, “I have been watching everything. You are doing wonderfully. The play will be fine. But I think I may miss the opening.”
Two soldiers now stand on either side of him. Guns pointed. The boy holds his father’s hand.
“Take him away,” says the officer. “Leave the boy with these actors.” Byron and his son are separated.
Mara takes the boy in her arms. “It will be all right,” she tells him.
As he leaves the theatre with the soldiers, Byron’s actors set up a rhythmic chant. They drum from the stage. The rhythms speak danger to everyone who can hear.
“Where are you taking him?” they ask. “What are you going to do?”
“Shut up,” they are told, “or you can join him.” No one makes a move. The drums continue.
An actress runs to the bar, grabs an empty pop bottle and hurls it at the soldiers. Others follow her lead. Abafumi and friends send a barrage of glass toward those leading Byron away. One draws blood.
The youngest soldier turns and fires. One of the actresses screams, hit in the leg. The others duck. Byron is led out.
Everyone rushes to the lobby.
Soldiers thrust him into a car while the actors curse and shriek at them. The soldiers then turn back, grab the wounded actress and, to everyone’s horror, throw her, screaming, into the trunk of the vehicle.
One Man Dancing Page 17
