by Zakes Mda
‘Don’t move,’ she yells.
It is the first time he hears her voice. It is full-bodied and thick, commanding and forceful. He stops right there. She tries to be very steady with the box that is resting on her knee, but her hands are shaking a bit. She stands up, and he notices how tall she really is. Her head would touch the top of his door frame if she were to stand there. She makes to walk towards the door of the mansion.
He calls after her, ‘Hey!’
She stops and looks down at him. Her pitch-blackness shimmers against the whiteness of the snow. Over a flowing white dress that blends with the snow she wears a red cape. He dares not climb the steps towards her.
Em-Pee smiles and says, ‘Oh, so they do let you out of your cage sometimes?’
‘Of course they do,’ she says. ‘It would be inhuman to keep me there all the time, forever and ever, amen.’
‘You’re a church girl then? I’ve only heard those words in church.’
‘You go to church?’
‘Only when my wife forces me to.’
‘You even have a wife?’
‘Don’t change the subject. I asked about you first. You and church.’
‘Been there occasionally when my master forces me to go. He says he wants to cleanse the false heathen gods out of me so that I know Jesus died for my sins.’
‘What sins did you commit then?’
She giggles. She obviously doesn’t understand what sinning entails. He has some idea, albeit a vague one. His Catholic wife used to drum it into his head, especially during the final months when their marriage was falling apart due to his insistence on dignity. Whereas church never mattered before, even for her, now she insisted that he and Mavo go and pray for their sins. She wailed that they were suffering because she had married a heathen man from darkest Africa who knew nothing about the Saviour, and that repentance was essential in all their lives.
Since she took the circus train, Em-Pee had never bothered to be saved again.
‘So, are you going to tell me or not?’ he asks, chuckling.
Instead of responding, she climbs the few steps to the door and opens it. Before she walks into the house she takes a long curious look at him. She bangs the door shut.
He stands there for a while, hoping the door will open again. It doesn’t.
6
New York City – June 1887
The Photograph
The New York Giants have beaten the Philadelphia Phillies 29–1 and the streets are drunk with euphoria. As the crowds spill out of the Polo Grounds, Em-Pee and Slaw wait outside a 110th Street refreshment station. They have been waiting for a while, as the game took longer than expected.
Em-Pee is impatient; he’d rather be at Madison Square Park. Just to make sure one more time. After last winter, Dinkie the Dinka Princess did not return to the park. Early in spring he had gone there to fulfil his yearning. She was not there. Nor were the other displays. Instead, the whole place was fenced in and boarded up, as if being prepared for construction work. He went again after a few days; the same situation obtained. Perhaps today, whatever improvements were being done have been completed and the displays are back.
‘Do you trust this man?’ asks Em-Pee. ‘What makes you think he’ll keep his word?’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ asks Slaw. ‘He’s a sharp impresario; there’s something in it for him too. If anyone can pull off this deal, it’s Davis.’
Sports fans are a predictable lot. They lose the game, they are so angry they vandalise everything and beat up one or two Negroes for the heck of it. They win the game, they are so happy they vandalise everything and beat up one or two Negroes for the heck of it. Some of them look at Em-Pee with beady eyes as they pass. But Slaw’s presence saves the day. He is not just a loitering Negro; he is with his master.
Slaw puffs on his cigar pompously, as befitting the hotshot impresario he imagines he is. After a while they can see Davis limping along with a cane.
‘We’ll walk,’ he says, without so much as a greeting. He’s a man of little ceremony. ‘It’s only half an hour from here.’
‘Are you going to be all right though?’ asks Slaw.
‘I’m not an invalid. Just a small sprain. Fell down the stairs.’
As they walk along, Davis says that even before they discuss anything else they must agree that he will get a fifty per cent cut on any deal that they make.
‘Of course,’ says Slaw. ‘It’s only fair, since you’re introducing us to these guys.’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Em-Pee. ‘I, for one, want to know first what this deal is all about and what’s in it for us.’
Davis looks at him disdainfully. ‘Is this not the fella I allowed to see The Wild Zulu for free and he decided he was too hoity-toity for that kind of performance?’
‘I just didn’t have the appetite for raw meat,’ says Em-Pee.
‘He’s going to be the death of you in this business, Slaw. Watch him.’
‘This is different, man,’ says Slaw. ‘It’s not like The Wild Zulu.’
‘The Wild Zulu makes more money than you’ll ever dream of,’ says Davis. ‘But, yes, this is different. This is theatre. This is Broadway.’
He tells them about Niblo’s Garden on Broadway and Prince Street, which will be producing a musical play titled She based on a story by Henry Rider Haggard. It is a very exciting story, Davis explains, that Em-Pee and his Zulus will love tremendously, as it features their people. It is about a journey of two Englishmen, Horace Holly and Leo Vincey, their servant Job, and the Arab captain of their wrecked ship, Mahomed, into the hinterland of Africa. They are captured by a tribe of savages known as Amahagger, who cook the hapless Mahomed for dinner. The adventurers discover that the tribe is ruled by a White woman, a queen known as She, or She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, who is ferocious and fearsome. The rest of the story is compelling and intriguing, and they can read it for themselves if they are interested. The book is available at Brentano’s or any other popular bookstore in New York.
‘I have talked with the producer about my idea of having the savages in the play played by your real Zulus, Slaw,’ says Davis, beaming at the brightness of the idea.
Slaw beams as well. It is indeed a bright idea.
The front-of-house manager leads them to the producer’s office. Even before the three men take their seats, Skildore Skolnik, the producer, tells them there is no deal.
‘But you promised,’ says Davis. He is much more exasperated than his two companions, who are used to rejection.
‘I didn’t promise you a deal. I promised to talk to the director about it. He rejects the idea, and I share his view. Niblo’s is a real theatre, not a gimmick or a human circus.’
‘This is reputed to be the venue where P.T. Barnum had his first show ever,’ says Davis indignantly. ‘You can’t get more human circus than Barnum.’
‘That was fifty years ago,’ says Skolnik. ‘Niblo’s is a respectable Broadway theatre now. We employ real actors here, not freaks.’
Em-Pee is curious about what it takes to be a real actor rather than a human curiosity. After all, in their performances they are acting all the time. When they scream and shout and pretend to slit a White man’s throat with their assegais, it is all make-believe. It is not who they are in their real lives. Isn’t that what acting is about?
‘I am an actor. A real actor,’ says Em-Pee.
‘You can audition if you think you have what it takes,’ says Skolnik. ‘I can arrange that. If the director likes your acting he will give you a role, not because you are a genuine savage but because you are a good actor.’
Em-Pee likes the sound of this. He offers to audition.
‘You’re just thinking of yourself and not the troupe, Em-Pee,’ says Slaw.
‘Yep,’ says Davis. ‘If they take him as an actor, that’s the end of the Friendly Zulus.’
As they are ushered out of Niblo’s, Em-Pee says he has changed his mind about auditioning. Instead he has a better
idea. They look at him, puzzled.
‘Isandlwana!’ he screams.
Although King Cetshwayo died three years ago, and a lot of his popularity is diminishing because people have short memories, a musical play about the Battle of Isandlwana, performed by the Friendly Zulus and a few other professional actors, could garner good audiences.
Em-Pee offers to sit down with Davis, and together they can work on a proposal that Davis will submit to Skildore Skolnik at Niblo’s Garden.
* * *
Now that Mavo is resident at one of the lodging houses run by the Children’s Aid Society, where they feed him at least two meals a day, train him in a trade, and preach to him about the bounties in heaven that are awaiting those who have handed their lives over to Jesus, Em-Pee has regained his freedom. He can come and go as he pleases and spends very little time at his Mulberry Bend tenement.
Occasionally the Friendly Zulus busk on some Lower Manhattan sidewalk and collect a few coins for sustenance, or on a lucky week get a real gig at some club on Church, Thompson or Sullivan streets, an area known as Black Broadway. The troupe has been depleted, many of its members having drifted to other outfits of performing Zulus or been swallowed by taverns and opium dens. The only one who continues to be loyal and is available to join Em-Pee and Slaw whenever they ask is Samson, who also works as a security guard at a neighbourhood bordello in Five Points.
The busking, therefore, is reduced to a three-man performance of genuine Zulu dances, the third man being Slaw, who has no choice but to dance as a White man who was brought up by a Zulu woman after being abandoned by his parents in a forest during what is vaguely termed the Anglo-Zulu War. Slaw’s new biography has sparked interest and his inclusion in the dance as a White Zulu has made the performances more palatable for some spectators. He has lent credibility to the concept of friendly Zulus. The Friendly Zulus are so friendly that they adopted a White man as a brother instead of eating him. Or whiteness, courtesy of the White Zulu, has tamed the rest of the Zulus to the extent that their dances are rhythmic and beautiful instead of the wild, disorderly and brutal screams and gyrations expected of Zulu savages. The whiteness has also uncreased their faces from deadly frowns to gentle smiles.
On some days, Davis comes to Em-Pee’s tenement to work on the proposal for The Battle of Isandlwana, the musical that they want to stage at Niblo’s Garden. Davis has already spoken to Skildore Skolnik about it, and the producer thinks that if it is well packaged and strongly motivated he can sell the idea to investors.
Em-Pee had offered to join Davis at his brownstone mansion on Madison Avenue, but Davis insisted that he’d rather work with Em-Pee at his Five Points tenement. Em-Pee did not understand why a great impresario like Davis would want to work at a rookery in a stuffy room with makeshift furniture instead of an airy study surrounded by books at his mansion. He nevertheless understood when Davis explained that he thought Em-Pee’s imagination would be more productive in familiar surroundings. The luxury of his mansion would overwhelm him and stunt his creativity.
The sessions with Davis are playful and full of laughter. He listens to Em-Pee’s stories of beautiful Zulu maidens and courtship rituals with fascination, and bursts out laughing at the saucy parts. He says stories of maidens are essential; even though the story is about kings and soldiers and war, for it to be attractive to the audience there must be a love story. There must be beautiful maidens who will dance bare-breasted as he has seen in the displays of human curiosities at some of the venues in New York City.
After one of these sessions, the two men stroll together out of Mulberry Bend, Davis still talking excitedly about the Zulu maidens and Em-Pee digesting his doubts at what threatens to be a corruption of the story of his king and his people. Usually it takes Em-Pee forty minutes at most to walk from Five Points to Madison Square Park, but it might take them all of one hour today because of Davis’s limp. It is much better than it was when they met the other day, but the pain is noticeable on his face every time he steps on to a higher or lower plane. Steadily they walk on Broadway, with Davis doing most of the talking.
On Madison Avenue they part ways. Davis walks into one of the brownstone mansions and Em-Pee goes on to his haunt at Madison Square Park, using the 23rd Street entrance, which is closer to the area where all the action used to be concentrated. The landscapers of the New York Park Commission are done with revamping the park, and it has been cleared of all the displays and human curiosity exhibits. The spectators and the vendors have been replaced by lush lawns, neat rows of trees, flowers and dog-walkers.
His homing instinct takes him to where the wagon with a cage used to be parked. It is still there, but only in his mind. Vague and fuzzy. She is like a wide-eyed ghost in the mist. If ghosts came in purple. He tries to summon a clearer image of her. She obliges, not as Dinkie the Dinka Princess in a golden papier-mâché crown and a patchwork of furs, but as the purple Snow Princess of six months ago. He sits on a bench, closes his eyes and savours the image. It is not enduring. Soon it fades as he sinks into sleep.
He is awoken by galloping hooves, grinding wheels and the boisterous hollers of men. He can see, on 23rd Street, a New York City Police patrol wagon drawn by two well-fed horses and loaded with nine policemen, including the driver, in full uniform. He hides behind a nearby bush for fear that they might pick him up for loitering. They did that only three days ago when he was indeed loitering outside the Madison Avenue brownstone mansion where he had last seen the Dinka Princess. Apparently someone called the police after seeing him walking repeatedly up and down the street, stopping in front of the house, looking at the door fixedly, and then walking on, only to return after a few moments. Property owners could not be blamed if they thought he was casing the houses for future burglaries.
The police hauled him to the precinct. It took many hours of interrogation and explaining that he was a performing Zulu who was down on his luck and looking for employment before they would take his word. He looked the part too, in workmen’s dungaree coveralls. He was not casing the houses, he explained to the sergeant, but was lingering on the sidewalks hoping somebody would walk out of a house and he could then beg for employment. Why didn’t he knock at the door if he wanted to talk to the owners? Because he was scared. What if the owner opened the door, saw his Zulu face and thought this was an attack, and shot him point blank?
It was late in the evening when Em-Pee was released, and only after the precinct got too occupied with a gang of real criminals, bleeding everywhere after brawling over the spoils of a robbery.
He makes sure the rhythms of the law are no longer within earshot before he walks out of the park. He is tempted to stroll on Madison Avenue one more time before walking back home. Hopefully he will not be arrested today. He made a point of changing into decent clothing before departing his tenement with Davis – the top hat, buffed shoes and frock coat he used to wear when Aoife forced him to go to church. Surely even the dense New York Police Department officers will not mistake such a gentleman for a loiterer.
If only there was a way of finding out where the human curiosities that used to be at Madison Square Park have moved to.
‘Hey! Papa!’ The voice is unfamiliar. But there is no one else around, so he must be the ‘father’ who’s being called. He turns slowly, and there she is. The Dinka Princess. She is standing on the sidewalk in front of the brownstone mansion. She is nothing like the puple Snow Princess he remembers. Or has dremed about. She is barefoot and wears a calico dress that used to be white but has now be-come fawn. She is a bit unkempt, her hair uncombed. He walks towards her. Shaking.
‘They didn’t arrest you today?’ she asks.
‘You saw that?’
‘From the window up there, yes. It was quite funny. We laughed about it.’
‘You and who?’
‘Me and Maria-Magdalena.’
‘I was looking for you when I was arrested, and you find it funny?’
‘I see you every day walking in front
of my house. I think it’s funny. I told Maria-Magdalena about you.’
This makes him angry. But she seems oblivious to it all. She stretches her hand towards him. She is holding a card. He hesitates.
‘Come on. Take it, Papa. It’s yours,’ she says.
He takes it. And stares at it. His eyes widen when he realises it is a photograph of him. He is a silhouette because of the snow that surrounds him, and his facial features are not identifiable. But it is him all right. The outline of his head, the posture, the stance, it is him.
‘Sorry it’s so bad,’ she says. ‘It’s the snow’s fault. Also, I was still learning that time. I’m much better now. If you allow me, I can take you a much better picture.’
Em-Pee is amazed at this girl who spends her days in a cage as a human curiosity but is also a photographer. He has never met a real-life photographer before, and this is the first photograph of himself ever.
A middle-aged White woman in a voluminous blue dress, white apron and white bonnet appears at the door. ‘Acol!’ she calls in a rough voice.
‘Maria-Magdalena?’ asks Em-Pee.
She nods, yes.
‘Acol!’
The Dinka Princess ignores her.
‘Acol is your name?’
‘Yes. But she is the only one who uses it. Others call me Dinkie. When she calls me Dinkie, I ignore her until she uses my real name, Acol.’
‘But you are ignoring her now, and she’s calling you Acol.’
Maria-Magdalena walks down the steps in a huff. She grabs Acol by the arm and pulls her up the stairs, all the while admonishing her that she is a naughty girl who will put her in trouble again with Monsieur Duval if she keeps on playing in the street. Before they enter the house Em-Pee hears Maria-Magdalena ask Acol, ‘Did he like the picture?’ He can’t hear what the answer is, but both women giggle as they enter the house and shut the heavy timber-and-iron door behind them.
