Читать книгу Pieter-Dirk Uys: The Echo of a Noise - Pieter-Dirk Uys - Страница 9

‘Uys dons false eyelashes and presidents listen.’ Also sprach the Los Angeles Times in 2004, proving that just because she doesn’t exist, doesn’t mean she’s not real. After nearly forty years in the public domain, a creature of my making has become a legend in her own lunchtime. This was not intended. In the early 1980s she was just a character in an entertainment, without a name, part of my chorus line of characters inspired by real people, but well-enough disguised to confuse the legal teams. Censorship was then the religion of the day, more successful than anyone could imagine, thanks to all the attempts to try to fly the tattered flag of free speech – and ending up self-censoring.

Anarchy seemed to be the only response: sexual confusion, social stereotyping, ethnic colouration with a bit of obscenity, blasphemy, and terrorism; the last one was anything the authorities (and here you may also read ‘my father’) did not like. It helped having this anarchic banquet served in high heels by a familiar female that reminded many of a feared mother-in-law, a wife, a teacher or themselves. During most of those apartheid years, it was illegal for men to wear women’s clothing. It was a crime! It could result in being dragged off to jail. One endured such restrictions with a sigh and a shrug and got on with the job.

I was always fascinated by the chameleon-like talents of theatre performers, who use their voice, expressions and a disguise to disappear into a character. The make-up we applied when I was still in drama school came in the form of cigar-shaped, numbered sticks of grease paint, coloured to highlight, to shade, to blend and to contrast. I remember copying Laurence Olivier’s character Mahdi from the 1966 film Khartoum, with darkened skin, eyelashed glare and white headdress. Then Marlene Dietrich’s tour to Cape Town brought the drooping lashes and the carefully structured red-gash mouth. Somehow cheekbones appeared in the mirror where there had been none. I did characters with false noses, short hair, long hair, beards, scars and rashes. And then, just because I could, I slanted the eyes and ripened the lips to pout in the mirror at what was now my Cape Town version of the Italian woman on my wall – Sophia Loren.

Evita Bezuidenhout got her name from two people. The editor of the Sunday Express gave me a weekly column to reflect the madness of the Information Scandal that was breaking news every day, then without the immediacy of social media or tweet tornadoes. I created an Afrikaans tannie, who would be at ‘white monopoly capital’ parties in Pretoria and condemn her beloved National Party with gushing enthusiasm. The editor called me into his office.

‘How come you can write about the things I can’t even mention on the front page?’ he hissed. ‘This woman is a real Evita of Pretoria.’

The musical of the life of Argentina’s Mrs Perón had just hit the box office. After reading a biography of that remarkable, controversial woman, I knew I had a blueprint for a similar life along which my character could tiptoe.

Mrs Evita Bezuidenhout, the South African ambassador to the independent black homeland of Bapetikosweti from 1981 to 1993.

The second name came about when I had my first one-man show, Adapt or Dye. Evita appeared in a pink dress, fur coat, large picture hat and a face that launched a thousand gasps and hisses. It opened up a new area in which I could manipulate a character who was actually on the side of the enemy and who, through her familiar propaganda, could entertain as well as inform. My only rule was to not add noughts for effect; find a truth and stick to it as closely as possible. Don’t make jokes; try to make a point. A journalist interviewing me in the foyer of the Market Theatre asked if Evita had a surname. Behind him was a poster for The Seagull, starring actress Aletta Bezuidenhout. ‘Bezuidenhout,’ I said, as if everyone already knew.

The icon meets the aikona: Evita with Nelson Mandela at an ANC rally in Retreat before the 1994 election. She presented him with a plate of koeksisters while wearing her National Party orange, white and blue outfit. (Photo: Benny Gool)

Mrs B started out very much as a cartoon, but as her CV developed she was forced into opinions about more than just her favourite perfume or shoes. A complex history built up around her, usually in answers to questions from the public: Does she have a husband? Children? A job? What does she think about …?

Today she can hold the attention of an audience comfortably for three hours on the issues of yesterday, today and tomorrow, because she has nearly four decades of fake news and misinformation to choose from. My biggest commitment to this icon who doesn’t exist is to diet, so that women in the audience will recognise the woman, while men will forget the man.

The fact that she is not a fan of Pieter-Dirk Uys is essential. She refers to me as a third-rate comedian who wears women’s clothing. She brushes away my theatrical roasting of her with contempt. The fact that she has no sense of humour and doesn’t understand irony makes her even more familiar, not just to South Africans but to audiences in many countries. The Evita in Argentina was not unique.

23 June 2010: Evita with Archbishop Desmond Tutu (who calls her ‘Ousie’). He was blessing the community swimming pool in Darling, which was built by The Darling Trust.

Now in her eighty-second year (Evita will always be ten years older than me), Mrs Bezuidenhout is a member of the ANC, which really deserves her. She is in the Luthuli House kitchen cooking for reconciliation, being inspired and challenged by her three non-white grandchildren and sharing, with whoever cares to hear, how important it is to know where we come from and to celebrate where we are going. She is also becoming my only mouthpiece that can give a satirical perspective on the state of our nation without unleashing a torrent of angry hashtags.

November 1994: Evita and ANC Secretary-General Cyril Ramaphosa enjoy trout fishing in the Northern Transvaal. (From her M-Net series Funigalore. The full interview can be found on YouTube.)

I try to avoid being the white mouth criticising black action. If I wielded my satirical weapons of mass distraction as me, there would just be an irritated reaction at white noise. However, when she says it, somehow it floats on the top of the turmoil. After all, who can take offence at someone who doesn’t exist? Nelson Mandela always enjoyed her. If there were one good reason for her existence, it would be that she made him laugh. I would be summoned to fundraisers and dinners for my fifteen minutes of fame, standing in her heels to entertain the latest gods on the Olympus of power: among them, Oprah, Bill Clinton, and the Queen of the Netherlands. One night there was a moment when Evita and Madiba were standing together on the red carpet. Through clenched teeth I whispered:

‘President Mandela? Every time you see me, I’m dressed as Evita Bezuidenhout!’

He chuckled through his smile. ‘Don’t worry, Pieter, I know you’re inside.’

18 March 2006: Evita greets Nelson Mandela at FW de Klerk’s 70th birthday with FW de Klerk, Archbishop Desmond Tutu and Elita de Klerk in tow.