The Freedom of the Cage

By David Lytton

A small-town shopkeeper in the Orange Free State points a revolver at the South African Prime Minister. He is detained and questioned, but his eccentric explanations fail to provide the police with the neat motive they are searching for and he is judged insane. Yet Ebon Prinsloo's gesture of violence is for him a kind of awakening - an awakening from the fantasies with which he has protected himself from a parochial community, a constricting marriage, indeed from the limitations of life itself. The inarticulate dissatisfactions he feels inside his ' cage of freedom' are typical of his society, and so too is the violence with which he tries to extricate himself.

We explore the confused mind and conscience of Ebon Prinsloo. We share his commercial ambitions, his domestic difficulties, his day-dreams, his painful gropings towards thought, above all the crucially disturbing influence of the urbane Professor of Anthropology working on a nearby prehistoric site, whose patronising intrusion into his home does much to disturb his peace, and balance, of mind. To only one person, the Professor's wife, is the irony of Ebon Prinsloo's fate apparent: only she can see that the bewildered little shopkeeper is in fact a herald of the possible chaos to come.

The story of Ebon Prinsloo and his neighbours is told with the same compassion and intensity that marked the author's last novel, The Grass Won't Grow Till Spring.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781448204601

David Lytton

David Lytton was born, and spent his first twenty one years, in South Africa.He chose to leave at the fall of the Smuts government, but periodically returned to report on condition there for the BBC. His novels concern different aspects of the South African condition, covering all levels of social life in the country. This book is complementary to the author's The Paradise People, which presented aspects of the Afrikaner way of life, and completes his design of six works each dealing with a different strata in the strange geology of South African society. The style of each is adapted to the idiom and rhythms of the strata it is set in.

Book preview

The Freedom

of the

Cage

David Lytton

Contents

Book One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

BOOK TWO

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

BOOK THREE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

BOOK ONE

1

IT is a perfect day for the Prime Minister’s visit. A cool breeze whipping the bunting, ice-clear sky and all the women in a spendthrift Saturday humour. That makes such a difference.

And here he comes, leaning forward in the limousine, fluttering his soft hand amiably. The officials are lining up awkwardly at the entrance to the fair-ground. They look oiled and unnaturally stiff in suits made, it would seem, from a blue-stained alloy of tin. Photographers trot dangerously through the cavalcade to achieve improbable angles. A bull bellows handsomely in the show-ring. The mayor makes a joke to his clerk, who good-naturedly conveys it to the police inspector. Inspector frowns suspiciously. Unwise to yoke Prime Minister with bull. Extremely unwise. Nothing is entirely innocent, not in these days.

Prime Minister alighting with the offer of his hand. A fawn suit for this festive occasion and a biscuit tie to match. Makes his way to the rostrum, waving generously to the children, pauses at the bottom of the steps to commend, with a flowing gesture, the official arrangement of flags and potted plants. The cadets raise their bugles and eye the conductor, poised and attentive to the rostrum. Some shuffling into place up there, the grimaces of greeting and how-do-you-doing and very-well-thanking-you-Prime-Minister, which subsides to the necessary stillness as the Prime Minister turns to survey his audience. The conductor detonates the National Anthem. P.M. gravely at attention, estimating the mood and judging the possible response of the crowd, while thanking God for a bright day and a little breeze. Times in this Orange Free State it can be like a bake-oven or you have to shout through a pepper-storm of dust. Crowds then irritable, inattentive to ministerial justifications. But today just right for a breezy speech and soft soap. Will begin with the story of the jackal and the goat. Never fails to tickle. P.M. clears his throat.

Mr Ebon Prinsloo, far from home amongst strangers who have never offended him, pushes his way towards the rostrum unobtrusively. It is not yet time to attract attention. Mr Prinsloo is disconcerted by this unexpectedly carefree occasion. It seems to him selfish to interrupt and perhaps altogether spoil the local effort. Is it, after all, so essential to make the gesture today? Considers the situation while pausing for the National Anthem, which momentarily solemnifies the faces around him. Reflects on the irony that the man who wrote the tune ended, so they say, in a lunatic asylum. Safest place to bestow oneself these days.

Mr Ebon Prinsloo has never felt so detached from his fellow kind, as though he were especially privileged or about to embark on a journey into regions where his neighbours would have no inclination to follow or trouble him further.

Prime Minister begins to decant honey over the upturned faces. Friends, are they? Countrymen, or fraternally, brothers, are they? At any rate they are all white, thank God.

Mr Prinsloo extremely relieved to hear the unctuous delivery; continues, therefore, to edge through the crowd, hand in pocket. If the crowd can tolerate these smooth deceptions and that avuncular tone they deserve to have their fête interrupted. Sheep and cattle, Pharaoh’s slaves, the long-suffering, the compliant. It will never be altered, but there is no compulsion to remain a fully paid-up member. Nevertheless, his hand sweats against the cold metal in his pocket. This far might be, after all, far enough, sufficient proof to himself of his independence of the pressures of cant and hypocrisy. You could turn now, Prinsloo, and idle among the try-your-luck stalls with a light, convinced heart until the time for the dusty bus to convey you back to your home and there continue meekly abiding by the lies built into your marriage, meekly serving behind the counter of your store, parentally inducting your child into the system of make-believe by which she must live if she is to be, God save us, happy. Turn now, Prinsloo, since it might be the greater virtue to withdraw on the edge of protest and accept what should be rejected out of consideration for others who will never understand, whichever way you choose.

But another voice. Can you not, Ebon, even accomplish this small gesture? Last night so determined, were you? On the long bus journey so arrogantly defensive against the intrusion of your country neighbours who had gossip to spread and jokes ripe for hatching and a bottle to share, deferentially wiping the mouth before passing it over the seat. Farmers and sons making no question of the occasion, their replete wives massively supporting floral displays on bosom and hat. Oh, yes, Mr Prinsloo, very much superior to this rustic frolic, since it was so obviously led by the nose, had been from birth, would be until its final generation. Reflecting at the time that your seat would be empty on the return journey, that you would be travelling elsewhere and alone, beginning your strange and necessary journey, and that these passengers would not be reclaimed from conformity or what they liked to call their instincts by your action.

Now then, Mr Prinsloo, to fail the self that resisted the bonhomie of the bus because it was, that self, dedicated at last to a gesture, can you manfully contemplate such a failure? Would it be possible to be meekly enrolled once again in their company without crying out or abusing them?

Ebon Prinsloo felt the sweat prick in his armpit and the blood coagulate in his neck. It would not be possible, even with the help of the bottle, to endure the self-accusations that the large-breasted women, with their obvious expectations of manliness, would provoke in his mind. The bus must go home with an empty seat. It had come down, quite simply, to no more than that.

The Prime Minister is the first to see the movement and his speech stops in mid-syllable as the ugly snout appears and points towards him. In the midst of the colour and brightness the black metal is a blot. The crowd sway and peer. Why has he stopped, what is he staring at? And then three men near Ebon Prinsloo gasp and claw and take hold and the Prime Minister draws a deep refreshing breath, a long cool draught of this clean and suddenly precious air. There is a scuffle. He speaks.

—Gently with him, gently.

Most of his audience still cannot see the cause of the agitation and the police on the fringe are craning, bobbing on their toes.

—Living God, says one, and begins to shove his fourteen stone through the crowd, who imperiously want to know who in the hell he thinks he’s pushing. The three men gripping Ebon Prinsloo are embarrassed by his lack of resistance.

—That’s right, gently with him, says the Prime Minister. I know it’s been a very bad year for you farmers.

The crowd laughs for relief. Meanwhile, here are more policemen struggling through, the only ones causing a disturbance. In the centre it is all over. The Prime Minister is perfectly satisfied the danger is past and begins to fashion a few phrases with which to turn the incident to advantage.

Those around Ebon are surprisingly gentle with him and he, at last, is smiling. His captors make apologetic noises and smooth his jacket, while waiting for the police. He is as calm and biddable as a tame animal, possessed, so they sense, with an animal innocence, to which, being farmers, they respond with sympathy.

—Let them through, there, let them through, demands the mayor, taking his place protectively now beside the Prime Minister. But the crowd is becoming resentful of the police, who, with an equally frenzied Press, are causing quite unnecessary commotion. The Press naturally want to reach the man first and are obstructing the police. It will take a few moments to sort this out. The Prime Minister sits down and accepts a glass of water from a trembling hand.

—Well, well, well, says the Prime Minister, noticing his own hand is unsteady. And what is happening now? A dominee is struggling up the rostrum, fiercely determined that the Church shall not miss this opportunity.

—Let me pass, he shouts at the debarring officials, who are justifiably nervous of sudden movements. His place is up there, he must address the people and lead a prayer. His head is steaming with rhetoric. Elbows, if nothing else, will get him the required prominence on the rostrum. Adroitly he grasps the Prime Minister’s hand, establishing his rights, turns towards the crowd, raising his arms beseechingly in the accepted direction of God, and sucks in several cubic feet of air.

Under his thunder the police take custody of Ebon Prinsloo and commence immediately to administer justice. It has been excessively frustrating for them and it is also essential to erase the smile on the face of their prisoner. For this purpose a fist is employed, somewhat clumsily. More retribution follows in the privacy of the van in which they convey him at high speed towards Johannesburg. The van is passed by a Press car and the two vehicles hoot obstreperously at each other. Dust rises from the skirts of the road.

The Press car arrives ahead of the van and photographers record a significantly transformed Mr Prinsloo descending and being bundled into confinement. The evening papers will carry a selection of photographs of the would-be assassin and the observant will notice that his nose was not bleeding nor his eye swollen before the police took charge of him. There will be several letters to editors emphasising this fact, but these will be overlooked in the more urgent speculation concerning the attempt,

At the moment the editors are rolling up their sleeves and barking. Their offices are delightfully raucous. The excitement is convincing and stimulates the fancy. It is also almost a sign of grace that Mr Prinsloo’s gesture should be timed to catch the evening editions.

There are people at the agricultural show still ignorant of history, leading their children round the exhibits or waiting for the mule-team races to begin, and there are a few with bottles in a group in the shelter of the stables contentedly complaining of the price of corn. Nevertheless, in time all those present will come to believe they witnessed the incident and a few will be able to persuade themselves and others that they were responsible for disarming the man.

Eight hundred and thirty-two miles to the south Mrs Maree Prinsloo is lying on a beach near Cape Town with her eyes closed, luxuriating in the sun. Within reach sits her eleven-month daughter, Anna, decorated with a white bonnet and a blue beach-suit, beating the bastions of a sand castle with a plastic spade. Mrs Prinsloo is conscious that the body she is exposing receives appreciative attention from the men who pass, and some lads have whistled. She turns lazily over to offer her back to the sun and delights in the sensation of the uneven sand. She croons lovingly at the child before letting her head droop to the forearm.

And here is Margaretta Prinsloo, Ebon’s sister, emerging heavily from the sea and starting to canter up the beach gleaming like a seal; a large-boned girl, generously endowed with fat. She comes puffing to a halt and pulls off her red bathing cap.

—Loverlee, she sings out, and shakes her towel free of sand over Mrs Prinsloo. It’s loverlee, Maree, simply gorjus.

2

Professor Raynor Rankin jauntily hopping down his open-work staircase, immensely satisfied with his afternoon’s work on the sketches of the skull. Time now to join the girls lashing the swimming pool. No, quite definitely not a dirty old man, but to receive their respect and observe their sinuous, unflagging energy threshing the water is reassuring and tonic.

—Energy, energy, energy, he snaps, descending. Swings into the large room he hammered out of the architect’s invention, a base, unresponsive metal.

—My dear good fellow, all I want you to do is think of Rome, think of Greece and then add glass, plenty of glass, a whole wall of glass.

Bullying triumphed, energy overcame conformity and sunlight was made prisoner as required. The solarium, he could announce to guests and leave them a few moments to admire the classical simplicity and the two pieces of African carving which epitomised the demonic forces never more than a stone’s throw from this vulnerable sanctuary.

His wife is pouring his drink, a large woman with a severe hair-style but a soft face to which people of all kinds confide on impulse. She has been a shield. She has shielded Raynor and shielded people from Raynor. The ambivalence has tempered what was once an impetuous girl, but this she does not regret, never having relished complications. She is still a competent, respected botanist and her water colours are admired, occasionally sold at charity functions. During the late war she achieved fame and popularity with her vigorous campaigning for food parcels and clothing for the boys up north and, later, the boys in Italy. Visited both fronts and was not deceived by artificial enthusiasms or discreet arrangements. Saw for herself what needed to be seen and made sure it was made known to the proper authorities.

At the moment she is angry with Raynor because of what she has read in the evening paper. It is necessary, however, he be allowed his flirtations beside the swimming pool with her daughter’s party and so she is pouring herself a drink as well, against custom, to dissolve her annoyance.

—My dear, he remarks with mock surprise, observing the extra glass.

—Yes, she says abruptly.

—Oh, he replies, recognising a tension.

—There we are, she says, handing his glass.

—Are you joining us outside, my dear?

—Presently, perhaps.

He strolls nonchalantly through the wide slide windows, acknowledges the greetings, avoids the splash, takes his seat in the sun and beams at the well nourished bodies.

His wife switches on the radio and tunes it for the news. Out in the ether a game of rugby approaches a climax, encouraged by a raving commentator. She waits patiently, studying the photographs in the newspaper beside her on the long curved settee. There is no intervention she can make that would not involve her husband in what is undoubtedly a political matter. Certainly she will speak to her friend Helen Liebermann, who will know what strings are available and who would best pull them, and Helen might be persuaded to visit the man and determine whether aid of any kind is required. There must also be a means of finding out what the pretty young wife is doing, whether she and her child are adequately provided for. It is, beyond that, useless to speculate why men do these things. And anyway here is the news.

The announcer is throbbing with portentousness. She sympathises. It must be a drab existence, continually dependent on events outside the studio. She has noticed this kind of person, together with reporters, drinks rather a lot and rather greedily, perhaps thereby compensating for never himself enacting the news. From the broadcast account no harm seems to have come to anyone. It is hardly possible the nice Mr Prinsloo would have intended harm. There must be a less obvious explanation for his action than the newsmen have so far discovered. She switches off the set, sits with her glass on her lap contemplating a succession of images. Mr Prinsloo in a cell nursing a bruised face which the announcer failed to mention. The Prime Minister inscrutably smiling. She would like to be able to think some good of that man. The fête and the bunting, the committees that organised it, the women who baked for it, the children dressing for it. The accident or intent that marred it. What could Mr Prinsloo have been doing there, so far from his home?

Violent contrasts have always affected her unpleasantly whether in actions, attitudes, conditions or colours. The privileged gaiety out in the garden contrasted with the quiet misery of Mr Prinsloo’s cell. That confinement compared with the extensive landscape surrounding Mr Prinsloo’s house where they had all walked that Sunday no more than a month ago. It was unalterably such a distressing world and nothing, it seemed, would ever deaden the pain of being sensitive to it. Compare merely the discreet luxury of this house, the delightful lawns and blue-tiled swimming pool with the despicable shanty town not ten miles away where some hundreds of African families existed under a constant pall of smoke, humiliation and, no doubt, despair.

—Oh my dear, come, come, she says aloud, encouragingly. But the images are not dispelled. Fifty-eight years of reflecting on contrast and disparity have not provided any resolution or discovered an effective anodyne. One must continue to suffer because the world is more gross than some of its inhabitants, although, in the end, sensitivity may possibly prevail. Raynor coughs at the window.

—My dear, will you not join us, then?

—Oh Raynor, she sighs and indicates the newspaper. He ventures in and leans over the settee, scans at an angle the bold text and the pictures.

—Goodness gracious me. He moves round and sits, puts his drink on the table, folds the paper tersely and studies.

—I’ll be damned. Ebon Prinsloo.

—Yes, you probably will, Raynor, she says rising with his glass. Recharges it liberally.

—I have always considered it possible, he mutters, intent on the story.

—Nor is it any good pretending you don’t know that you are a very considerable cause of his action.

—Oh my dear, come, come.

—The man, I’m quite sure, has been bewildered and you know perfectly well why.

—Oh come now, Frances.

But there is a guilty smile on his face. Good Lord, the man is flattered. She hands him the glass impatiently and goes to the window to stare at a slim girl preparing to dive. Shadows mute the colours of the pool, but the spray from the dive is flung up into sunlight and a small rainbow hangs for