Fugard - The captains tiger: a memoir for the stage

ATHOL FUGARD has been working in the theatre as a playwright, director and actor since the 1950s. His plays have been produced throughout his native South Africa, as well as in major theatres across the United States and abroad. His previous works include Blood Knot, Boesman and Lena, Cousins: A Memoir, Hello and Goodbye, A Lesson from Aloes, Marigolds in August, The Guest, Master Harold... and the boys, My Children! My Africa!, Notebooks: 19601977, Playland, A Place with the Pigs, The Road to Mecca, Statements and Valley Song.

The stage. A ships bell. The Author enters and strikes it eight times.

AUTHOR (To the audience): Eight bells. End of the watch.

Imagine youre at the wheel of an old cargo ship steaming slowly across the Pacific. Its the deadmans watch, midnight to four A.M., so the wheelhouse is dimly lit. In front of you is the illuminated face of the compass. You glance at it from time to time to check your course but mostly youre just staring out into the darkness, watching the proud forward mast sweeping the stars as she rolls gently from side to side. Its a calm, clear night with a slight swell so an easy swing of the wheel is all thats needed to keep hold your course. The sailor who is going to take over from you as helmsman is there at your side. You give him the compass bearing and he repeats it to make sure there is no mistake. You greet the officers and then head down to the galley for a mug of strong, hot tea, and because its that sort of night, youll sit out on deck, on one of the bollards maybe, and drink your tea and think your thoughts while the ship sails steadily on, the bows lifting and falling in a rhythm as seductive as those hips that gave you such a good time in the last port.

That is how I remember some of my nights on board the SS Graigaur. Graigaur... its a Welsh word. It means rock of gold, though by the time I joined her in 1952 she was starting to look more like a rock of rust.

One of the old tramp steamers, any cargo anywhere. A true wanderer of the seas.

My first sight of her was in Port Sudan harbor where she was taking on a cargo of salt for Japan. I knew absolutely nothing about ships so I thought she looked very impressive as I stood there on the quay side, watching the harbor crane dump avalanches of gleaming white crystals into her holds. In any case you cant get to know a lady like her when shes tied up with heavy mooring ropes in a stagnant harbor basin with hordes of shore workers crawling all over her. You need to be out on the open sea for that.

I got my chance a few days later when the last mooring rope was cast off and the tugs started to pull her away from her berth, swing her around and guide her toward the opening in the breakwater. The image that came to me then as I stood there on deck and which still seems so right to me, was of some ancient, blind leviathan, deep rumblings coming from her belly, as she nosed around clumsily looking for her escape, and when she found it, when she slipped past the breakwater and her bows dipped into the freedom of the open sea, I felt a thrill shiver through her rusty old hulk.

The voyage had begun.

I was twenty years old.

Number Four hatch of the SS Graigaur; a small folding card table, box to sit on, stack of paper, fountain pen and ink. The Tiger writes a letter to his mother.

TIGER:

SS Graigaur

Somewhere in the Red Sea

August 17th, 1952

Dear Mom,

I sincerely hope you didnt faint when you read the address at the top of this letter. It is not a joke. I am writing to you now aboard the steamship Graigaur which is headed for Japan.

Just when I thought my only hope of getting out of Port Sudan was to stow away on one of the ships headed for England, I met Captain Hersee in the bar of the Red Sea Hotel. We started talking and when he heard about my predicament he offered to take me on board his ship as a supernumerary. That means I get a shilling a month, a comfortable bunk in the sick bay and three whopping good meals a day in return for which I have to look after the captainclean his cabin, make his bed, do his washing, serve him his food... a sort of glorified servant. Tell Dad that in sailors jargon I am what is known as the Captains Tiger. I think we are going to get on very well. Ive only been on the ship a couple of days so I dont really know yet about the rest of the gang. The officers are white and the sailors a real bag of liquorice-all-sorts... black, brown and yellow.

But the important news, Mom, is that apart from seeing the world, this is my chance to keep the promise I made you, and settle down at last to serious writing. Im ready for it now. No more short stories and poemsIm going for the big one, a novel la Tolstoy, and its going to be about a beautiful young Afrikaner girl in a white dress in a small Karoo town. Recognize her? Thats right! Its the photograph of you when you were a young girl thats hanging in your bedroom. That is going to be my inspiration. Im going to weave together all the stories youve told me about your life and what you wanted to do with it, only this time all those dreams you had are going to come true. When I finish this letterIm writing it on deck outside the sick bay, its as hot as hell, MomIm going to settle down to my first session.

Ill be posting this letter in Aden. After that the next port of call is Colombo, the capital city of Ceylon. Tell Dad to get a map, a red pencil and a ruler, and to draw straight lines joining up all the places I mention in my letters. That way he can follow me on all my travels and adventures. It will give him something to do. How is he, by the way?

So there, Mom. First Africa, now the world! The great adventure continues.

Your ever-loving son,
The Captains Tiger

(Folds his letter and puts it in an envelope which he addresses. After that he prepares, with great deliberation, for his first session of writing... filling the fountain pen, organizing the paper, moving his chair to a different side of the table etc., etc. While he is doing all this, Donkeyman appears on deck. He is a big, fierce-featured, black man, bare-chested and wearing short trousers and sandals, his body gleaming with sweat. He has just come up from the engine room and is wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag. Tiger tries a smile and a timid greeting. He gets no response and returns, self-consciously, to his writing. A title page is written with a flourish. A second page is given a number and a chapter heading. Donkeyman watches him for a few seconds then leaves.

With eyes closed, pen poised, Tiger tries to recall as accurately as possible the photograph of his mother as a young girl.)

TIGER: All in white... everything was white... floppy sort of hat... with a broad brim... dress almost down to her ankles... a little necklace of beads around her throat... (Betty appears. She is as he describes her. She stands expectantly still, posed for the camera)... white gloves in one hand, a book in the other... old-fashioned shoes with buttons on the side... and stockings... also white... (He pauses)

BETTY: Go on.

TIGER (Eyes still closed): Ive left out something havent I?

BETTY: Yes you have.

TIGER: What?

BETTY: Im not going to tell you. You must guess.

TIGER: Ribbons? Ribbons on your hat?

BETTY: No.

TIGER: Some other jewelry... a broach... a bangle?...

BETTY: No.

TIGER: Damn it! I know there is something missing.

BETTY: Do you give up?

TIGER: No! Hat, dress, gloves, book... all right, what is it?

BETTY: You forgot the rose.

TIGER: Of course! At your waist... on your belt!

BETTY: Thats right.

TIGER (Opens his eyes): Yes, there it is. Still, I didnt do too badly. Only missed one item. I got everything else right.