In addition to his epic fictions Döblin wrote a number of plays (for stage and radio), and spent his first year of American exile in Hollywood, writing ‘storys’ for MGM that never reached the screen. Within his epics there are several scenes of performance. Here we present a boxing match, an open-air drama, and two dances.
A Boxing Match (from Wallenstein Part 4)
Theme 6 presented an uncanny circus performance, reflecting growing alarm and chaos as war spreads. Here a boxing match attended by one of those responsible for the war – Max of Bavaria, now with his Electoral crown – satirises the bravado of those who think themselves powerful but are powerless against the events they unleash.
Fourth Skit: The Lion and the Jackal (from Mountains Oceans Giants Part 5)
In the 27th century, generations have come and gone whose only nourishment is the freely-available synthetic Meki-food (see Theme 3), concocted from minerals to ‘free’ humanity from the hazards of weather-dependent agriculture. To the idle masses of Europe, degenerating in ill-health and despair, come strolling players from Africa, performing fables that clarify their plight.
Two Dances on the Amazon (from The Land without Death Part 1)
These two short excerpts, one from the beginning and one from the end of Part 1, reflect Döblin’s absorption of ethnographies and other sources on the native cultures of South America, narrated without a hint of ‘othering’ or European superiority. In the first excerpt, the women have been left behind as their menfolk go in search of the Land without Death. In the second, the Women Folk consummate their annual mating festival. (For more of this festival, see Theme 1: Love Stories; for Cuzumarra’s story, see Theme 5: Exile.)
A Boxing Match (from Wallenstein Part 4)
THREE HOURS RIDE north of Munich, in Schleissheim, the Bavarian lodged in his summer residence among the cow-meadows; the little Mosach trickled through a courtyard, turned a mill-wheel; through another courtyard the gossipy waters of the Würm. Wide lowing byres, gently sloping meadows, fields of crops, millers, herdsmen from Switzerland and the Allgäu.
Saint Urban’s Day: under a grey rainy sky village children constructed a little wooden effigy of the pope. In the innermost courtyard of the residence, the May rain beat on the wooden roof of a little theatre hall; within, crowded on benches behind the freezing prince-elector – blue satin cloak reaching to the yellow half-shoes, blue unpinned satin hat with a band of pearls, old slack wrinkled face – sat the obese popeyed ponderous Prince of Hohenzollern; the strict very learned Bartholomew Richel, Lord Chamberlain and privy counsellor; the ancient goatee’d major domo Kurz von Senftenau; Marquis Pallavicino, Jesuit knight and Maximilian’s treasurer; Signor Cavalchino; tall willowy Count Maximilian Fugger; Johann Verdunk, his curator of curiosities; the private secretaries Rampeck and Schlegel; war commissars, sculptors. They sat silently facing the low narrow wooden stage, its boards carpeted, on which two men stripped to the waist were boxing, springing back and forth in the gloomy afternoon light. Along both sides of the hall, two lines of helmeted lifeguards with halberds and swords stood straddle-legged.
One of the boxers, black-haired, broad, chin thrust forward, pranced madly around at the back of the stage with a twisted nervous smile, came bleating behind the motionless brown other, paced across the forestage, squinted back, squinted ahead, bowed to the hall with open arms. He waited in a corner, stage front, wheeled his arms in mockery, aped the motionless brown man. With a cheeky grin he advanced three paces towards the other. His right knee touched the other’s extended knee, pushed, pressed against it. He pushed, the other pushed. Each drew up his other leg. The slim brown man, a head taller than his black-haired opponent, woke from his dream, red-faced gave a sudden hard shove with his sharply bent knee so that they tumbled past each other and the black-haired man fell on all fours. As he stood up and turned, a hellish blow on the temple made him see stars, so that he sat down seemingly astonished, head drooping. As he tried to rise to his feet, directing a mocking confidential smile at the hall, the brown man planted a foot on his bare shoulder and lightly tipped him over. His expression changed as he scuttled swiftly aside, stood pale and breathless, extended an arm, beckoned: “Come on, little fellow, keep coming. I’ll pay.” The brown man raised a teasing foot. “Come on then, I’ll pay for every blow. On you.”
Muttering he approached the brown man, dribbling, eyes wide; but before he could bite him in the leg as planned, the other landed two heavy blows on his shoulders; he twisted aside, lurched left, lurched right like a sack-burdened porter, turned stage front, crouched to step down from the podium. Four lifeguards hastened forward clattering, halberds at the ready.
The short man gave a loud laugh, stood there swaying: “I challenge you, little fellow. Think you can win with your clumsy blows. Here I am. Hit me. I won’t stop you. I’ll have you soon enough.” The brown man up against him with thick bony fists. “I’ll have you. You’ll pay for every blow, you won’t get away.”
Mild shoving, tussling. The dark man was suddenly afflicted by a multi-coloured buzzing droning; half unconscious he leaned against the wall, mumbled: “Think what you’re about. You’re heading for a downfall.” Essayed a smile after a dreadful blow to the upper lip. “I don’t know how you’ll keep this up. It’s – haha – it’s atrocious. It’s deadly. You’re an assassin.” His arms waved aimlessly like hammers about his head as he dragged himself towards the retreating brown man. “My god,” he whined at the back wall, not realising he could see from only one eye, “I’d no idea who I was dealing with. Phooey, that’s you. You had to be unmasked before the world. They’re all witnesses, these noble lords. You’ll see no mercy.”
The slim brown man shouted angrily: “You slandering me? D’you want to fight or not, you blackguard?”
“You won’t spit on me. I’m waiting for you to dash yourself to pieces here. Let’s all see how far you can go.”
The tall man clung to him like a beast intent on congress with the swaying head-protecting body beneath; sobs and gulps came during pauses from the one below: “Man. Man. Yes. Keep hitting. Twenty. When you’re ready we’ll settle the account. I’ll repay every blow. Enough talk; just keep hitting. See how you’ll escape vengeance.”
The brown man grasped the other curled up on the floor by the hips, lifted him, swung him. Once, twice the black-haired man whirled floundering, head down. Crashing to the floor he spat blood, rolled over, staggered up blind, groggy: “Haha. Keep going. Twenty.” Five oar-strokes through the air; crashed down at the very front of the stage. Raised his head after a while, his swollen mouth lisped: “Hey you. Arrogant cockerel. To work. Twenty. Not yet done. Let’s see when he’s had enough.”
The other screamed as if bitten, knelt by the prone body, and screwing up his eyes and tensing all the muscles of his face he smashed throttled kneaded rolled scrunched the limp figure. Which rose once to its feet, blue, jabbering, tried to open its eyes, vomited a stream of blood, fell over on its side. The brown man, still kneeling, grabbed the other by the throat with both fists, dragged him upright by the slack neck, let the body drop face down. He spat angrily into his bloodstained palm. The spectators below laughed at his evil expression.
The pot-bellied Prince of Hohenzollern exchanged a few words with the prince-elector, who had stood up. The lifeguards formed a cordon. Maximilian, animated, spoke to Richel. They left the hall. Pages brought rushlights into the house.
Fourth Skit: The Lion and the Jackal (from Mountains Oceans Giants Part 5)
IT WAS THE FABLE of the lion and the wild jackal. A chief’s house had a roof of straw. The man sat at the door in ceremonial finery beside a young girl tattooed in red: a pretty thing, his daughter. People round about.
The chief cupped a hand to his mouth: “This is my daughter Mutiyamba. I shall give her hand to the man who is strongest and most handsome. I am rich, no need for a bride-price. Shout it abroad everywhere, on the plains, along the river, in banana groves, on sandy islets: Chief Kassangi will give his daughter Mutiyamba to whoever is strongest and most handsome.”
There was a tender youth called Liongo, an orphan, who loved the girl. He wore a loincloth of grass, couldn’t throw a spear. He went with them on the plains, along the river, in the banana groves, on sandy islets to proclaim that Kassangi would give lovely slender Mutiyamba to the strongest and most handsome man. He consoled himself, sang quietly: “The strings of my heart are sounding. Why? I saw a tall gilly-flower; a white ant bit into its root. I must heal the gilly-flower.”
The tender lad went ahead of the other drummers. Past rain-ponds, between huge liana-hung jungle trees, past shea-butter trees where little monkeys leapt, past leather-leafed fig trees, past ravines where black bats and fat wasps swarmed, in dense tall stripy thickets of wild sorghum, by green swamps rife with worms and snails where wild gourds and loofah-melons tangled their vines: poor Liongo sang Mutiyamba’s praises to entice the strongest, the most handsome. Sang her body:
“Her breasts are twin swelling onions, no tree blossoms like her garments. Her head her ears her lips her arms are hung with golden ornaments that flash like lightning in a storm. Her eyes are soft and languid. Her legs are slender copper needles. All who look upon her are torn by longing. You must close your eyes as if you’ve stuck your head over a steaming pot. And after closing them you have no peace, for the eyes still smart. Whoever looks on Mutiyamba must show his heart is strong. He is thrown in a jail, with only her picture to look at. His heart must be strong to break down the door and throw himself on her mercy. Hundreds will seek her hand! Kassangi is a mighty chief, he has built a strong stockade around his village. Only one with shoulders like a mountain, the hunger of a jackal can burst through the stockade.”
A young tawny lion heard Liongo’s song. And as Liongo sang the girl’s praises past the bat-ravine, a wild jackal came creeping. When the chieftain’s tender herald returned to the palace, several youths were already there, had undergone tests of their prowess, been rejected by Kassangi. The lion and the jackal followed at husky Liongo’s heels. The lion upended the two strongest youths, jumped the tallest part of the stockade with one bound, downed a bucket of palm-wine in one draught and walked just as steadily as before. On him Kassangi bestowed his daughter; the splendid tawny-maned lion sat at her side. Mutiyamba was aghast that this growling monster was now her husband. But she admired his strength.
Next day they celebrated the wedding in Kassangi’s great hall. The wild jackal Kri had not dared show himself to the chieftain, with the tawny lion there. Now he crouched beside the young lion, who was ill at ease among the humans at the table.
“You don’t know the local customs, lion,” the jackal whispered. “You must bring the porridge over here, if you feel like eating.”
The lion padded to the big pot in the middle of the table, carried it over in his mouth. The deprived guests stared in embarrassment. Kassangi the chief pretended not to notice, called for another pot. He ate from it, passed it to his daughter, the young bridegroom.
Kri stood on his hind legs.“You are the bridegroom. You must give presents. You must spoon porridge into every guest’s hand, as a souvenir.”
The lion wiped his mouth, stood up, held the big pot to his chest, and started to go around the table, ladling a spoonful of porridge into the hand of every guest or just splashing it on his lap. The first few made no move, the next in line ran for the door, burst out laughing, held their sides as the monster looked sheepishly across at them. Kassangi frowned in anger. He had the guests cleaned up and those outside called back in. The feast resumed in silence. “A foolish lot,” whispered Kri as they sat apart. “Best keep away from them, they’re jealous.”
The wedding procession moved through the village. The splendid groom sat beside Mutiyamba on an oxcart decked with ribbons. Trumpets ahead and behind, and drums. They came to Kassangi’s house, where the chief was standing with all his wives, waving. The jackal leapt on the cart from behind, climbed onto the seat between the couple.
“Mutiyamba, your groom looks so glum. Stroke me, cuddle me, it’ll cheer him up.”
She put her arms around Kri, kissed him on the muzzle, looked tenderly on him. People giggled, Kassangi was shocked. In the room the lion took the jackal aside. “What were you up to, letting Mutiyamba kiss you? She has never kissed me.”
“Cheer up, lion. Don’t scold her. I’ll tell you the secret, but you must promise never to reveal it. See, as I was running here I sprained a front paw. She noticed it, Mutiyamba the beautiful. She’s so sympathetic, so tender. That’s why she stroked and kissed me.”
So the young lion limped through the door, limped right limped left. And when he stood before Mutiyamba he had tears in his eyes. “I’ve twisted my ankles, in both my back legs. Yesterday, when I was leaping in your honour.” He looked at her most piteously. She drew her breastcloth over her face, in her shame whispered something to her father, swept out followed by her two maids. The men steamed, their noses rumpled, they made mocking faces, spat in the air. The chief offered a jug to the groom.
“Drink, lion. My daughter Mutiyamba, most beauteous of maidens, is now yours. We wish you joy. No bride-price is required. Your legs will recover. But you must give her presents, it’s our custom.”
The lion took the drink, bowed in silence to the chief, went out. He wandered through the village out onto the plain, Kri behind him. “Lion, why wander so far? And you must limp, or the bride won’t pity you. Limp behind me back to the village, at once, so the king can see how humble you are, even though your shoulders are like mountains, as poor Liongo sang.”
“What presents should I give, to her and her father Kassangi?”
“That’s for you to think about. But don’t show that you are rich, or he and the whole village will feel ashamed. Don’t bring an antelope, it’ll scare them. But why go so far into the plain. Here, deposit your scat. Yes, here. I’ll weave a basket of grass, we’ll put the scat into it. I’ll take the little basket to Kassangi and Mutiyamba. They’ve seen how strong and handsome you are. They’ll know you are humble and have no wish to shame them.”
The lion squatted by a hedge in a field of yams, squeezed out his droppings. The jackal dug up yams that looked like human toes, spread leaves, layered the warm droppings over leaves and yams, smoothed the package, covered it against flies. Then he wove two little baskets of grass, put the droppings in, strolled to the village. The lion followed limping, head down, now and then uttering a mournful roar.
Growling respectfully, the jackal entered Kassangi’s hall. At a sign from him the lion stood by the doorpost, squinting in. Kri handed over the little baskets with an inscrutable solemn expression. Mutiyamba burst into tears, fled from the lion as he drew near to comfort her. The chief hurled the basket down. The lion bowed smiling, crept humbly closer, settled nervously in his befouled seat. Still sat there alone when Kassangi and the guests had left.
Outside they debated what to do about the lion, who was so strong and had already been promised the bride. They took up spears, planned to tell him: according to the custom of the village he must undergo another test, and then again three days later, to prove he had no help from a sorcerer. They thought he would lose because of his bad legs. They bombarded the jackal Kri, who was there listening, with curses on his friend’s account. He spoke glibly, airily said it would all work out to their satisfaction, assumed an erudite enigmatic look. “Wisdom – where is it found? In the eyes? No, in the head. Lord Kassangi knows that now. He didn’t before. I, Kri, am but a puny thing, but you needn’t teach me how to scrabble with my paws.”
The men were astonished at his cleverness.
“Why so sad, dear friends? Hope is the pillar of the world. Heaven is built on patience.” They should, he advised, abandon their plan. He assured them he would defeat the lion. They shook their heads: “He’ll deliver when hens have teeth.” But Kassangi shook the most worshipful Kri by the hand.
Next morning when Kri and the lion left their tent, the lion was astonished to see everyone bow reverently to Kri, make way for him, while ignoring him with looks of distaste.
“You see, lion, what is in my power to do, and who I am.”
“Kri, how did you fix this? I am your friend, you won’t leave me in the lurch.”
The jackal drew him behind the huts. He planted himself there, twitched and jerked his body. The lion was puzzled: “What are you doing?”
“Don’t you notice something? Listen now, listen hard.”
The lion stepped closer: “I hear nothing, Kri. Nothing at all.”
“Listen to my belly. Everyone can hear it. That’s why they bow down to me. I’ve been sweating away all night to make sure they all treat me like a king.”
“How did you do it?”
“You still can’t hear?” The jackal flounced, jumped high. “But you’ll hear it soon. Your fearsome roar has made you deaf. I have a bell in my body.”
“A bell.”
“A tinkling bell. It tinkles with every step. That’s why they bow down to me.”
“Where did you find the bell, Kri?”
“Kassangi, don’t laugh, I stole the bell from Kassangi himself. He doesn’t know it yet.” Kri tittered, the lion roared merrily. “Now his bell is in my body and he hasn’t noticed. I stole three, four from him yesterday. Chief’s bells. I still have three. But don’t tell. I trust you. Let’s move on.”
But the lion held Kri back. “Tell me, Kri, could you put a bell in me?” Kri shrugged, looked sullen, shook his head dubiously; the lion wouldn’t withstand the pain. The lion begged “Oh please,” promised high honours, he wouldn’t give back the bells lying behind the huts. Kri condescended to do it after they had sworn not to betray each other. He would insert the bell in the lion’s body that night. They strutted jauntily through the village.
At noon in their room Kri, already puffed up with certainty of victory, recipient of lovely Mutiyamba’s smiles, announced that before nightfall the lion must give him one more proof of his mettle. The lion was ready for anything. And when mats had been spread in the great hall for dinner and they were sat there eating away in their pearls and gold chains, Kri asked Kassangi for a red hot iron poker. The lion, swallowing his fear, had to come close. Barking furiously, Kri swung the poker at his back legs. The lion howled in rage for just a little moment, snapped his jaws at the jackal dashing for the door, then curled up, whimpered through the pain, smiled wanly at Kri as he crept slowly back. The guests, Kassangi and his daughter looked on astonished.
From that moment the lion’s face was changed. Audiences at the Bedford performances could see it. They were profoundly moved. They could not quite put their finger on the change. The lion was like them. He walked like a townzone-dweller, helpless with his big waggly head, snuffling breathless after a few steps. On shaky legs he glanced all around in torment and grief. And the jackal was no longer Kri. He wore a red cap, gold ribbons dangling over the ears and behind his head: a senator’s cap.
The lion lay silent on the mat. They offered him food. His lips hung loose. He looked only at Kri, who was watching him. The tormented lion, smiling again, wolfed down his portion. The guests mockingly offered more. He wanted to slip away to roar out his pain, wanted to drink, his throat was horribly dry, but no one offered to pour from the jug. They amused themselves, ate heartily, paid him no heed. Before they stood up, Kri whispered again with Kassangi. A servant brought the glowing poker. The lion was not looking, sat moodily on his mat. Fire seared his front legs. The roars, the rolling thunderclaps emerging from his jaws emptied the hall in a flash. He tried to jump. Could not. Then he remembered that this was the test Kri had mentioned. He bit his tongue, squinted about, limped to the door, collapsed. The guests kept their distance. Kri slunk up beside him, heard his friend’s groans, the whispered: “Kri, Kri! Don’t be angry. Come closer. I wasn’t ready. It was so sudden. I wouldn’t have roared otherwise. I wouldn’t – you can depend on it! Kri, believe me!”
By this point in the performance, the audience would be in a rage. “Believe me, Kri – dog, dog.” Made threatening gestures, eyes blazed, some were in tears.
Kri was condescending. The guests at the door saw how the lion gently rubbed his head against the wretched grey jackal. Their fear receded, they began to titter again. The lion took no notice, thought of the coming night and the bells. Bells tinkled continually in the final scene. But among the guests who filed slowly in behind Kassangi and Mutiyamba, greeted humbly by the apologetic lion, only one did not laugh: tender poor Liongo. He thought: “My mood is sad. The strings of my heart are sounding. Why? I saw the proud gilly-flower. A white ant bit its root, the proud flower soon will die.”
That evening as the guests were feasting with insolent Kri, Liongi slipped into the lion’s dark room, bowed. The lion in his melancholy solitude greeted him with joy. He recognised the young herald who had spread word of Mutiyamba’s beauty far and wide across the plains to people animals trees lakes. He shook his hand. The boy said: he had not told him all that much about Kassangi’s daughter; he was on his side. Liongo stroked the lion’s mane: was he unwell. He brought two jugs of cool water; the lion stuck his paws in, grunted with pleasure.
“They treat you badly, lion.”
“Oh.” He shook his head, said nothing, remembered his promise. For all Liongo tried, the lion would not open up. He showed his gratitude in smiles and words. He would never forget how Liongo praised the bride’s beauty. Alluded enigmatically to the coming night. So Liongo dared to broach Kri’s true character, whispered: what might Kri be up to at this moment, sitting with lovely Mutiyamba, stroking her, that sly dirty hound who snuffles around in ravines with bats wasps jackals. The lion gave a non-committal grunt, furrowed his brow, looked askance at Liongo. Who did not waver, spoke of scoundrels. The pensive lion: I know what I see with my own eyes; I know I’m not clever, but Kri is my friend. Liongo asked bitterly: would the lion let himself die if Kri ordered it. He’d already burned him, already lamed him.
“Tests, tests,” murmured the lion. – “What is he testing, lion?”
“That which will bring me joy and honour.”
“He’ll kill you. He wants Mutiyamba. It wasn’t for him I sang.”
“Oh my bride,” the lion basked in her glow, “I’d do anything for her.”
“He will murder you.” – “Give me water. You’ll speak differently tomorrow.”
Liongo, weeping, left him to the darkness. The lion waited eagerly for the jackal to come. Darkness. Now light. The lion turned. It was Kri with a torch. Whispering from the doorway without entering: “Lion! Hey! How’s it going, lion?”
“Well, Kri. I’ve been waiting. Won’t you come in.”
“I’m coming. Where are the bells?”
The jackal stumbled, he had caroused all evening with the chief and the guests. Trilled: “Here they are, lovely bells. Wonderful. It’ll all go smoothly. What say you, lion? Paws still hurt?”
“Not much.”
Kri gave a shrill yelp. “You see how that went. Wonderful. Here’s the poker, on your feet, hup one, hup two, hup three!”
Kri patted his shoulders, belched. “Hold still, my little son. Fine sturdy son. We’ll do the job.” And he sang: “Mutiyamba, Mutiyamba, no tree blossoms like your garments. Whoever sees you, Mutiyamba, has to close his eyes in longing, as if scalded by steam from a pot.”
“Why are you singing about my bride.”
“Her legs are like slender copper needles. Come dear friends, one and all.” He fussed about in the room, laid out ropes. The lion watched uneasily.
People tripped through the door, stood along the walls. “Why are they here.”
“They’re my friends, all of them. We’ve been feasting together all day long. Feasting spitting puking. A wonderful afternoon. Hey, wasn’t it a wonderful afternoon?”
“And evening.”
“And now tonight. You’ll be astonished what Kri can do. Hey, lion, sit up now.”
“Why do you speak so roughly to me?”
“Now the thickhead wants to tell me how to talk.” The lion held his breath, gave a roar. The jackal staggered to the door, the people huddled together.
“Thickhead? I, a thickhead?”
Kri tucked in his tail, summoned his courage, lurched closer: “Lion, we understand each other.” He lost the thread, snarled: “Let’s start. Enough of guzzling and nattering. You wanted this, lion.”
The lion looked long at him: “Yes.” The jackal, nastily: “Well then.”
The guests carried wooden pegs into the hut, hammered them echoing into the floor. The lion shuddered, his lips went slack. “What are they doing?”
Kri, aping: “What are they doing? What are they doing? Bring sticks. Bring the bells. Quick about it.”
The lion pulled his paws from the jugs Liongo had brought, crept closer. Kri snuffled at the jugs. “Who brought these?”
“Liongo.”
“Ah, Liongo. Him. The tender lad. The scoundrel.”
Again the lion held his breath, let out a dreadful roar. The room emptied. Kri at the door was trembling in fear, near fainting. Shame and rage held him there. He crept forward timidly, pleading ingratiating: “Now these are pegs for your little paws, these are ropes to hold your legs. Come everyone, the lion knows you’ll keep quiet. He’ll have such a bell in his tummy, just like mine, tinkle tinkle when he walks. You’ll all bow down before him. And Mutiyamba – oh!”
Torches blazed in the room. The people eager, lascivious. The lion stood between the pegs, lowered his huge maned head. He thought of Mutiyamba. This sly unpleasant Kri would make it so she would kiss him. She’d kissed Kri in the cart, on the muzzle. Head turned aside, the lion wept into the darkness. Where was Liongo? He drew the jackal’s ear towards him. “Don’t hurt me too much.” The jackal grinned wickedly, patted and stroked him.
They bound the lion’s legs with ropes. He lay on his side, rolled onto his back. They grabbed his forelegs and hind legs, stretched them roughly apart. He growled, writhed in fear. The guests gurgled with joy when they saw the young lion’s white naked belly exposed. Waves of fear swept through him. They threw back their drunken heads, staggered around the helpless beast. Their mocking laughter was so loud that Kassangi and Mutiyamba appeared outside and stuck their heads through the window. Kri was jumping around, sharpening a knife. The lion, hearing the scrape of stone on steel, grew wild with terror. “What’s happening now? Kri, what are you up to? What now?”
“Do you feel anything?” – “No.”
“And now?” – “No.”
“Now?” – “No. What are you doing?” The knife was sharp enough. He leapt on the lion’s chest, growled: “Now. Courage now, lion.” And he plunged the blade into the body, sliced thrust twisted. Hot bright blood spurted into his face, blinded him, made him splutter. The lion writhed under him, strained left and right. Liongo at the lion’s head: “Up, lion! They’re killing you! Lion, he’s killing you!”
“He’s killing me. Yes, it’s true,” rushed through the lion’s brain. He heaved around, broke free of the pegs, skin stripping from his paws. Marrow-curdling howls of pain. Attack Kri! Tear Kri to pieces! He must attack Kri. He roared into the gaggle of guests, pegs and ropes whirling, beat squashed cracked tore bit. Was Kri gone already. The lane was pitch dark. Kill, kill. Kassangi, Kassangi, there, running away. Crunch! his back, crunch! his neck; his life was over. (How the audience cheered and wept!) Away now, lion, out of the village, into the plain, the broad green plain.
His rolling endless roaring. He leaped panting at the stockade, could not jump over. What’s this flowing hot from his body, what’s holding him back, what’s dragging between his legs. Hurts. Oh. He trod on it. Pain, dreadful agony silenced his roar. It was his own entrails. Made another fearsome leap. Horrible truncated roar. He was impaled on the stakes. Groaned writhing twisting there. His eyes rolled; they were blind. Spears thrust from below. He had no more blood. (The audience wept at the sight of the splendid young lion, its limp dying body high on the pointed stakes of the stockade. They threw stones when the funeral of the sacrificial beast took place.) Kassangi was dead. The jackal was dragged by the tail through the village. They’d stuffed mule-dung in its mouth, the red senatorial bonnet with the gold ribbons was tied around its muzzle. Mutiyamba, weeping: she’s taken off all her jewels. She stepped from her house. The new chief had thrown her out. She tried to kiss Liongo’s feet, begged for help. He took her to his hut, out to his field. The chief’s daughter never stopped crying. He sang:
“First you were poison, now I can eat you. First you scalded my eyes, now I can see you. You stopped me from sleeping, now I sleep beside you. I rock like a boat, Mutiyamba, you hold me steady. There are no bracelets on your arms, no necklaces at your breast, no earrings. My mouth for your ear, my mouth for your breast, my mouth for your arms.”
Two Dances on the Amazon (from The Land without Death Part 1)
BESIDE THE WATER lay a boat that the men had left half finished. It rested on two wooden runners. They fetched palm leaves, in the afternoon burnt it away from the inside, fetched palm leaves, burnt it from the outside. They did this so their men could travel.
In the evening a thunderstorm broke. The old women kept the manioc mash until they were all back from fishing, grilled the fish. Then there was loud laughter, children kept by the fire in front of the clan house, young women and grown girls disappeared into the huts. They painted themselves a lovely black with soot, red with urucu, they oiled their hair, the almond eyes of the young ones glinted with pleasure, they hung necklaces of black seeds around their necks, tied threads of red cotton on arm and calf. Then one of them leapt from her hut, she was the first, she swung the dance-rattle, whooped, she wore a net shawl over her shoulders, a little red parrot sat on her head. The others ran out, they looked beautiful and happy. They formed a line one behind the other, arms crossed at the breast, swayed left, swayed right, sang a dancing song, filed past the clan house. The children and old women stood up.
Two lines in the dirt – this was a river, the young women leapt along the bank, they wanted to cross, they were the men. One rowed on the river, his back covered in palm leaves – the river spirit. They bowed down to him, he let them cross. They greeted the old women and the others. Then they faced each other, two by two, heads lowered, hands covering their eyes, man and wife, and wept greetings.
The dance ended, darkness fell. They laughed and ate, radiant in the firelight.
THAT EVENING they performed the great armadillo dance. There before the great fire the armadillo leapt. The hero was called Rairu, he danced close to the powerful beast, it grabbed him, he had to throw away his spear, the beast struck his shoulder, he had to throw away his bow and quiver of arrows, the beast butted him in the chest, he had to throw away his shield, he fled from the strong armadillo and crawled around in the dirt, circling and again circling, the armadillo danced around Rairu, first on one leg and whooped, then on the other leg and whooped. It drove him towards the pit trap, he tried to escape, it grabbed his head and pulled him into the pit, and the pit collapsed on both of them, the big armadillo and Rairu.
The armadillo has disappeared!
The great armadillo has defeated Rairu!
The great armadillo has pulled Rairu into the pit!
And people clambered out of the pit, greeted forest, river, sky, greeted the moon. The great armadillo had vanished into the moon.
The young warrior women and their captives danced when the people sprang out of the pit. The women held spears, the men held shields, but they had to die.
Cuzumarra the fat warrior squatted with the queen on a mat. It happened that, unremarked by others, the spirit of the great armadillo came down from the new moon to him who was once Cuzumarra and spoke to him: “And you, Cuzumarra? Stand up! Or is even that beyond you now? Stand up. Dance with them.”
The great armadillo in the new moon, unseen and unheard by others, encouraged Cuzumarra to stand up and dance. The queen squealed when he rose from the mat and pushed into the circle of dancers. The spirit told him not to heed what they shouted at him, and to take a shield from a dead man. He did so, and stood with the men.
A monstrous howling greeted the new moon that showed itself in the blue between palm leaves. One by one, men fell, Cuzumarra among them.
Women thronged drunkenly towards the blood that sorceresses sprayed, the older women to regain their strength, the young women for their lives and children.
Frogs boomed from the swamps, a thunderstorm rumbled. The river flowed silent under pale moonlight. Through the nightdark fields, masked dancers paraded with clappers, feeding the ground with blood from gourds.
