The courts were not amused by the devious strategy. Stephanie, her doctor, her attorneys and agent were locked away for a few months on perjury charges and when the girl got out of the clink, she was bundled off to Italy to do spaghetti westerns as her penance.
George’s movie with Stephanie Doros was not only a huge financial success, but a critical one as well. It was his third film and he and Connor had produced it themselves. This time it wasn’t a musical, though of course they did have to include a few token songs. The public demanded it.
It had an excellent story with an outstanding script which allowed George to show the full range of his acting ability. The critics were unanimous in their praise and he was nominated for an Oscar.
The Potter clan was on tour at Academy Awards time. Lydia watched the program with Paul Connor while George rehearsed with the orchestra.
They were disappointed, and reports also indicated the disappointment of the rest of the nation when an aging western star won instead of their beloved George. Most rationalized the older man was a sentimental favorite who won more on longevity and endurance than acting ability.
TWENTY
The new house is nice, but not really my style, thought Paul Connor. He’d preferred the tinsel, baubles and bangles of the Potters’ San Francisco penthouse. He had to admit, however, the new split level ranch house was just like George and Lydia--friendly, comfortable and big hearted. It wasn’t so huge one could get lost in it, but there was plenty of room to afford the occupants and their guests elbow room and privacy. The sturdy mansion was constructed of wood and field stone to blend beautifully with the wooded grounds. There were little hidden corners all over the estate where each could be alone to meditate and unwind from their taxing schedules. There were stables with a handful of fine horses and George had a small building to himself, that housed his gymnasium and music room. Basically the place was designed for fun and relaxation, something they all needed.
At the moment, George, Lydia and Connor were gathered in the book lined study. Paul now spent more time in the Potter’s Marin Country home and at the San Francisco recording complex than he did in his own Hollywood or New York apartments. George’s career had become nearly a full time job, but Connor still had other prominent stars under contract. They also made demands on his time and he did a lot of jetting about in the Potter Corporation Leer.
Connor loved the Potters. They were the only family he had. Lydia was like a sister to him. He loved George Two like a son, and of course, he loved ol’ George. But then, so did much of the world .
Connor paced back and forth as he listed the stops he’d be making on George’s second world tour. Lydia, wearing enormous horn-rims, acted as recording secretary and took notes. the King lounged next to her as he paid close attention to what Paul was saying.
“We make our first stop in London, as we did on the first tour. Then on to Paris, Madrid, Rome, Athens, Casablanca, Dakar, Luanda, Johannesburg....”
“Hold it...hold it!” George broke in with a look of concern. “I know I always give you carte-blanche to take us where and when you think best, but I was sure after last year, we agreed to avoid South Africa like the plague. That whole episode was damned embarrassing and one of our greatest mistakes.”
Paul tried to mollify his friend. “Come on George, it wasn’t your fault. How were to know those damned white Johannesburgers would refuse ticket sales to the blacks in order to have enough seats for themselves? Damned intolerant of them!”
“If you recall,” George added. “We took a lot of of flack from the State Department, United Nations and the White House. I really don’t mind criticism of my musicianship...”
“Now who could find fault with that, Georgie?” chided Lydia playfully.
George gave her a pat on the knee and went on. “It’s when my belief in human nature is shaken--that hurts. I just don’t want a repeat performance.
“Then you’re going to love what I’ve done,” paul replied. We’re not appearing in Johannesburg proper. I’ve arranged for an appearance in an open air amphitheater north of the city. Only the Bantu's and other blacks and those of mixed blood are invited. I don’t think the whites will dare show up there. Antiapartheid feeling is still running high and they wouldn’t dare cross the color barrier.”
George Jumped up and hugged his agent. “Damned fine planning, Paul,” he laughed. “We’ll snub those white bigots and give ‘em some of their own medicine. The irony is perfect!”
Still chuckling at the huge practical joke they were going to pull on the South African whites, George sat down and Connor continued to list their itinerary until he would up the trip with a last stop in Sydney, Australia and the long hop home.
“...and that’s about it. The advance publicity and sales team have just submitted their report. The path is clear. Our BTD is Friday at fourteen hundred hours. That put us in London at one P.M. on Friday.
Lydia stretched, yawned and stood up. She hugged her two men and said. “Let’s get crackin’! It’s time to start packin’!”
TWENTY-ONE
The 707 taxied slowly toward the terminal, almost as if it hesitated to stop there. On the sides a red, white and blue stripe ran from the nose to the towering tail which was emblazoned with the initials G.P. There was a face peering out every port on the terminal side. Apprehension was written each as it took in the scene.
The Potter party had grown used to mammoth demonstrations at each stop on the world tours, but this one was certainly different, and each felt mixed emotions at the pandemonium taking place beyond the police cordon that held back the thousands of screaming Johannesburgers.
Actually, there were two demonstrations. Each sharply contrasted the other in color, purpose and tone. To the right banners waved and bounced as they announced: YANKEE GO HOME! BUZZ OFF GEORGE!, PISS ON POTTER!, and epithets of similar ilk. The banners were borne by screaming whites who shouted obscenities. As the plane rolled slowly toward them, they began to throw vegetables of questionable freshness along with eggs and missiles that were unrecognizable and suspicious. The missiles fell short of the plane, but gave the passengers the impression that this group, at least, wasn’t too happy with ol’ George.
On the left, an even larger crowed waved and screamed. Their banners read differently:
WE LOVE YOU GEORGE!, WELCOME POTTERS!, COLOREDS WANT GEORGIE! Their cries echoed the love and adulation of their banners. And those who yelled and hollered and stomped in anticipation of seeing their idol were black in contrast to the whites who so resoundingly denounced the pop star.
The plane stopped some distance from the crowd. Both factions pushed forward, but were held back by the determined police force. The mobs waited impatiently, yet there was no apparent action from the plane; no move was made by the passengers to disembark.
Inside the plane a quick strategy conference was being held between George Potter, Paul Connor, Lydia and the band members.
“Maybe if we just ran down the steps and rushed to the colored group, we’d be safe,” suggested one of the players.
“We could slide down the escape chutes,” offered another. “That would be faster.”
“I dunno,” mentioned the King. “They’re only throwing vegetables and such right now. Who’s to say they won’t toss a bomb or take pot shots at us if we show ourselves. I think we should wait and see what happens.”
“Hey George, take a look at this!” called Lydia as she pressed her face to the port beside her.
The other passengers rushed to their respective ports to learn why she was so excited. From the colored crowd an ominous group was advancing toward the plane. A large party of natives, who looked like the were dressed for battle. ran at a steady lope toward the aircraft. In one hand each carried a spear, in the other,a shield. Behind them other blacks drove the passenger ramp toward them. This was followed by a dusty sedan and several old army trucks.
&n
bsp; The natives hurried to the forward exit hatch and stood aside to allow room for the ramp. When it was in place, the tribesmen moved in and their overlapping shields form a tight protective wall around the steps. The spears stuck out like the quills of a porcupine. At last the exit port opened slowly and a face peeked out. It was the flight attendant. She pushed the door open and a familiar figure stepped on to the landing platform. It was the King himself, George Potter.
He was dressed in a white tropical suit and wore his Panama hat cocked at a jaunty angle. Completely ignoring the crowd of whites to the right, he bowed and waved to the wildly cheering group on the left. Both crowds redoubled their efforts to drown out the other. One side screaming their love, the other their hate.
A black official called up to George from just beyond the cordon of natives.
“Please hurry, Mr. Potter. This situation looks dangerous!”
George didn’t hesitate, but ran down the steps and into the protection of the raised shield and spears. Lydia and Paul were close behind, followed by the members of the band and their stage manager, Johnny Dent.
After the passengers were within the confines of the living fortification, the war party moved to the sedan and completely surrounded it to allow George, Lydia and Paul to enter the small car in safety. Then the group moved on to one of the trucks. More natives from the truck helped form a wall to protect the musicians. All gathered around it to allow the band members to climb aboard.
Johnny Dent stayed behind with a group of natives who helped him unload the instruments, sound equipment and lights from the plane, and load them into the second truck. Then the entire caravan moved off, took a wide berth around the white dissenters and slowly made their way through the black crowd. George and Lydia leaned far out of the sedan to shake the black hands that were thrust eagerly toward them.
The caravan made its way through the crowd and hurried through the city streets where they were alternately cheered and condemned by the blacks and whites. Along the streets huge banners announced the white nationalists displeasure with the famous pop hero.
Finally the small convoy was out on the open highway and moving through the industrial section of Johannesburg.
Lydia gasped at the gigantic hills behind the city...hills of hues from white to beige. Their host, newspaper editor, John Ngwadi explained that Johannesburg is the largest gold producing center in the world and the mines go over a thousand feet into the ground under the city and surrounding countryside. The hills are heaps of waste from the giant smelters. His people are the miners. Bantu tribesmen. Mostly Zulu like their war party welcoming committee.
The caravan moved on into the rolling grassy countryside. They came at last to a small valley a few miles outside the city to the north. There the visitors were shown to a tribal encampment situated in a clump of silver trees within the mile high valley. The convoy drove into a clearing surrounded by native dwellings and were greeted by another crowd. This time composed mostly of women and Children. The younger men, explained their host, were away at the mines and would be home at nightfall. As the guests descended from their various vehicles, the were greeted by cheers and laughter. From the background came the unmistakable sound of George’s singing. Again the newspaperman gave them the reason. The black radio station had declared this to be George Potter Day, and was playing only songs by the American pop star.
An ancient black gentleman in native dress came forward. Despite his obvious age, he stood tall and erect; a proud man who barely leaned on the staff he carried in one hand. The newspaper introduced the old man to the Potter party.
“I’d like you to meet George and Lydia Potter, Paul Connor and the rest of his congregation, Chief. Folks, this is Chief Ngogozi, the leader of these people.”
George and Lydia bowed slightly in respect and the old man extended a firm handshake. “Welcome George and Lydia...Mr. Connor, we are exceedingly pleased you are able to join us today.” Smiling, he acknowledged the rest of the party.
The old man spoke beautiful Oxford English and leading the way he motioned for the party to follow him.
They moved on to an area before an impressive dwelling that must be the Chief’s palace. All of the buildings were constructed of the ubiquitous grass from the five thousand foot high meadows; liberally mixed with mud and baked under the South African sun. The Chief’s house was decorated with flower garlands and woven mats of dyed grasses.
He indicated for them to sit under one of the silver trees which shaded the area. Cooking fires blazed in the distance and it became obvious the visitors were about to partake of the Zulu Chief’s hospitality. The setting was rustic but the food was served on Dresden china accompanied by an excellent silver service.
The Chief explained this was his summer home. He lived in a brick mansion in Transkeai during the winter months. The guests were hungry and consumed the food with great relish. Lydia commented favorably onto delicate flavor of the main meat course.
“I’d hoped you’d like it, Mrs. Potter. That’s Rock Python, a great delicacy in these parts.”
Lydia who could eat anything and was always willing to try something new and exotic, smiled and returned to her lunch. George, likewise, but Paul Connor who had a delicate stomach winced slightly. He’d eaten nearly all of his serving and placed his plate carefully in front of him on the mat. The Chief laughed merrily and the rest joined in.
After they had finished their lunch, the Chief suggested a siesta before moving to the performance site. He also mentioned a small snack before the show. “Leftover Python,” laughed the Chief with a glance at Paul Connor,who blanched slightly.
Johnny Dent asked the Chief if he could pass on the siesta. He’d like to get his equipment out to the site and set up. The Chief nodded and clapping his hands ordered the driver and several natives to accompany the stage manager and his grips.
****
George and Lydia slept under an outdoor canopy where two native children stood guard to whisk away the flies. They awoke refreshed and George was raring to go. The sun had begun to settle toward the rim of the hills and he wanted to checkout the equipment, and warm up. The chief treated them to goat cheese, crackers and milk as well as fresh tropical fruit, before they left for the performance area. He told them:
“It’s only a couple of kilometers from here. We’ll join you as soon as the men return from the mines and have had their supper.”
Lydia, George, Paul and the musicians boarded a truck and were driven quickly to an area where the hills formed an enormous natural amphitheater. Paul counted the imaginary house.
Well over a hundred thousand! he thought. Actually no tickets would be sold . The Bantu and colored association had paid handsomely to bring the star to entertain. George, much to Paul’s chagrin, had returned most of the money to their Native Relief Fund.
John Dent had set up the portable stage at the high end of the natural basin. There were already several thousand natives in attendance. They’d arrived early to get good seats. Small cooking fires dotted the area where they prepared their evening meals, and a mixture of tantalizing smells wafted on the soft afternoon breeze.
George’s party drove directly to the stage area and each went to his position. There was normally no power at the site, but the entertainment committee, headed by their newspaper friend, had contracted a concrete bunker be built behind a hill and had installed a powerful gas generator. The bunker would muffle the sound and protect the power source from sabotage by malicious whites.
Someone sounded an A on the electric piano, and the group tuned up. While John Dent checked the sound equipment, the band went through several numbers. George held himself back. The rarified air would mean he’d need all his energy for the evening’s performance. Still, the famous voice floated across the amphitheater and the natives applauded enthusiastically.
Everything was in readiness by the time the sun went down, leaving
a full moon to light the amazing spectacle in the hills of South Africa. Great crowds had been arriving all evening. Most had walked many miles to be there and by seven-thirty, the great basin was jammed. Near eight o’clock, a strange thing happened. In spite of any language barrier, the natives began calling George’s name. It wasn’t impatience which prompted this, but reverence. An almost religious chant spilled forth from the crowd as they sang out in various Bantu dialects: “George Potter...
George Potter...”
Precisely at eight the stage was flooded with light from the mercury vapor lights. A bright-colored spot swept the stage area as the eight piece band broke into Potter’s theme song...Cross Country. When the singer stepped onto the stage, the amphitheater rang with wave after wave of cheering, clapping, stamping applause.
The crowd quieted immediately when George began to sing. It was a new song dedicated just to them. It told of their oppression under apartheid rule, their new freedom, and the promise of better things to come. Where possible, the singer translated the words into the most popular Bantu dialect as he sang of a return to their pride in themselves, and their resolve to rule their own country. Spies for the current government brought back news that George Potter had preached sedition and rebellion.
George sang on and on into the night and the natives sometimes sang and danced along with him. In the open area beneath the stage, Zulu warriors performed dances of life and love, for it was certainly love that filed the natural amphitheater that night. Love for George Potter, and love for heir own race...the proud Bantu.
At last the program ended. George was tired but happy, and Lydia laughed through her tears while the tribesmen gathered about her husband and the rest of the band and carried them around the great open theater to the cheers of the of the many thousands who filled the place. It was a great night! One of the greatest of George’s career.