White City Blue
And then my chance came. My chance to move onward and upward and away. And I took that chance, and in the process got myself three things: a nickname, a new friend and an enduring sense of shame.
It happened after Tony destroyed a teacher. A teacher who was otherwise famous for his acuity and toughness with the kids. Laid him to waste. It was awesome, and became legendary. After it happened he became untouchable. After that you had to be with him or against him, you see. Which is why, when Colin…
But I will come to that. The legend goes as follows. Everyone who was there will have a different memory of it. This is mine.
The teacher – Tony’s victim – was Dr Fred Koinange, a handsome, English-educated South African religious studies teacher who managed to achieve a kind of dignified disdain towards the children. He was an impressive and grave man, with an air of faint sadness, who, we had heard, had lost several members of his family in the struggle against apartheid. His younger brother, so the story went, was tortured to death by the security forces.
He was black, of course, and although this was not much of an issue among the children – who saw Authority before they saw anything else, and Koinange had Authority, inborn as well as acquired – Koinange knew that it was a difference that could be exploited with particular ease. All differences sooner or later were – if you were slightly too tall, or slightly too clever, or slightly too poor, all these things would eventually be used against you. It was the speciality of all children to find out the Other, and Tony was master among specialists. Koinange, knowing well of his cruelty and dexterity, hit him at once and stamped hard on him from the first. What’s more, as a kind of pre-emptive strike, he got personal. That was his mistake.
Tony had one Achilles’ heel, his established and well-known weak point. He was Italian – both by place of birth, Calabria, and through Sicilian parents, who were respectable, but poorly educated wine merchants. I heard that when he first came to school, at the age of five, he was very dark and almost unable to speak any English at all.
Since those early days, for reasons only known to himself, he had come to hate his Italian background and was determined to establish himself as English through and through. He never spoke Italian and was claiming even then, at the age of twelve or thirteen, that he had forgotten how. Instead, he spoke a carefully enunciated, almost wilfully urban London guttural, exactly like that of any Shepherd’s Bush housing trust glue snorter.
Koinange smelt out Tony’s weakness from the first. He was a skilled mimic and could use this power to devastating effect, because he could summon and aim laughter like a stand-up comic. Mockery was the weapon with which he kept his classes tame. So when Tony overstepped the mark, as he occasionally, and usually deliberately, did, Koinange managed to muster an Italian accent adequate enough to torment him.
There had at this time recently been a record in the top ten by a ridiculous pastiche-Italian called Joe Dolce, who pandered to English prejudice about that nationality. His persona was that of a rotund simpleton whose horizons were bounded by mamma, spaghetti and ice cream.
His hit song – his first and last – was called ‘Shaddap You Face’ and, when provoked by Tony, Koinange would saunter up to the boy’s desk, thrust his face six inches away and launch into a cod version of the song to a hurdy-gurdy tune.
The last line of the chorus was the same as the title. SHADDAP YOU FACE.
The impersonation was poor, but it was enough; the classroom would erupt into laughter, turned like knives against Tony. The last four syllables were spat out with real menace to add to the effect. The swell of laughter neutered Tony, as Koinange knew it would. But it enraged him too. He vowed revenge. His lazy eyes became ever colder.
This eventually came one Tuesday afternoon during a double lesson. The whole episode was planned. I know as much because me and Colin heard Tony boasting before the lesson that he was going to ‘get’ Koinange.
I’m going to nail that stuck-up twat. Just you watch. He won’t fuck with me again in a hurry. In an hour’s time he won’t know what hit him.
He wasn’t boasting to me – I was, with Colin, too much of the outsider, too much of the little freako. But he noticed us overhear him and gave me an icy glance that was unquestionably a warning.
The subject under discussion that day with Koinange was ‘Do animals have souls?’ It was a liberal kind of school, Godolphin Grammar, and the religious curriculum was very loosely adhered to. Thus religious studies became a kind of talking shop for any issues that were raised. This was the early 1980s, and green issues, including animal liberation, were topical. This class had been flagged in advance, which is why I suspect Tony had his strategy so well planned.
The class began, as was normal, with Koinange stamping his authority on the unruly class. Two girls were gossiping; Koinange’s tactic was simply to stand in silence and fix his eye on offenders. Some hidden power in him did the rest, shaming whoever he turned his gaze to. Often, this was Tony, trying to maintain his status as dominant male. On this occasion, however, he was entirely quiet and sat at his desk.
The lesson began. Koinange, despite his instinct for discipline, was schooled in modern teaching methods. This meant not just preaching from a pulpit to a stunned, indifferent congregation but getting the children involved.
This too Tony knew, his lazy eyes still for once, fixed on Koinange. He sat and waited while Koinange began with a reading from the Bible, then a brief extract from an Animal Liberation Front manifesto. The class obediently listened and waited for the teacher to finish. After a while he put down the books and turned to the class.
Now. How do we approach a matter like this? What kind of avenues should we explore? Anyone have any bright ideas?
Tony’s hand shot up. This in itself was unusual – Tony rarely moved at anything faster than medium speed. But Koinange was not suspicious.
Tony. Va bene. Come sta?
Sir. Do you have a pet, sir?
This was the clever part – the affected innocence of it, along with the intuitive understanding that Tony had of what Koinange would do with the question. Koinange was, unlike some of the teachers, intensely private about his personal life, knowing that the slightest detail could provide ammunition for restless children. Tony knew this, and he guessed that the question would be turned around, and it was.
None of your business, Signor Diamonte. What goes on in my life is my affair. Capiche? But your idea is good. Do you believe your pets have personalities? Do you believe they have thoughts, emotions? That they can understand you, in short? Who here has a pet?
About fourteen hands in the class of thirty went up. I kept mine down; although our family kept two cats, I had learned, automatically, to keep my hands by my sides in class, as I came to understand that cleverness or eagerness to learn, especially among the already marked, the already scarred, was not to be displayed, any more than was stupidity. Both were hateful in the eyes of the great and average mass of B- and C-graders.
Although Tony’s hand on this occasion went up, it was a sly half-flag, designed not to attract early attention. Koinange picked off a few of the other kids first, who told stories about their goldfish, cats, hamsters. Unusually, Colin was emboldened to speak, about the rabbit his mother had bought him for Christmas. As he spoke in a voice too low for most of the children to pick up, Tony’s hand got higher, but he did not stretch or speak. The appearance he maintained was that of someone largely indifferent to whether he was picked out or not. Nevertheless, sat as he was – deliberately? – a few desks from the front, Koinange finally picked his hand out of the cluster.
Diamonte, do you have a pet?
It’s a dog, sir. A Labrador. We’ve had him since I was a little boy.
A dog. Good. It is very common to suppose that dogs possess personalities. They seem to respond to us in a way that is almost human – to pine, to love, even to express humour. But I wonder. Is this something we project on to the animals, from our own minds? Do we humanize wha
t are no more than… than…
Dumb brutes, sir?
Well, that is a little harsh perhaps. Your own dog, for instance. Surely, you think of him as more than –
Oh no, sir. He’s a very stupid dog. He thinks he is clever, but he is stupid. When we try to teach him tricks he gets them all wrong. And he’s dirty. He piss – wees on the carpet.
Giggles broke out. Tony did not join in. Koinange held up his hand and the noise ceased.
Not much of a dog by the sound of it.
No, sir. He should be put down really. He’s no good.
Tony said this with an unpleasant edge to his voice that suggested he wasn’t joking. Koinange was clearly surprised – all the other children had launched into paeans of praise and affection for their chosen pets. The class remained silent. An odd atmosphere was developing – a sense that the conversation was straying to the edges of what Koinange deemed permissible. The teacher seemed slightly fazed now, unsure whether or not he was being taunted in some strange way.
Surely not. To have this pet of yours put down? Do you have no feelings for – what is – what is the dog’s name?
This was the moment that Tony had been waiting for. Had in fact designed. But even at this moment, he held fire, his low and clever mind calculating as always. There was an extended pause.
I don’t know, sir.
Koinange immediately became irritated, convinced now that Tony was playing a game with him, was deliberately cheeking him. Yet he wasn’t clever enough to know which game it was.
Don’t be silly, boy. How can you not know the name of your own dog?
I… I just don’t want to say, sir. It’s kind of… a secret.
Koinange, now infuriated, walked towards Tony and stood in front of his desk. He launched into his mock-Italian Joe Dolce impersonation on cue, face six inches from that of the boy.
Shaddap You Face!
Koinange began to prod him, gently at first, then more firmly with a finger.
Shaddap You Face!
The class began to laugh, then stopped dead as Tony spoke at last. The word that came out was spoken with exact neutrality, but with a deadly clarity that transmitted above Koinange’s mocking song and to the corners of the class.
Nigger, sir.
Koinange looked as if he had been slapped. He stopped singing immediately and colour drained from his face. He saw the trap, all at once, how it had been planned from the first; but the knowing was no good, it was too late. The knowledge just compounded the outrage. There was a slight shake to his hands as he spoke again, with a deadly quietness. Outside, a playing-field whistle blew.
What did you say?
Tony regarded him innocently, gave a shrug, as if to say, You pushed me to it. You made me do it. His voice, however, was laced with contempt now. He knew what he wanted from Koinange and he knew that he was going to get it. When he spoke again, the words lashed the air.
I said Nigger, sir. My dog’s name is Nigger. He’s a big stupid dog, a dirty, stupid black mongrel.
The moment held now; something was going to topple, and Tony knew it. The slightest push. He just gave the faintest of smiles, the most infinitesimal registering of triumph on his face. It was enough to seal that triumph absolutely.
Koinange took a step back, raised his hand and smacked Tony with his open palm across the face. The boy fell back on to the floor; even now he did not lose his composure entirely, although his eyes began to smart with tears. It was a very hard slap, almost a punch.
But, sir, you asked me what my dog’s –
Koinange struck again, this time with the back of his palm, hard. A gold ring on his finger cut Tony’s lip. The impression of welts was established immediately. Twice more; this time a thin line of blood emerged from his nose. Then Koinange seized him by the shoulders and began to shake him, wordlessly. Tony, although crying now, was also smiling, an empty, violent smile. He knew he had won. This fact began to settle on Koinange too. Gradually he relaxed his grip and took a step back, standing stock still before the stunned class. Then he simply turned on his heel and went out of the room, leaving the door open.
Tony did not make a move to adjust his disordered clothing, his bleeding nose, the rising marks on his cheek. He sat himself upright, shook himself down. The impression he gave was one of consummate self-control and returned arrogance. Mayhem broke out in the class. Suddenly, through the open door, as if planned, another teacher appeared.
What’s going on here? What the hell’s all this noise? Where’s Dr Koinange?
The teacher then spotted Tony, still collapsed on the floor.
Jesus Christ, boy. What happened to you?
Tony’s demeanour suddenly changed again. The composure of a few seconds ago gave way to carefully orchestrated tears. He transformed himself into someone truly pathetic and forlorn. His face was very clearly marked by physical blows, an instant dismissal offence for any teacher.
Sir. Mr Koinange, he… I… oh, sir…
Tony affected to be unable to speak any more. At random, the teacher turned to me, sitting as I was at the front of the class. Or I presume it was at random. I think in those days I had a reputation for honesty, for being above the fray. It was one of my qualifications for being a freak and a misfit. Clever and honest, I was, whether I liked it or not, In With The Enemy, and this was one of the causes of my exclusion.
You, Blue. What happened here?
I saw at that moment how many truths there were to each situation, and how the truths you chose had to do with where your loyalties lay, to whom your sentiments were attracted. Although I had a sense some wrong had been done to Koinange, that he had been tripped up, Koinange was a teacher, Tony a pupil; the way forward, for me, suddenly clarified, was not in doubt. I saw the way to escape my status as outsider and took it.
Mr Koinange punched him, sir.
What Koinange did was less punch than slap, but only slightly, so it was merely the tiniest fib. But it felt wonderful to speak the words, to deliver skewed judgement. Suddenly the classroom broke out into an excited, shocked babble.
He did, sir –
Because he –
Asked the dog’s –
It was only –
Tony didn’t want to –
The teacher held up his hand and shouted for the class to be silent. He turned to me again.
He hit Diamonte? That’s ridiculous. What for? Blue?
He just told him the name of his dog, sir.
The teacher, bewildered, stopped for a moment. The class went silent. Then, tenderly, he knelt down by Tony, who had made himself seem much smaller than he actually was and had continued crying pitiably.
You’d better come with me, Diamonte. You too, Blue, since you seem to know what happened. I think we should go to the headmaster’s office right now.
He took one last look around the room.
Burden, you too.
Like me, Colin was thought of as a plain dealer. He walked across to join us like a terrified rabbit, sensing already perhaps that he was going to have to make some kind of terrible choice. As we walked down the corridor together, Tony watched me out of the corner of his eye.
The interrogation by the head was simple and short. It turned out that Koinange had already been to see him, briefly, and had done his best to put a decent gloss on events. But one sight of Tony destroyed any sympathy that the head might have had for the hapless teacher. The sight was shocking. His face was cut and bruised, and stained with filthy tears. He had been careful not to wipe away any of the blood.
I knew I had helped to put Koinange into deep trouble. I said nothing about how Tony had planned the whole thing from beginning to end. Above all, I didn’t rat – it was one of the rules I was beginning to learn, the rules of the new games that didn’t have names.
The headmaster, an avowed liberal who believed in informal, child-centred teaching, had issued strict instructions against any form of physical punishment of the pupils, a fact that was well known at
all levels of the school. Tony had certainly known it well. The head was clearly particularly humiliated that the blow had been struck by a black teacher since he actually operated a strict quota system for ethnic minorities that had come in for a lot of flak from more traditional teachers at the school. Koinange had been a personal appointment, hard fought for, since his actual qualifications had fallen short of what was normally necessary for a teacher at Godolphin’s. I could see that he was furious with Koinange, that he thought he had been betrayed. Towards the end of the interview he turned to me.
Blue, Mr Koinange has admitted striking Tony Diamonte. But he says the whole thing was deliberately planned to provoke him. Do you know anything of this?
I felt Tony’s powerful presence by my side. I searched my conscience. So far, everything I had said had been the truth, albeit an edited version of it. My mother and father had always told me to tell the truth. Mr Koinange himself told me that to lie would be punished by God. And right there and then, I made up my mind what to do.
Absolutely not, sir. It wasn’t like that at all. Mr Koinange just attacked him. Diamonte was only telling the truth, after all.
The particular cleverness of Tony’s scam being that his parents really did have a dog called Nigger, Sicilians not being much noted for their enlightened attitudes towards race.
The head exhaled. He believed me. It was at that moment I understood the enormous power of the lie. The beauty of it.
Then the head turned his face to the terrified Colin, fixed him with a penetrating eye.