The Power of One Page #11

POLICE #2

Papers, man. Come on, be quick.

Nguni reaches into his pocket.

POLICE #1

Where you coming from?

PK:

Gym, sir. I train there.

POLICE #1

And you?

MORRIE:

I'm his manager.

The Police look at each other and share a laugh.

POLICE #2

(to Maria)

And you're the sparring partner,

hey?

The Police laugh. Police #2, satisfied Nguni's papers

are in order, hands them back.

POLICE #2

You have an hour to curfew and a

long way to go, kaffir. Be off.

NGUNI:

(subservient)

Yes, baas. Going right now.

Nguni moves off, no semblance of the proud man in his

gait.

PK:

62.

Nguni.

Nguni turns.

PK:

I'll do it.

Nguni smiles and disappears into the night. PK watches

him go.

CUT TO:

77 EXT. DEVILLIERS SCHOOL 77

PK and Maria stand by the tree set to climb over the

wall.

MARIA:

I'm scared for you, PK.

PK:

Solly's a great teacher. He

wouldn't put me in a fight I

couldn't handle.

MARIE:

I mean about how involved you are

with the black people. That

scares me.

PK:

Because you don't understand them.

MARIA:

No I don't.

PK:

If you did you wouldn't be so

scared. You ever have a

conversation with a black person?

MARIA:

Of course.

PK:

Besides a servant.

Maria's silence is her answer.

PK:

You should sometime.

MARIA:

I hate it when you tease me.

63.

PK:

Sorry.

He kisses her.

MARIA:

(pouty)

No you're not.

PK:

Yes I am.

He kisses her again. This time she responds, kissing him

back. The kisses become more passionate, touching, feeling.

The heat in both of them begins to rise when a car

passes, its headlights arcing across the tree, startling

them out of their passion. They cling to the shadows

until the car turns the corner.

MARIA:

I better go.

They kiss once, lightly. PK boosts her over the wall and

waits until she is safely on the other side before running

off into the night.

CUT TO:

78 INT. OXFORD BOARD OF EXAMINERS ROOM - DAY 78

The Oxford Board of EXAMINERS, eminent academics all, sit

four across at a lecture table, looking absolutely musty

with learning. Across from them PK sits, a folder in his

lap. One man, PROFESSOR LEWIS, peruses the file in front

of him.

LEWIS:

According to your submission you

have ambitions to be a writer and

the welterweight boxing champion of

the world.

Lewis reads the last sentence with a tinge of amusement

in his voice.

PK:

Yes, sir.

LEWIS:

Don't you find seeking a career as

a pugilist and reading for a

degree at Oxford a bit, how shall

we put it, intellectually

64.

incompatible.

PK:

Lord Byron was a boxer, sir. And

I've never heard anyone question

his intellectual integrity.

One of the other Examiners coughs theatrically to hide

his smile. Lewis looks down the table at the man.

LEWIS:

I do not recall Lord Byron

actually engaging in matches for

money.

PK:

Actually, sir, there are several

recorded instances of Lord Byron

engaging in matches for quite

large sums of money.

EXAMINER #2

Quite right. Yes. In a letter to

his wife Shelley makes mention of

just such a thing. For hundreds

of pounds, actually.

Lewis has heard enough.

LEWIS:

Let's move along, shall we? As

your presentational you've

requested to read from a work of

your own fiction.

PK:

Yes, sir.

LEWIS:

Well, then, let us hope we'll be

treated to the stirrings of

another Byron.

His sarcasm is not lost on PK. PK ignores it, opens his

folder, and begins to read.

PK:

The Concerto for the Southland and

the Death of Geel Piet.

(pause)

His name was Geel Piet -- yellow

Peter. He was a mix of half the

blood in Africa -- Dutch,

Portuguese, Zulu, Sotha, and who

knew what else. His father

65.

deserted his mother before he was

born. His stepfather threw him

out to survive on the streets of

Capetown when he was nine.

CUT TO:

79 INT. BARBERTON PRISON BOXING RING 79

Geel Piet is instructing a nine-year-old PK in the Geel

Piet eight. Both boy and man are enjoying what they do

-- and each other.

PK (V.O.)

When I met him he had spent forty

of his fifty-five years in one

South African prison or another.

He was a thief, a con man, a black

marketeer.

As the narration continues, the SCENE FADES TO:

80 TWELVE-YEAR-OLD PK 80

with a much better grasp of the Geel Piet eight. He and

Geel Piet seem closer than ever.

PK (V.O.)

He may even have killed a man or

two in his time. But despite all

that he was one of the kindest,

wisest, most self-effacing persons

I ever knew. He was my teacher;

he was my friend.

FADE TO:

81 INT. PRISON ROOM 81

PK sits opposite a black prisoner who talks to him. PK,

thirteen years old now, writes what the man says on a

piece of paper. When he is finished, he folds it, puts

it into an envelope, and hand it to the man. The man

smiles, shakes PK's hand profusely, and exits. PK turns

to Geel Piet who is on his hands and knees polishing the

floor, seemingly part of the surroundings. Geel Piet and

PK share a smile.

PK (V.O.)

Geel Piet bore no animosity, held

no hate. Should a guard beat him

he regarded it as self-inflicted,

66.

the result of some carelessness on

his part. To survive the system

he lived in he became an expert in

the art of camouflage, a master of

the invisible. In this he strove

to be perfect, and in the end it

was his quest for perfection that

provoked anger from above and

killed him.

CUT TO:

82 EXT. PRISON CACTUS GARDEN 82

Quite advanced after five years of planting. PK and Geel

Piet are bent over a cactus, transplanting it. A group

of prisoners on the way to a hard-labor work task march

by. They chant a verse to Onoshobishobi Ingelosi. PK is

a little embarrassed by it.

PK:

You know every time they do that I

want to jump up and say I'm just a

twelve-year-old. I'm not anything

else.

GEEL PIET:

To them you are. You are the one

who brings the smoke, the one who

writes the letters, the one who

puts clothes on their children

when they are cold. You are

Onoshobishobi Ingelosi.

PK:

But you know that's not true.

GEEL PIET:

Who is to say what is true and

what is not true, kleine baas.

Doc comes running up, excited, waving a newspaper.

DOC:

The Allied armies have crossed the

Rhine into Germany. It is almost

over.

PK:

That's great, isn't it?

He turns to Geel Piet.

GEEL PIET:

67.

(subdued)

Yes, kleine baas.

DOC:

You are a good faker, Geel Piet.

but you don't think it's great at

all. It means you lose your star

letter writer and tobacco

importer.

GEEL PIET:

No matter that, Professor. We

always manage here. What pains me

most is I lose my boxer.

PK:

I'll come back.

GEEL PIET:

(adamant)

No, kleine baas. You leave this

damn place you don't come back

never.

DOC:

Geel Piet, when a painter finishes

a work of art he doesn't lose it.

He sends it out in the world so

everyone can see the genius of his

creation. This is what you are

going to do. And to celebrate the

launch of such a work of art as

you have made our boxer here, I

have composed an entire concerto

-- 'The Concerto for the Southland'

-- which it is my intention to

play in concert for the prisoners

before I leave.

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