David Beresford Another Country As a student I turned up at my favourite pub one evening to find myself banned from the premises for having danced on the tables the night before. I had not been there the night before and I had not danced on the tables (although I subsequently made a point of doing so). I can still remember the sense of suffocation – as if I was being smothered by another’s blanket of reality – until I managed to track down my lookalike who joyfully acknowledged what fun he had had on the table-tops, dancing on my reputation. Most people no doubt have memories of such misrepresentation, commonly dating back to childhood when one falls foul of parental shortcomings on the forensic front with regard to the latest assault on the cookie jar. Somehow they become more serious as one grows older, possibly realising the currency that is public reputation; the value it is given in the mysterious competition which we find ourselves in. Experience also teaches that it is not a currency standing on the gold-standard of truth and that truth will not “out” as some piously assert. Look at how long Richard III has been maligned for his years of goodly rule by the glorious historical fib perpetrated by Shakespeare. The discovery was reported recently that Nero had not been as bad as made, merely enjoying a juvenile taste for such as dancing on tables. But, even if they find a lookalike who fiddled upon the burning of Rome, Nero is likely to have to put up with the smear for many a year yet before the language abandons the pun.
The only “truth” where public reputation is concerned is that there tends to be an inverse ratio between it and private cupidity. By its nature high reputation is just that – a bit smelly. If the reputation arises from wealth then, as the cliche informs us, a crime usually lies behind it. If it lies in political office it arouses suspicion about a folie de grandeur, or some other form of mental aberration familiar to politicians. And if one has the misfortune to be catapulted to fame by some quirk of fashion, there is inevitably a resort to drugs, drink or other extremes of behaviour to protect the psyche from personal reality and daily anticipation of the public discovery of it. Public reputation is seemingly another of those social (as opposed to personal) realities; a myth, necessary to the good ordering of society. As such it ranks with others such as the notion that the bank has “your” money secure in their vaults. Or that there is a reliable link between the judicial process and justice. Or, for that matter, that one can believe what one reads in newspapers, hears, or even sees unfold on the broadcast news. Everyone knows the myth, but connives to represent it as the truth on the basis that the show must go on. Is this perhaps why libels and slanders are only actionable by the living? Because, with death, reputation is of no social relevance and is consigned to the grave ornamented by the tombstone of vitriolic biography? Libel damages are not a reflection of hurt done but of a worried society putting a price to it should this sort of thing get out of hand. Blasphemy was a frightful offence when the church was central to the government, because such as a denial of the existence of God would have undermined the structure of society at the time and cre-ll ated chaos. The llll same with the trea- lll sonous crime of lSse- majest’ in the ll time of absolute monarchy. It isll only now, in thell consumer society whenllll the head of state isllll assumed to be immedi-lll ately and endlesslylll replaceable, that welll feel able (well, in somelll jurisdictions, at least) tolll pry into the personal lives of presidents. The above line of thought was precipitated by the last edition of this newspaper. As is customary upon opening it, I first hurriedly turned to the letters page, to check how the public reputation was faring. Sadly reflecting that there is nothing worse than to nurse a personal reputation in which the public takes no interest, my eye fell on one particular letter. It was written by Paul Setsetse, described as “media representative to the minister of justice and constitutional development”, who declares himself to be writing in his personal capacity. The letter charged sports writer Gavin Evans with racism for having complained about the failure of black South Africans to win more medals at thelll Olympics. Having read the report in question, as an attack on the authorities for giving insufficient support to black athletes, and knowing Evans as a man whose stand against racism was such, during apartheid, that the security forces went to some lengths to try to kill him, I was left reflecting on the wisdom of our minister, in not having Setsetse address the matter on his behalf. Paging towards the front of the news- paper I stumbled across the story of black municipal employees who have laid a charge of racism with the Human Rights Commission against the mayor of Cape Town, Nomaindia Mfeko, who is seemingly black. Slumping back in my chair, my eye was caught by a much- fingered cutting from the previous week’s edition, reporting that employees of the Commission for Conciliation, Mediation and Arbitration had charged their seemingly black director, Thandi Orleyn, with racism and supported the accusation with the detail that she had had a German grandmother. “That the director is only black outside and lily-white inside is an open secret,” a member of staff was quoted as declaring. Feeling the onset of a Kafkaesque panic attack I shuffled and shook my way into my shower, the scene – as loyal readers may remember – of past triumphs of deductive reasoning. But this time all I could conjure up with the rising clouds of steam was my youth, hurrying from door to door in indignant search for his lookalike. Thinking of the frustrated indignations as yet to come I wondered how he would react if I could whisper in his ear: “It’s all just a question of different realities … try another pub.” Probably give me the finger across the gulf of time.