by Xingjian Gao
Who’s the mouse? Who’re the cats?
You don’t know? You really don’t know?
Don’t go smashing up things! You’re not a kid any more!
I can’t help it—
Man is different from animals.
What if he was an animal?
You’ve got to understand, this is not your home, you know.
I understand. I understand everything.
That’s good.
Then it’s over.
What’s over?
You’ve been with so many women, don’t you know?
No, I really don’t know.
All right, I promise I won’t fool around no more.
It’s a deal. (Kisses her.)
Don’t you worry! (Pushes him away and turns around.)
Anne, Cecile
Are you all right?
I’m fine. It’s just the finger, I’ve got a bandage on it already.
Don’t let it come into contact with water. I’ll clean up the kitchen later.
Sorry, I was a bit uptight just now.
It’s no big deal.
My worries are over, I’m having my period.
Bernard, Daniel
Would you believe you can never truly possess a woman?
It’s quite true, so you’d better give up the idea.
But tell me honestly, can you really give it up?
You’ve got to admit that you can’t.
You see, women, not art, are the most exquisite creations in the world.
Then why are you still painting?
God can’t be surpassed, no matter how hard we try. Man craves immortality, so he ransacks his brain to manufacture all kinds of illusions, and art is no more than an illusion created by man to be his plaything. And women, they’re always beyond your reach, you can’t truly possess them. You can only possess illusions, something you label as art.
I guess that’s why you’ve turned to painting women now that you’ve finished with your abstracts, despite the fact that they’re all illusions, right?
And there’s no way you can someday say that you’ve painted them all, I mean women and illusions.
Cecile
A fickle lover whose heart is not there,
An old man who’s crazy about her, but who is old enough to be her grandfather,
And she dances and shuffles her feet between the two, tick tap, tick tap!
Making a face at this one, forcing a smile towards the other.
Better be a bird than a butterfly,
Hopping from one branch to another, nobody can get a hold of it.
She’s cunning like they say she is, if she wasn’t, how could she keep a hold on her men?
Why on earth do they have to be men? Why on earth did she have to be born so pretty?
Where there’s a garden there’re birds.
Tick, tick, tap—tick tick tap—tick tick tap tap!
Bernard, Daniel
What’s she singing?
Who knows? Whenever she’s happy she tends to run off at the mouth.
She’s a happy little girl.
Exactly, as happy as a dog with two tails.
When you’re my age, you’ll find out that’s the hardest thing to do.
Anne, Cecile
You have a really exquisite voice.
Thank you, but I haven’t had any training or anything.
You’re still young, you can learn.
It’s not something you can learn in two or three days, you’ve got to train your voice every day and take lessons.
You look like you have plenty of time, don’t you?
It takes money, and the fees can be very high. You know, I met this old man once, he said I was born with a great voice, and he wanted to give me free lessons.
Just what you wanted, right?
But on one condition.
What condition?
To sleep with him.
He said it right out?
He didn’t need to, it was quite clear what he was aiming for, wasn’t it?
If you liked him, why not?
He was too old! Why should I let him feel me up with his hands?
Of course not.
He said he’d take me on a world tour and make me a pop star, and he’d be my manager.
Surely you didn’t believe him?
Why should I sleep with him for nothing? Anyway, he didn’t exactly teach me anything.
But did you take any lessons with him?
He only taught me how to get into his bed…
(Both of them laugh wholeheartedly.)
Daniel
You’re a stranger, destined to be a stranger for ever, you have no hometown, no country, no attachments, no family, and no burdens except paying your taxes.
There is a government in every city, there are officers in every customs station to check passports, and man and wife in every home, but you only prowl from city to city, from country to country and from woman to woman.
You no longer need to take on any town as your hometown, nor any country as your country, nor any woman as your wife.
You have no enemies, and if people want to take you for an enemy to raise their spirits, it’s purely their own business. Your only opponent—yourself—has been killed many times; there’s no need to look for enemies, to commit suicide, or to do battle in a duel.
You have lost all memories, the past has been cut off once and for all.
You have no ideals, you’ve left them behind for other people to think about. At this time you wish, for example, to be a leaf wafting in the wind, or better yet, a bird flying at an angle from a tilted rooftop, watching the warped horizon floundering with you. You’re moving freely in the air, atop cities and oceans, and without a destination, if suddenly there comes a gun shot or if your heart fails, would you leave any trace once you’ve fallen from the sky?
You, you wander between one word and another, between one phrase and another, there is no end, how could language or freedom of speech mean anything to you any more? The same language was once like a clattering steel shackle, impeding you and weighing you down, but now it has become as frivolous as this little slut here…
Anne, Daniel
She doesn’t know why she keeps on dreaming of a black leather bag. No matter how much it’s squeezed, mauled or pounded upon, it still remains so solid and intact.
That’s easy enough, for instance, if I had an awl…
There’s no need.
It wouldn’t hurt to try—
But it’s useless. She also dreamed of a tree on fire, it was just standing there, alone in the deserted wilderness, and she just stared at the raging fire with a blank expression on her face, unmoved, and not hearing any sound.
Because you’re too far away, try getting closer.
She did, but she still had no feelings, because she’s been burned up already. All that’s left of her was just a shadow, a shadow belonging to someone else.
Shadow or not, she’s got to be a woman.
Just a ghost.
Interesting, a daytime ghost. Did she rise from the dead at night?
She’d be even more fearful at night.
Was the night fearful or was it just your own fear of the night?
Nobody could have resurrected her anyway.
Did you try? There’s no harm in talking about it if nobody’s going to get hurt.
You’re the writer, aren’t you? Try to think and imagine it for yourself.
It’s just that the images of my imagination have become feelings. If it were the other way around, then maybe the ghost could be resurrected.
So what? She couldn’t be anything more than one of the living dead.
It remains to be proven.
Just leave her alone.
Just trying to see if she would respond.
She’s poison, better leave her alone.
Bernard
You must prove that you haven’t grown old, you don’t want to admit that death is creeping up
to you step by step.
You have to scream once more, feel once more, and then scream yet one more time, you’re not going to allow them to close that dark and secret door behind you once and forever.
You want—you want to exert the strength left in your already weakened body to do battle once more, to struggle once more, and to…
You want—you’ve already got all you wanted. When you were young, you wanted to have your own car and speed away. Later you wanted to have a huge and classy studio, and now you’ve got a big farm.
You want to have fame, not power. You oppose every kind of authority, all power suffocates you. You tried rebellion and you succeeded, and now those not-worth-a-fart juvenile urchins are telling the world that you’re already passé, but you don’t need to chase after their passing fancies, because you know that their fads will cease to be even before you die.
You don’t need more money, you’re not that greedy, you’ve already got everything you wanted, and that’s enough for you. In that case, what is it that you actually want?
You can’t bear to say it, you can’t say it right out that you crave immortality! Sooner or later your overtaxed body will be consumed, burned out. As for posthumous fame, only Heaven will know. For the time being, you’re using up all your energy, the little energy that’s left in you, to battle against death. It’s a futile struggle, death is waiting quietly by the dark and secret door—
Anne, Daniel
Don’t come over here!
What if he does?
Are you crazy?
He’s as sane as ever.
Then stay where you are.
Just stand here and do nothing?
Keep talking, go on!
About what?
Anything, whatever you want to say, for example, fantasize—
For instance, a little indulgence—
How?
All women know how.
And men don’t?
Men are more direct.
And they don’t fantasize?
How?
For example, try fantasizing nakedness, a naked desire…(softly, and then retreats.)
But you need feelings to fantasize.
What’s wrong with your eyes?
In the arms of a stranger?
No, in a strange place.
Like a trained and obedient animal.
No, rather like a wounded animal,
And then it starts moaning?
It’s not making any noise, it’s only licking its wounds. (Retreats further, smiles and disappears behind the door.)
Quartet No. 3
Anne
This dress suits you very well, don’t you think? Walk around, that’s right, do your stuff and show off that figure of yours! Pull up your skirt, show your legs, good. Show your tits, a bit more…that’s too much…that’s it! Just like a little tart, not the slightest bit of shame, and no hang-ups whatsoever! See that casual look on her face? It’s a real killer. Come on, walk around, move your bum, just like in a fashion show…turn around, do it again, you’ve got to turn smoothly, haven’t you tried modelling before? Don’t laugh! That’s right, show your teeth, you little bitch. Good, lean on the door, no wonder men all have the hots for you. Watch it, someday you’ll get sick and tired of all of these, you’ll feel so tired, would you believe that? Your heart will die all of a sudden, leaving only a body which can’t feel any longer. This is not to scare you, what else is there when you’ve wasted your youth? Nothing lasts forever, except for a tiny bit of memory, like a book which has been read or a story made up by other people, it’s worse than a patch of emptiness in the dark. You don’t understand, at your age you can’t possibly understand. All right, go!
Cecile
I have nothing, I’m a bit sad.
I still have a pair of tits, they’re so firm.
My lips are pouted, like a small animal looking for things to eat.
I also have a pair of nice round legs, every woman has them.
And I have a figure which is every woman’s envy, all my measurements are just right.
I have no fears, in the past I was afraid, but I’m no longer afraid now.
I have no father, I was brought up by my mother.
I don’t go around picking up men, I did, but not any more,
No, I drool all over them now, I didn’t do that before, men like to hear this sort of things, don’t they?
What more should I say? Oh yes, I also want to write a little something…
I don’t write poetry, I just want to write songs, rock and roll or jazz, or stuff like that.
I play the music myself while I sing, but my voice is not good enough, and I’ve got no money to take lessons.
I want to find a rich man, a roof over my head, free rent.
I also want to have a garden, I’ll just lie there on the grass soaking up the sun, doing nothing.
Look at the clouds in the sky, gosh, even the clouds are polluted.
It’s just some empty talk which nobody understands, like trying to chat with men about art.
Daniel
You are not sure
if it’s to pursue excitement
Or it’s to prove
you’re as frivolous
Or you just want to see
what’s going to happen?
Anne
She buries herself under a thick layer of make-up, only she herself knows,
Her face, her look, it’s all fake from her eyelashes to her lips.
Cecile
She’s a sinking ship, an overripe apple, a song sung too many times.
She hops left and right, she breaks out into laughter for no reason, she only wants to turn people on.
Bernard
You go up the stairs and others come down, it wouldn’t be too bad if there’s a heaven above and a hell down below, you’re only afraid that there’s absolutely nothing, a big mass of nothingness.
Anne
She’s a dead fish, stiff, cold and smooth as glass,
A staring round eye on each side, sparkling but unable to see anything.
Cecile
She’s an open book, you can read it whenever you want to.
She’s a deep and shadowy abyss, it swallows herself up.
Daniel
You want to have a woman
and a woman comes
You thought she’d be pretty
and she’s whorish
You thought she’d be glamorous
and she’s frivolous
If you have anything to say
say it
If you have nothing to say
feed them a load of boloney
Anne
She’s not a fast food dish ready to be consumed,
Once the buttons are undone, you know how it’ll all end.
It’s all in the game,
There are no miracles.
Bernard
What’s happening? Your eyes are too old to see, they’re old, unquestionably old! Old age spares nobody, how can you hold it off? You’ve put up a struggle for nothing.
Cecile
In your eyes she’s a little whore. Okay, she’s an out and out whore, so what? She hates all of you from inside her heart. But when she’s making love, she uses every part of her body, the upper and lower parts, you name it. What more have you got to say?
Bernard
“The partridge stays not for long.” Whose poem is it? To hell with it, your memory is deteriorating. The books you’ve read, the titles and authors have all become a muddle. The ultimate goal of life—can’t remember who said it, the essence of life, only a bit of scum is left.
Cecile
But she’s not going to die with you,
It’s your own business to die.
Anne
A footprint, over another footprint, is still just a footprint. (Lowers her head.)
A footprint, over yet another footprint, leaves only a footprint.
(Lifts her head.)
When you walk over one footprint after another, you’ll become…(Laughs.)
Daniel, Anne
A witch?
Might as well say a spirit.
Don’t go!
What for? To watch you smoking a cigarette?
It wouldn’t hurt just to chat.
But you’ve got to have something to chat about.
Of course. How about dreams?
But you’ve got to have the dreams first.
Anyway, it seems…And there’s also this tiny secret light, it’s not really hope…
Why did you stop?
Daniel
All is enveloped in obscurity. In the fuzziness, one could barely see. Among strand after strand of hazy lights, a dead city stands in a bottomless abyss, nestled in block after block of bare and desolate mountains. He looks up from below. It’s like wandering at night, and the city itself looks like it’s drifting and wandering from the top of the mountains. It’s all very clear: the temple, the bell tower, the pavilions, the mansions, and the crisscrossing streets and alleys, except for the square, the road surfaces and the lower halves of the buildings, which remain invisible…
Anne (Softly.)
Go on.
Daniel
The low and level clouds are airy and effervescent, they shape themselves into a thin, even layer and drift along at a certain altitude increasing in speed, these are all below him. He seems to be riding on the top of a mountain, his hands have to hold on to a crag so that he will not slide downhill, not far away is the abyss, and he can’t help being scared. Drifting with the mountain gives him pleasure, but nevertheless he can’t help being a bit apprehensive.
Anne (Closes her eyes.)
She feels it too…
Daniel
He knows that he is looking at a forgotten ghost town, he is stunned by its exquisite planning, he strains his eyes to see it more clearly in the haze, to commit it to his memory, but the buildings and their orderly layouts are too intricate for him to comprehend in such a short time. He wants to identify a pattern so that at least he would have a general idea of the layout, but everything is drifting, the low clouds, the city, and the mountain he is riding on are all revolving at the same speed but in different directions. This stunning scene is accompanied by absolute quietude. There is not a single shred of light, but the outlines are so clear, so well-defined to the smallest details. This city of huge and crowded buildings is entirely constructed of wood, it gives out the unadulterated greyish black colour of lumber, the doors and windows are all shut tight.
