by Неизвестный
She looks toward stage-right, at some distant point. She raises her hand to respond, and shifts her eyes to the point at stage-right where Ichikawa Nakamaru is supposed to be.
Did you hear what Toshi just said, Grandpa? With a bit of a last-minute rush, we may have a full house tonight. Isn’t that wonderful? What a break! “Even a mourning child, bereft of his mother, has some mementos left to remember her by, like her tattered kimono or a straw sandal with a broken strap. But for an abandoned child, like myself, there was not even a shadow of a memento . . . it was heart-breaking.”
Toward stage-left.
Me, frightened? Frightened of what? Of being reproached by my abandoned son? I’ll tell you, what I am really frightened of is rain at curtain time, that’s the only thing. Now, would you mind not disrupting our rehearsal, please?
Toward stage-right.
“Indulgent parents who coax the crawling child to stand and the standing child to walk . . . how I longed to find parents like that somewhere, some day. Night and day, in the frosty morning and the stormy evening, I used to pray to the gods, to Buddha, to the Sun and Moon, joining my tiny hands like maple leaves. . . . Then, as I came to realize that my wish would never come true, I turned blasphemous: the gods don’t exist; Buddha is the most merciless villain of all; may the Sun burn itself out and the Moon drown herself. . . .”
The old woman of the mountain tea-hut cries at this point, Grandpa Nakamaru; she really does break down pathetically. Isaburō is taken aback, “Well, well, I got carried away. Your son will be different, he is not a ruffian like myself; he couldn’t possibly speak such harsh, hurtful words. However much he might reproach you at first, that will pass. I assure you, he will soon be crying out ‘Mother’ even as he rebukes you, for his hatred is only skin-deep, while his heart is crammed with voices saying ‘I’ve missed you; I’ve longed for you.’ Deep down he is sure to be thinking, ‘She must have had some powerful reason to abandon her child.’ The old poem says: ‘Though there are a thousand different bonds of love in the world, none is stronger than that felt by a mother for her child.’ It’s cruel to blame the mother who had to sever that bond and abandon her child. She must have suffered ten times more than I. . . .” The old woman of the tea-hut who doesn’t realize that her own son, having poured out all his resentment, has just called her “Mother,” says, “How happy, how happy I’d be if my son felt the same way. Sir, thanks to you, the heavy weight pressing on my heart these twenty years is lifted. It’s amazing how lighthearted I feel now; even my body feels lighter. Well, it’s time for saké, yes, time for saké. You must have a sip of my home-made saké. Won’t take long, it’ll be ready right away.” Left alone, Isaburō ponders, “Because of the murder of that sheriff, I am a homeless fugitive, fleeing today eastward, tomorrow westward. Were I to declare myself openly, I’d cause more trouble for my mother; she would be caught up in my crime. Forgive me, mother, I had no other way to reveal myself. What’s this . . . a money-box. Good, in go twenty ryō and my precious talisman, and farewell. (She strikes the first note of “ki.”)7 I take my leave (the second note of “ki”).”
She strikes a dramatic pose or “mie” 8 as the departing Isaburō, but immediately glares toward stage-left.
Indulging myself ? Me, self-indulgent, how? Eh? I’m punishing myself by playing the abandoned son who rebukes his mother? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. . . . I see, I’m purging myself within the safe frame-work of the play, am I? And I even let the son forgive his mother in the end? That’s how I’m indulging myself ? That’s why I play this part so often, just to ease my conscience? Why don’t I come out of the play to face reality, and confront Tagami Haruhiko? Well, thanks very much, but it’s none of your business. Those were terrible days—the audience didn’t turn up; the troupe members had to be fed; the debts were piling up, and that damned husband I was relying on ran out on me; there was no other way. (Having been exposed, she is now very agitated.) Gouged by loan-sharks, harassed by men, I cried, I bled; I crawled in order to survive. (Realizing that she has let herself go too far she tries to get a grip on herself. ) Well, everyone, our guest is leaving. Will someone escort him to the front? . . . What’s the matter? Could someone please take our guest. . . . (She explodes.) Where is everybody in this play!? (Returning to a normal tone.) Toshi, dear, open the window, let’s have some fresh air.9 (As her eyes follow the departing TBS man.) . . . It wasn’t a matter of throwing away an object, but a child, your own baby you had borne in pain; a mother had to be deadly resolute to go through with it. And having gone through with it, how could any mother be so shameless as to go along to a reunion, just because the child has come up in the world? How could she dare face her. . . . (Suddenly.) My son was adopted by a family in Iwamisawa, Hokkaidō. He graduated from high school, got a job at the Iwamisawa railway station . . . and died in an accident. When I rushed to his bedside, he looked at me and said, “Life is like that, isn’t it, mother.” He smiled sadly, and died. At that moment a shooting star fell from the sky outside the hospital window.
A sad “mie.” At this moment, some indescribable sound is heard. It sounds like “ki” and then it doesn’t. She stops the tape, and makes an announcement herself loudly, “Thank you very much for waiting. Tonight’s first play by the Satsuki troupe, Isaburō’s Parting, will commence shortly.” Then she starts a new tape, this time of rather old-fashioned melodramatic music, for the opening of Isaburō’s Parting.
She looks into the mirror, then as she walks slowly toward stage-right, carrying a straw hat:
Grandpa Nakamaru, and everyone, I’m counting on all of you. Let’s give them a heck of a performance.
She halts at the wing stage-right; when the music stops, she runs off, the straw hat held high over her head. After a few seconds:
“Father!”
The lights dim slowly.
Toward the end of the interval, during which the curtain does not fall, the last few lines of Isaburō’s Parting become gradually audible from the direction of the right wing, that is, the direction of the stage on which it is being performed.
“. . . Because of the murder of that sheriff, Isaburō is a homeless fugitive, fleeing today eastward, tomorrow westward. Were I to declare myself openly, I’d cause more trouble for my mother; she’d be caught up in my crime. Forgive me, mother: I had no other way to reveal myself. What’s this . . . a money-box. Good, in go twenty ryō and my precious talisman, and farewell (the first note of “ki”). I take my leave (the second note of “ki”).”
The sound of “hyōshi-maku” (a crescendo “ki” clapping which slows down as it becomes louder) suggests that she is ending her performance with a great “mie.” Scattered applause. A few whistles and shouts from the audience—for example: “Bravo, Yōko!” “Satsuki, you made me cry!” “Keep it up, Yōko!” “You’re the greatest!” For some reason, all the voices are male.
Soon she comes back to the dressing-room in Isaburō’s costume. She wears a wreath made out of thousand-yen banknotes and her straw hat is filled with paper-wrapped tips thrown down onto the stage by the audience. She lights a cigarette and takes a deep breath:
What an enchanting audience.
She enjoys the moment. The medley of “enka” begins.
I’d forgotten how wonderful it tasted. A smoke after a job well done—it’s heavenly.
She takes off the wig and looks at a point stage-right.
Nakamaru, darling, you were pretty good too. Well, actually, more than “pretty good”; you really did respond splendidly to my impassioned performance. I do thank you for that. However, I’ll have to have those tips10 in your kimono sleeves, if you don’t mind. No use trying to hide them now, dear. I saw three packets thrown in your direction. Haven’t you noticed I’ve got eyes in the back of my head? You can’t cheat me. As the head of the troupe I’ll take all three of them. I’ll look after all the tips until we finish here, and then distribute them fairly among us. Haven’t you worked in the popular thea
ter long enough, dear? I’m sure you are familiar with the back-stage custom that tips from the audience are handled by the head of the troupe. So why pretend innocence. Really, one can’t drop one’s guard even for a moment nowadays.
She has been watching her straw hat reflected in the mirror as she touches up her makeup, but:
Wait a minute, Grandpa, how many packets did you just put in the hat? Three? That’s all you have? Don’t lie to me, darling. You only dropped two in, not three. Please put the other one in too, like a good boy. That’s it, well done, thank you. Toshi, keep them somewhere safe, will you? And what’s happened to my tea? You haven’t brought a hot towel yet, either. Toshi . . .
She looks around the dressing-room, but freezes like a pinned butterfly as she looks at a point to her left. She stays frozen for a considerable time, but eventually she begins to move in response to the “figure.” They appear to be locked in silent confrontation for a while, trying to place themselves in a more comfortable physical position. But soon the “figure” seems to park himself at a point stage-left (where the man from TBS was apparently seated in the first act). Toward stage-right:
Toshi, I recognize this young man. Haven’t you all seen his face on TV or in the magazines?
Toward stage-left:
You’re Tagami Haruhiko, aren’t you? I thought so. Good gracious, I’m surprised the audience didn’t make more fuss. (She turns toward the mirror.) We watch as well, you know; we watch the audience from the stage like hawks. You see, we have to spot at a glance those customers most likely to throw us a tip, and strike a dramatic pose as close to them as possible. But I didn’t see your face there. . . . I see, you were watching secretly from behind the food stall? Ah, no one would have seen you, then.
As she chatters away, she touches up her makeup, pretending to be calm. But she reveals her true feelings in her shaky hand and in the way she does her makeup. She tries to retouch her eyebrows but she ends up drawing one on her forehead, when Tagami Haruhiko says something.
What’s that? You’d like to see the talisman I’ve just used on stage? (She laughs.) You won’t find it by looking around there. That talisman and the striped purse I used at the end of that scene are my important props: I usually bring both of them back to the dressing-room myself. (She laughs again.) Look, the only thing you’ll find among the tips in that straw hat is the purse. The talisman is my most precious prop of all . . . or, rather, my blessed guardian, a crutch for my heart to lean on. So, when I’m not on stage, I keep it like this (takes it out from her breast) right in here. This talisman of the goddess Kishibo never leaves my body, not even for a moment.
Suddenly she seems to be grabbed by her left arm.
For heaven’s sake, don’t be so rough!
But the “figure” on her left is strong, and she is dragged off the stool in front of the mirror. She fights for her talisman, trying not to let the “figure” have it.
You’ll break the string, you’re pulling my head off! Look, I’m not going to run away from you or hide, am I? What? The pouch of my talisman looks just the same as yours? (She looks intensely at the talisman shown her by the “figure.”) It’s true, the string as well, the same strands of purple, orange and white. . . . Then, then . . .
She snatches her talisman away as she withdraws, and sits down with her hands placed on the floor before her.
Supposing it is, what about it? . . . Twenty years ago, you were left at the Holy Mother Orphanage in Bunkyō district; it was early December; you were just three months old. Your natural mother left with you that Kishibo talisman, together with a photo. And that Kishibo talisman looks the same as mine.
She sits with her face turned aside as if she were avoiding a sandstorm. Painfully: Mother . . . !?
She does not move for a while. Or rather she cannot move. Tears fill her eyes, and seem to dissolve away the defensive armor she has worn up to this point.
Forgive me . . . I know, you can’t possibly forgive me but please, Tatsuo, I beg you. These past twenty years, there were days when the cocks didn’t crow but there wasn’t a day I didn’t think of you. I thought of you the whole year round, without a break. If my heart were made of bamboo, I’d cut it open to show you the inside. . . . On cold autumn mornings when dead leaves fell in the wind, I was afraid that you might catch cold and in my mind I’d place my hand on your forehead; on hot summer nights, I’d worry that you might be kicking off your blanket, so in my heart I’d tuck you in. . . . Tatsuo is your name. Your father’s and grandfather’s stage name was Tatsutarō, so we took “tatsu” and combined it with the “o” in “hero.” The matron of the orphanage said, “It’s a fine name but the people who adopt him might want to give him a different name. And of course he will be officially registered as the son of his adoptive parents.” Since you didn’t recognize your real name, I suppose they did change your name after all, as the matron said. Of all the troubles in life, poverty is the worst; because of it I couldn’t do many things a mother would do for her child. But I’m proud that at least I gave you a luxurious and exuberant name. If I had been your adoptive mother, I wouldn’t have changed your name, not your name; because it’s a fine name. . . .
She moves back three feet or so while remaining seated.
Don’t glare at me like that. Please, don’t be angry with me. If I’d known you were here, I wouldn’t have told the man from TBS that I didn’t know you. . . . Besides, now you’re finally shooting up to stardom, I didn’t want to hold you back by suddenly intruding into your life. For me it was enough to know that the darling baby I bore in pain has now grown up to be a fine young man. So, I was just going to watch you from a distance, to fast and pray to the goddess Kishibo that your popularity may last forever. That’s why I sent the man from TBS away. . . .
Her face lights up as if electricity has just passed through her body.
Never mind? You no longer bear a grudge against me!? It’s been hard for you, but I must have suffered a hundred, a thousand times more? . . . How sweet you are!
Her voice cracks with emotion and she draws closer to her “son.”
But it’s you who’ve really suffered; it must have been a thousand, no, a million times harder for you. You can do whatever you like to me. Beat me, if that will clear away your anger. Yes, beat me, beat me, beat me until my face is swollen like a goblin’s.11 Tatsuo . . . !
She embraces her “son” and breaks involuntarily into a lullaby that she used to sing to him.
“. . . Sleepy, sleepy, sleeping babe,12 a crab’s just crawled up your arse.” Whenever I sang this lullaby, you used to get very excited. . . . “Even though I fish it out and throw it away, it crawls back once again. . . .” You don’t remember it; you were only a few months old at the time. “Once again I fish it out, then boil it in a pan and eat it up.” I was frightened. A reunion of mother and son after twenty years—it sounds good, but I didn’t know what to say to apologize; anyway I was sure you’d never forgive me. That really frightened me. So I was determined not to go along with what the man from TBS was saying. If I’d known you were so kindhearted, I’d have listened to him more readily. He was a good man and I was wrong not to listen to him. . . . “Though the crab’s been thoroughly boiled, it still stinks to high heaven.”
As if tapped by someone, she looks up over her right shoulder:
What’s that, Toshi, love? Time to get ready for the next show? No, I haven’t forgotten; though I think I’m going to hold the curtain for ten minutes or so.
Looking toward stage-left, sternly:
What’s that, Nakamaru? The audience’ll get restless if they’re kept waiting too long? Who’s worried? Don’t forget, we have a food kiosk by the stalls just for that reason. If they get bored, they’ll buy something to eat; that’s the whole attraction of our sort of theater, didn’t you know? I’m sure the kiosk woman will come around after the show to thank us all for taking an extra long interval; just wait and see. Yes, that’s it.
She moves away from her
“son” and speaks to the members of the troupe stage-right.
I can weave all the details of our tearful reunion into my speech to the audience. (Rehearses her speech, pretending the troupe members are her audience.) “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome, welcome to our performance tonight. Will you please accept our sincere apologies for the unusual delay in starting our next number, The Tale of the Hairdresser Shinza. But, ladies and gentlemen, there was a very good reason for this very long delay. That’s right; during that long interval, a real-life drama, just like the one we performed for you earlier tonight, was unfolding in our dressing-room before our eyes. Indeed, as they say, ‘Truth is stranger than fiction.’ In the dressing room of this very theater, Satsuki Yōko has just been reunited with her long-lost son, after twenty years. Tears, tears, tears . . . we were drowning in our tears; the mother held her son’s hands, the son clasped his mother’s shoulders, and we cried to our hearts’ content. Yōko is a true child of the theater, born, bred and schooled in the dressing-room; moreover, she is sworn to her father’s credo: ‘Come fire or flood, the curtain must go up.’ She should have raised the curtain on time, no matter what was happening in the dressing-room, a reunion of mother and son, or a double suicide, the whole place awash with blood. That being said, ladies and gentlemen, Satsuki Yōko is only human, daughter of a mother and mother of a son; she could not keep to her father’s credo. To compensate, if you’ll excuse this impertinent expression, I shall now bring my son on stage and have him say a few words of greeting to you. ‘The son of a frog is a frog; the son of an actor is an actor’—my son, ladies and gentlemen, is none other than the rising young television star Tagami Haruhiko. . . .”
