by Неизвестный
Toward stage-left:
It’s all right to say something like this, isn’t it? You will come on stage beside me and speak to the audience, won’t you? Just a few words will do. You will? Wonderful! This is going to cause a real riot; they’ll turn the place upside down. And tonight is only the beginning; I’ll bet all the papers and TV shows will be full of our story for a while, I’m sure of it. . . . (Continues with her speech.) “Quiet, quiet! Ladies and gentlemen, please be quiet. I would like to say just one more word before I bring Tagami Haruhiko on stage: it’s about what finally proved he was my son. (She grins at the audience coyly.) Yes, you’d like to know, wouldn’t you? My son, that is, Tagami Haruhiko, had two mementos of his mother, a photo and a talisman of the goddess Kishibo. But aren’t I a bad mother, I didn’t remember the photo at all. The only thing I remembered was the talisman . . . it’s all coming back now—it was early December, twenty years ago; I was taking my son to the Orphanage of the Holy Mother in Bunkyō district; on my way I stopped at the Kishibo Shrine in Iriya to pray to the goddess, the blessed patroness of children and child-bearing, and got two talismans wrapped in identical pouches: I put one around the neck of my baby and the other around my own. . . .”
She is crying, and after a while she wipes her tears with the back of her hand:
I’ll probably end up crying on stage too.
To stage-left.
If I start crying, don’t mind me but just come on stage. What, darling? You’d like to see my talisman once again? Why not.
She hands it over to her “son” stage-left, and sits in front of the mirror.
In any case, it’s really about time we raised the curtain for the next show.
However, she is so happy that she can’t help looking at her “son” stage-left with a big smile. Turning to stage-right, toward the members of her troupe.
Look at him, take a good look at him, everyone. This is my child. Isn’t he beautiful—so handsome!? Even I, his mother, could fall for him. What’s that, Nakamaru dear? For my son, he doesn’t look a bit like me? (Laughing.) Well, it’s like the duck giving birth to a swan, wouldn’t you say? (Repairing her makeup.) Well, my darling Tatsuo. . . . No, better call you Haruhiko, hadn’t I? Well, now that we’ve finally met, shall we set up house together? Frankly, for all her vigor, Satsuki Yōko is a little tired: I made my debut in the spring of my sixth year; it’s been forty years since, and I haven’t had a single day’s break; I’m really worn out, body and soul. Sure, I’ll earn as much as I can cashing in on The Reunion of Mother and Son for six months or so. But beyond that, well . . . can’t you guess? You must have a nice girlfriend. . . . Not at the moment? But you’ll soon find one. The girls won’t leave you alone. With that handsome face of yours, it’ll be more difficult avoiding them than breaking into the Bank of Japan. First a girlfriend; then along comes a baby— that’ll be my grandchild! How I’d love to hold my grandchild in my arms! And to babysit for him! All my life, I’ve been like a floating leaf on the river, drifting here and there; every day was like crawling naked through a thorny hedge or walking on the blades of swords; I’m tired to death of it. My dream of dreams is (she speaks with deeply felt emotion) to sit on a sunny veranda with a grandchild in my arms, “Sleepy, sleepy, sleeping babe, a crab’s just crawled up your arse. . . .”
She looks toward stage-left as if a bomb has just been thrown at her:
The talismans don’t match? Yours is a Kishibo talisman from Zōshigaya?
She smiles coyly.
Iriya and Zōshigaya. Not much difference; they’re both Kishibo talismans, aren’t they? That’s good enough for me.
At this moment, there comes the sound of demolition from the direction of stage-left. And the voices of demolition workers. “Hurry up, luv, you’ve got to hand over the dressing-room.” “If you don’t move out, you’ll get hurt, you know.” “We can’t finish the job till we knock down the dressing-room.” “Oh, heck—What shall we do?” “She keeps repeating the same old act, all by herself—doesn’t she get tired of it?” “Hey, Satsuki, come on out!” “Yōko, if you’ll just come out, you’ll be the greatest!”
The sound of demolition continues. She looks toward stage-left:
Tatsuo, where are you going? If it’s the loo, it’s to the right of the stage-door.
She sees him off. From now on, she no longer recalls her son. Or rather, she has forgotten all the events in her “real life” since reaching this point in her opening night at this theater. That is to say, she is a lonely, mad woman who only remembers these happiest ten minutes or so of her life, and is repeatedly reliving alone the events leading up to this blissful moment.
Hey, Nakamaru, I’ve just had a flash of inspiration. Why don’t we do a sequel to Isaburō’s Parting instead of our next number. Don’t worry, it’ll be a great hit. Can we go over the lines quickly while we touch up our makeup? Don’t miss a single word. Ready? Pay attention.
She touches up her makeup as she rehearses the lines but she merely messes it up by, say, painting one cheek red, drawing a cross on her forehead, or painting the tip of her nose blue.
Toward the end of the scene, I try, that is, Isaburō tries to leave the teahut after putting twenty ryō and his talisman in the money-box, doesn’t he. But the old woman, that’s the one you are playing, who we thought went off to warm up some saké, turns out to be listening to his confession. So she rushes out and clings to Isaburō. “I never guessed . . . you are my son . . . !” Isaburō is taken aback; he stands speechless, stunned at this unexpected turn of events. Now, from this point on, the stage is all yours for a while, darling. It’s a very good part. “When I recall the countless words of rancor you spoke earlier, my blood runs cold and I feel as if I’m being torn apart. . . . I realize nothing I say now can make amends, but still, forgive me, Isaburō.” The old woman of the tea-hut joins her hands in supplication. “I beg you, with all my heart; there were days when the cocks didn’t crow but there wasn’t a day when I did not think of you; every day I would take out my talisman—look, exactly like yours—and caress and stroke it, praying for your happiness. . . .” The old woman takes off her talisman and hands it over to Isaburō. For that, we need another talisman, don’t we? Toshi, dear, can you get us another talisman? Toshi! . . . (She explodes.) Why doesn’t anyone come!? . . . Why . . .
Sounds of demolition work.
Now the audience is starting to riot. I’ll have to go on ahead of you, Grandpa. “So you are a notorious sheriff-murderer on the run. All the more reason, then, for you to take refuge in this tea-hut. They say, rumors die in seventy-five days and in one hundred days the wind will clear the sky. From that day on, you can mend your ways and lead an honest life.13 And then, take a wife. Then I can retire happily, living out the rest of my days looking after my grandchildren. I know it’s wishful thinking but take pity on a mother who cannot help dreaming. . . .” At this moment, Isaburō reels back: “In heaven’s name, does God exist no more? The talismans don’t match! Mine is from the shrine in Iriya, but this is from Zōshigaya, west of Iriya. Everything else fits perfectly but the talismans themselves do not. . . . Well, old mother, the wise old saying says life wouldn’t be life if one could fulfill all one’s wishes. We have to learn to accept it. Now I must be on my way.” Isaburō starts to make his exit, but at the sight of the old woman so distressed, so lost in her grief, he cannot bring himself to leave . . . no, no, better still, he is drawn back to the tea-hut; listen, Grandpa, this is your big moment. Play the scene with such feeling that we know, if the old woman is left alone, she will go mad and die.
She has completed her “grotesque” makeup. The mad woman picks up her straw hat, cape and sword:
The last line is mine: “Old mother, wipe away your tears; they say, every time you grieve, you shorten your life by three days. Well, ma’am, how about this: Isaburō is seeking a mother who abandoned him and you are seeking a son whom you abandoned; so if we become mother and son, we’ll fit each other happily, like a broke
n cup pieced together. I’ll mend my ways and lead an honest life. I’ll carry water and cut wood for you; I’ll take a wife and raise a family; I’ll rub your back when you grow old. Won’t you let this Isaburō do what your son would do for you?”
She becomes the ecstatic mother:
“Isaburō . . . !”
She becomes the ideal son: “
Mother . . . !”
Amid the noise of demolition, the mad woman is at the zenith of her happiness. The lights slowly dim.
KARA JŪRŌ
Kara Jūrō (b. 1940) considers himself to be primarily an actor. Nonetheless, his politically charged plays have become famous not only in Japan but also in many other countries around the world where his troupe has traveled. Most were composed to be staged not in theaters but in Kara’s famous outdoor “red tent,” which can be moved from place to place. Despite the subsequent political and economic changes in Japan, Kara has maintained a close relationship with his admiring public and, like Betsuyaku Minoru, continues to write plays of contemporary significance. The 24:53 Train Bound for “Tower” Is Waiting in Front of That Doughnut Shop in Takebaya (24-ji 53-pun no “Tō no shita” yuki no densha ga Takebayachō no dagashiya no mae de matteiru), published in book form in 1976, gives a glimpse of his work, in which he provides opportunities for his performers to show the range of their acting skills.
THE 24:53 TRAIN BOUND FOR “TOWER” IS WAITING IN FRONT OF THAT DOUGHNUT SHOP IN TAKEBAYA (24-JI 53-PUN NO “TŌ NO SHITA” YUKI NO DENSHA GA TAKEBAYACHŌ NO DAGASHIYA NO MAE DE MATTEIRU)
Translated by Coudy Poulton
A Play in One Act
CAST OF CHARACTERS
An Old Woman
Old Man A
Old Man B
The Man
The Old Woman’s Son
A Man
A Woman
A Tramp
The stage is dark. Here and there, on the steps leading to a certain tower, are candles burning. In the gloom, around the staircase one can dimly make out two or three shapes laid out under straw mats. To the left is a small two-wheeled wagon with a wooden frame on it. From upstage left an old woman enters, carrying a candle in her hand.
OLD WOMAN (muttering a nursery rhyme to herself, she slowly makes her way across stage): Canary, canary, forgotten her song. What’s to be done? Cat got her tongue? Shall we whip her with a willow cane? Or dump her out back in the bamboo lane? Oh, no, that wouldn’t do, that would be wrong. . . . Then, uh, then, what comes next? Hey! How’s it go? Canary, canary, forgotten her song. . . . 1(Exits.)
Two old men shuffle out on tottering legs, tapping their canes. One old man has tucked a briefcase under one arm.
OLD MAN A: I say! What a muggy day it is!
OLD MAN B: I say! What a muggy day it is!
A: What did you say?
B: I said, “I say! What a muggy day it is.” What did you say?
A: I said, “I say! What a muggy day it is.”
B: Grab hold me shoulder. Mind you don’t fall.
A: Grab hold me shoulder. Mind you don’t fall.
B: Almost there.
A: Yup. Almost there. Eh? Whazzat?
B: That? (Points over the heads of the audience.)
A: Jeez, it’s tall.
B: Almost there now. (Clutches his briefcase to his chest.)
A: What you got there?
B: Important stuff. A whole briefcase full.
A: Like what?
B: Citations from the Fire Department, a certified copy of my birth certificate. Et cetera, et cetera.
A: What the hell do you need those for?
B: I’m taking’em with me.
A: To the cemetery, are you?
B: These are my pride, I’ll have you know. Did I ever tell you how I stopped that fire from spreading? One quick call saved the day.
A: When was this?
B: Oh, a long time ago.
A: Like when?
B: Oh, well, when I was a young lad.
A: Were they grateful?
B: Indeed they were. Said I was (with emphasis) a great man.
A: Who?
B: Why . . . me, of course.
A: What’s so great about you?
B: Everything.
A: Yes, but just what, exactly?
B: Well, my sense of social duty, for starts. Said I was a veritable guardian of humanism. Et cetera, et cetera.
A (again looks up): Jeez, it’s tall.
B: I was a great man, yessiree. Society thought so. So did me family. Yup.
A: Think you can make it that far?
B (squinting as he gazes up): Uh huh.
A: Shall we, then? Grab hold me shoulder. Mind you don’t fall.
B: Shall we, then? Grab hold me shoulder. Mind you don’t fall.
As the two old men exit left, the old woman reenters.
OLD WOMAN: What comes next? How’d it go, then? Just what comes next? Hey. You know, “Canary, canary, forgotten her song”? . . . (Ruffles through one of the piles of straw matting.) Jeez, you’re a sight. Bloody awful. Remind me how that song went, the one about the canary. (Wakes the sleeping man. He sits up. Half his face is covered in blood.)
The stage goes dark. A sinister tune on the guitar is heard. Suddenly, there is what sounds like a peal of loud, metallic laughter that falls away into a long, trailing wail. Then, we hear the echo of the hoarse laughter of the two old men; that also falls away. Next, a lusty voice chuckles as if pleased with itself, then falls away like the other voices.
A spotlight shines at right. The man, wearing a tall hat, is standing in front of the wagon.
THE MAN: Good evening. You finally made it, I see. What’s that? Me? Why, I . . . We see each other all the time, surely. I always call to you. And you, you look away. Give me a tap on the shoulder one of these days, why don’t you? Yes, I live around here. Been here for ages. Change for the metro line in front of that doughnut shop in Takebaya, take the train bound for “Tower” on platform 13, and you’re there in no time! Mind you, it doesn’t leave till rather late. The 24:53 is the emptiest. Platform 13. Bound for “Tower.” Ah, the wind’s up. That ain’t good, not if you’re looking for lost souls. . . . Look there, can you see it? (Points.) There, she’s about to jump. A woman. Look! (Cackling laughter trails downward.) Well, then. Back in a bit. (Begins to pull his wagon toward offstage, then presently doubles back. Irresponsibly.) In this town everybody’s happy to die. Everybody dies laughing.
Darkness. More sinister guitar music. Again, a spotlight shines at right, this time illuminating the old woman, who is carrying a naked man—her son—on her back.
OLD WOMAN: Canary, canary, forgotten her song. What’s to be done? Cat got her tongue? Shall we whip her with a willow cane? Or dump her out back in the bamboo lane? Oh, no, that wouldn’t do, that would be wrong. . . .
Canary, canary, forgotten her song . . .
Canary, canary, forgotten her song . . .
The man appears.
THE MAN:
But if that canary, who’s forgotten her song,
Could sail away on a moon shiny sea . . .
OLD WOMAN: A moon shiny sea? Could sail away on a moon shiny sea?
THE MAN: Pluck her feathers and naked she shall be.
OLD WOMAN:. . . Could sail away on a moon shiny sea. Pluck her feathers and naked she shall be? You sure you got that right? That’s not the way it goes. Hey.
SON (looking up): Mama.
THE MAN: The kid’s still kicking.
SON (pointing no place in particular): Over there, take me over there.
THE MAN (to the son): Care for a lift?
OLD WOMAN (ignoring her son): No way! She’d die without her coat on.
SON: Let’s go back, back to that town.
THE MAN: Who’d survive a fall like that? Fucking miracle.
OLD WOMAN (to her son): Where? Back where?
SON: Twilight Town.
THE MAN: Sail away on a moon shiny sea!
OLD WOM
AN: Let’s try again, shall we? Canary, canary, forgotten her song . . .
SON: Hey, mama. You know what I remember most from that town? It was that summer, an evening that summer. I was coming back from the bath and the wind chimes were tinkling. It was eight days before the ambulance came took Gran away. . . .
OLD WOMAN:
Could sail away on a moon shiny sea,
Pluck her feathers and naked she shall be.
Canary, canary, forgotten her song. . . .
Must have really forgotten the song, that canary.
THE MAN: Speak for yourself, why don’t you. Song, hell. You’ve forgotten your own son. Right—this time I take him.
OLD WOMAN: Away on a moon shiny sea. Across the sea to the sea on the other side. Now, what kind of sea would that sea be? Hey, you. If the canary crossed that sea to the other side, maybe then he’d remember.
SON: And I said, “Good evening!” in a small voice. Said “Good evening” to the lady next door.
OLD WOMAN: The other side? The sea on the other side?
THE MAN: Ain’t nothing there on the other side. Across the moon shiny sea there’s nothing but more sea, the color of lead. Nothing but minerals. Sink like a stone there. Hurry! Hurry up, now! We got a job to do.
SON: That was the night of the day the morning glory market started. My little brother was crying with the mumps, but I dragged mama outside.
THE MAN (giving the son a shove): Huh!
OLD WOMAN: The sea on the other side is cold. Try to remember, canary.
Just then, a man enters from right, looking surprised.
A MAN: Uh, excuse me but it seems I caught the wrong train. Could you tell me the name of this place? But what’s that tower I see there? That grand, magnificent tower. Could this place be the Acme of Salvation that the man at City Hall told me about?
