Play

by James Comins

Jo San

  Act I, Scene Three

  At last, everyone applauds. Even though it’s only cardboard and an old cassette tape player, the clapping feels real and alive, at least from backstage. The sound of people applauding your performance somehow makes you feel better about losing Columbia. You feel hopeful about tearing her away from that villain Punchinoni, and you're eager to get back to finding Quinn.

  Your next entrance is in thirty seconds, so once again you swing down to the dark meadow behind the stage and run across to the far side, looking for clues: blood droplets or footprints or a snapped twig or a suspicious-looking butler or maybe Quinn herself—

  Then you hear it. Columbia’s voice, reciting onstage. It's like beautiful music, warm and sunny, a waiting world, a friendship that will last forever and hasn’t even started yet. The more time she spends with Punch, the harder it will be to convince her to give up his wily friendship and spend time with you instead. A person can only have one best friend, after all.

  So Quinn will have to wait.

  You're procrastinating. You need to go call the police right now, rather than later. It might even save her life. But somehow, you can't. You just can't.

  There's your cue. Columbia is still onstage with Punch. This is your chance.

  Leaping, you land backstage, ready to confront the villain. The clown kindly steps aside, and you make a big entrance. Columbia stands beside Punch, who has pulled his devil mask back down; both of them hold sabers. She looks your way. She notices you.

  This is your big chance. Approach her and put your hands on your hips, ready to announce that you are here, that you want to be her friend.

  Again, sly quick Punch has spoken first:

  “This fighting stance I learned from Don Giovanni

  In his famed duel against Don Luis of Seville.

  These are the ripostes I learned from Edward Teach

  The saber-waving pirate of Barbados.”

  Punch demonstrates his fencing to delighted Columbia. His words catch you off-guard. Why? Because they can’t be true. Don Giovanni and Edward Teach lived four hundred years apart! They couldn’t both have taught Punch their sword moves. Punchinoni is lying. He’s lying to Columbia just to impress her.

  He’s doing a really good job, too, because she looks totally entranced, like she believes everything he says. She looks like she wants to believe him, wants to believe he's traveled to exciting far-off countries and lived in wild places and met dangerous people.

  How are you supposed to explain how great a friend you are when she’s comparing you to a terrific liar? There’s no way you can be as exciting or as wild or as dangerous as Punch. Not without lying.

  And you’re not a liar. Under the rules of Noh, you have to speak as your mask. That's your own face. You have to be yourself tonight. The audience will know if you break the rules. They’re watching and waiting.

  So, with your hands on your hips, you say what you really think:

  “Columbia! The guy you’re talking to is a liar!

  He’s telling you stuff that isn’t true.

  Why are you talking to him

  When you could have a better time talking to me?”

  You hear your voice coming out of your mouth, but somewhere, deep inside, you can’t believe that you’re saying it. The words are too big, too bold. But the audience loves it. You can tell. They’re excited to see your acting. Pierrot, too, is dazzled at your bravery. It’s exciting and wild and dangerous. You’re saying just what you mean. It was a big secret, but now it’s out, and now everyone knows how you really feel.

  You wonder: What was it that helped you overcome your shyness?

  Maybe it was the watching people.

  No, wait, what’s going on? Columbia, brilliant Columbia, is staring at you. She doesn’t look impressed at all. She looks disgusted. Angry. Aghast.

  “How dare you? How dare you say such terrible things about my friend?

  I certainly wouldn’t want to talk to you,

  Name-caller, insulter, rude person!

  I’d rather have Punch as my friend than some loudmouth!”

  She swings her hair away from you and looks at Punch instead. At once he resumes telling his exciting stories.

  Ashamed and confused, you turn away. Your face feels hot. As hard as you can, you work to keep from crying. Nothing feels worse than crying in public. Pierrot puts his arm around you and leads you away. You sit together on the farthest end of the stage, listening to slimy Punchinoni talk about Ali Baba and Lawrence of Arabia and Francis Drake. Keeping as quiet as you can, you cry.

  “What did I do wrong back there?”

  you ask the clown.

  “I said exactly what I meant.

  I thought I was being brave.

  Doesn’t honesty count for anything?”

  Pierrot pats your shoulder.

  “Of course it counts for something.

  But what? But what?

  Honesty shows who you are, my ami.

  But who are you?”

  He’s right. That’s what honesty does. It shows who you are.

  Well, who are you?

  For a long minute you two sit side by side between the footlights, listening to Punch recite an endless list of swashbucklers and swordsmen. Columbia positively bursts with delight. And you think:

  Who are you?

  “I’m jealous,”

  you mutter.

  And it’s perfectly true.

  “Jealous, ami?”

  says Pierrot, curious.

  “Jealous of the Punchinoni?”

 

  You are. You can feel it.

  “He knows how to lie

  To get people to like him!”

  you say.

  The clown sighs and kicks his slippered feet back and forth.

  “Then,”

  says Pierrot,

  “If you want to be more like the Punch,

  If you want to impress people his way,

  Then you must learn how to lie.”

  He’s right. That’s really the only thing Punch can do better than you. But lying is wrong. Lying’s the worst thing a person can do. Other than murder, anyways. That’s obvious.

  You watch the clown kick his feet. You listen to Punch making things up to say to Columbia. You think, maybe I could do that. Maybe I could make things up, too. That’s all he’s really doing, right? He’s making things up. What’s so bad about making things up? It’s just being creative. Everyone's proud of creative people, right? Movies and books and music and TV shows, it’s just people making things up and telling them to other people, right?

  You're ready to learn how to lie.

  Springing to your feet, you feel brave again, refreshed. In front of the startled cardboard audience, you look the sad clown in the eye.

  “I’ll do it!”

  you declare.

  Sadly, Pierrot nods. Wistful, doubtful, sorrowful, worryful.

  “I know whom you must talk to,”

  he says, still swinging his feet.

  “Although knowing him may not do you much good.

  Talk to him and you will become a masterful teller of untruths.

  His name is El Daishou.”