Play

by James Comins

Ha no Ha Ni

  Act III, Scene Two

  Down the tiered aisle of the theater, walking with patient care, three figures approach.

  In the lead is the Understudy. He holds the hand of someone you've never seen before. It's a man—no, it's a woman. Her head is shaved to the scalp. An orange robe is draped around her. On her feet, sandals; her eyes are covered by a large pair of black aviator sunglasses. Smiling, she allows the Understudy to lead her forward. Her sandals shuffle cautiously, not unlike El Daishou's bare feet. Perhaps she is blind.

  Behind her, towering over both of them and stepping forward on a long leash, is the weirdest thing you've ever seen.

  It's not quite as tall as a giraffe. Its neck stretches up above the flames bursting around it, making it look like it's breathing fire. Its legs are thicker than a deer's, thinner than a horse's. Almost like cheetah legs. The animal's fur is green, but not too bright, not as bright as grass. More like the color of the liquids in a chemistry set. A long tail with a tuft at the end hangs between its legs. On its long neck, a mane.

  It's a lion. A long-necked green lion.

  The creature's head, though, is different.

  It looks like this:

  Solid gold and round and illuminated from the inside. Too small for its body. Rays of light in eight compass points. It's a sun, a shining sun, a real entire sun as fierce and wild and dense and destructive and wonderful as the big one in the sky. A sun, condensed to the size of a lion's head.

  The Green Lion.

  The Green Lion's paws are broad; the toes flex with each step. As it saunters past the cardboard audience on its long legs, the audience collapses into flame, leaving nothing behind. Not even ash. Just empty chairs.

  The three figures stride single file up to the edge of the stage, connected by hands and leash.

  El Daishou's teeth begin to chatter, and Pierrot shields his eyes as the light of the walking sun washes the stage. The spotlights, now useless, flick off.

  The Understudy climbs up the short steps to the stage. He leads the orange-robed woman up after him. The Green Lion seems content to stand in the front row and poke its sun-face in at you between the bashira columns. The yellow wood seems disinclined to burst into flames, and you wonder why.

  "Look who I found!

  I went looking for help and stumbled on an old hermit's hut.

  Turns out she's the Arhat, an enlightened priestess.

  She knows how to reveal a demon's true nature!"

  What a stupid boy. He didn't go and get the police at all. He interrupted your scene, scared off your friends, Quinn's still missing and now there's a giraffe dragon sitting in the audience. What a—what a blockhead. That's what he is. He's a blockhead.

  "Can't you do anything right?

  We needed the police to come and arrest Punch,

  Not an Arhat, whatever that is.

  And what is that thing?"

  you say, pointing to the walking sun.

  El Daishou and Pierrot stand pressed against the painted backdrop, as far away from the Green Lion as they can get. The Understudy looks crushed at your disapproval. Will he burst into tears again? He looks like he might.

  Controlling his quavering voice, he says:

  "What would the police do?

  What would I tell them—a demon's prowling the stage?

  They'd laugh in my face. And I've had enough of that.

  The Arhat and the Green Lion might even solve our problem."

  The Understudy takes a deep breath, and you figure he's finished talking, but he keeps going.

  "And anyway, aren't I allowed to think for myself?

  How come everything I do isn't good enough?

  Maybe I made the right choice

  And you just don't want to admit it."

  From beside him, the smiling bald Arhat steps forward. You hear the Arhat's voice for the first time: grandmotherly, as if she were pouring a nice cup of tea.

  "You shouldn't be afraid of the Green Lion.

  All he ever does is shine the light of truth.

  If you've got a good heart, his light won't hurt you.

  We'll catch that devil together."

  She gestures everyone closer, but Pierrot and El Daishou remain pressed against the back wall. Why are they so scared of the light of truth? Don't they have good hearts? And why did Columbia run away with Punch?

  The Green Lion lets out a rolling growl and leaps onto the stage. Surprised, the clown slips off his feet and lands on his butt. Snivelling El Daishou merely faces down the beast with as much bravery as his quivering lower lip can muster.

  Bowing its head under the high arches, the Green Lion steps toward the two poor cowering players.

  The shining light reaches them.

  El Daishou's costumes burst into flame, scouring away in an instant. He is not an admiral. He isn't a general. He wasn't ever a ninja, a swami, an Ottoman Turk, a samurai, a Chinese peasant, an old English judge, or a geisha. Those were all costumes. Disguises, even.

  All that's left is a pair of starched pinstripe trousers and an actor's black t-shirt. He's just an old man. Even his long mustache fizzes away off his face, revealing actor's glue. His face is that of an aging actor past his prime. He has a droopy, lined physiognomy.

  Pierrot, on the other hand, becomes young, young, young. The greasepaint is blown back from the front of his face but doesn't burn away. His skin emerges underneath. A ring of white paint encircles his face, catching on his hair and ears, and behind the comedy and tragedy is a kid, not too different from any other kid. The laughter, the tears—they weren't lies, it seems, but they aren't the whole truth either. There is a deeper truth behind the clown face.

  "I had hoped,"

  El Daishou murmurs,

  "That I could live the rest of my life

  Wearing the disguise I had chosen.

  I'm an old man—too old to choose a new disguise."

  He looks so tired. Taking one shaking step at a time, he finds the chair through the blazing light, sits, and buries his face in his hands. The Arhat provides him with a grandmotherly smile.

  "There is no need to disguise yourself.

  Here is what you are."

  El Daishou weeps. The Arhat smiles.

  Pierrot's naked face peeks out through the clown's costume.

  "It is in the nature of a fool to be seen,"

  Pierrot says,

  "But not to be seen as we truly are.

  We clowns cloak ourselves in emotion.

  We hide ourselves inside the smiles of others."

  The clown curls up inside his baggy white suit and hides under his puffball sleeping cap. His costume hasn't burned away. It must be part of who he really is.

  "Now,"

  says the elderly Arhat, clasping her hands,

  "Let's find ourselves a demon to burn."

  She laughs in a way that you find unnerving, takes the Green Lion's leash, and leads it down the hashigakari. The Understudy seems confused when the blind, sunglasses-wearing Arhat lets go of his hand and strides off purposefully down the bridge without anyone to lead her. The Green Lion ducks under the bridge's beams and they are gone.

  "How can she find her way? She's blind,"

  the Understudy says.

  "And her laugh was creepy.

  And what she said—"

  El Daishou has risen from his weeping. He stands before the two of you. Raising a long shaking veined hand, he gives the Understudy a firm slap.

  "In your desire to be recognized, you have become too trusting,"

  the actor says.

  "In your desire to impress us, you've brought disaster.

  In your desire to take pride in yourself, you've forgotten—

  Pride is always a sin."

  The Understudy says he doesn't understand. Now Pierrot speaks:

  "Monsieur, don't you know who is this 'Arhat?'

  She is no enlightened priestess.

  The Green Lion does not shine truth. That is a lie
.

  Such a creature shines only a point of view,

  Burning up anything that cannot be proven.

  It is not with hermits that we find salvation—

  For what good is being alone?

  Only when we immerse ourselves in others

  Can we find truth."

  El Daishou says more:

  "The Green Lion destroys anything that cannot be touched.

  Its light is death to all lies. But the theater is a lie. So is music.

  As the maestro of painting, Picasso, said:

  'Art is a lie that reveals the truth.' "

  The Understudy looks stunned.

  "So now we have two monsters to deal with?

  She lied to me. Even though the Green Lion was shining on her.

  I didn't know. I'm so stupid. I'm so stupid.

  I just can't do anything right."

  He looks like he wants to punch his own face. As much as you're tired of being nice to him, you pat his shoulder and say that it'll be okay.

  "It's the four of us against three monsters,"

  you say.

  "I don't know what Columbia will decide to do.

  But we can figure this out together.

  Are you two in?"

  The old actor and the clown both nod. The Understudy grimaces. First you'll need a plan—

  "Hey, you. Just a second. There's five of us."

  Who—who said that? It came over the Public Address system, slightly tinny but familiar—

  "Thought I was dead, didn't you?"

  It's your friend Quinn. She's back!

  She's

  not

  dead!

  Disguising her voice, she's been announcing the "Murder Mystery" play! Quinn, up in the control booth the whole time. Your best friend. The one person in the world you totally trust, totally relate to, who's down-to-earth and who tells you the whole unvarnished truth. Quinn. You didn't even realize how much you missed her. When she's around, everything's great. But when she's gone, you get all tangled up. You've needed a real friend, someone you know all about.

  Now she's back.

  "I'm up in the control booth. I'll be the director.

  The murder mystery's been solved, but now we've got monsters!

  First we need to corner the unnatural ones. The Green Lion and Punch.

  One who burns away lies and one who creates them."

  That's exactly what you've been missing.

  A director.

  So far, you've been blundering through the story, doing your best to play your part, taking whatever mask you've been given, tossing it aside, and meeting people when they turn up. But how much easier to know what's going to happen next! And besides, Quinn's trusty. You've got a director now, and you've got to bring Punch and the Green Lion onstage together.

  "Here's the plan. Punch can't resist music.

  Play him a song he can dance to. Meanwhile,

  Tell the Arhat you've found Punch.

  Hop to it!"

  says Quinn.

  Quinn directs El Daishou and Pierrot to sit behind the shime-daiko drums. Pierrot's accordion sits nearby, but he follows Quinn's instructions. That's what directors are for. In unison they pick up drumsticks, the clown and the actor, and play a song of fierce warriors dancing. Since his Japanese headband is burned away, El Daishou takes his shawl from his pocket, twirls it, and ties it as a red bandanna around his forehead. Pierrot likewise ties his white nightcap around his forehead, then takes a slipper off and sets the slipper on his head as a replacement hat. Red pom-poms flop over his eyes. Four sturdy bachi clubs strike the drumheads hand-over-hand.

  You lead the Understudy backstage. When you look over your shoulder, empty seats stare back at you like brown holes in the theater. Without an audience watching you, you don't feel nearly so brave. You feel mousy and incomplete. A stage isn't much good without an audience. Now whom will you be reading your lines for?

  Walking to the sound of Japanese drums, you and the Understudy drop onto the scented grass and begin looking. But it isn't hard to spot the Green Lion—a circle of light illuminates the slope of the mountain. Its light seems to burn away the black night, turning it pale yellow-blue, like a streetlight in the fog. Instead of a magical evening of wonder, the Green Lion makes the world a collection of atoms and molecules. Where there was a mountain, there is a geological formation. Where there were stars, there are nuclear reactions. Where there was the moon, there is lifeless dusty stone.

  The dreams of beauty were lies, too.

  The Understudy takes your hand and you walk with him toward the orange-robed woman in sunglasses. Smiling placidly, she pulls on the leash and turns the Green Lion toward you. The golden sun shines on your face. As you are bathed in unnatural sunlight, you realize you're just a collection of cells, body parts, hair follicles, sebaceous glands, surrounded by fabric. The Understudy's face looks oily and awkward in the harsh light. The Arhat nods to you, and you tell her what Quinn told you to say:

  "We know where the demon is.

  He's attracted to music. He'll head to the stage.

  We can corner him with the Lion.

  Follow me!"

  you say.

  The Arhat looks up at her pet monster, her sunglasses reflecting the glare like a pair of car headlights, then looks back at you.

  "A stage—nothing more than a home for lies.

  Boards and planks, all built to show off fake people

  Acting out things that never happened

  For people who aren't even real."

  But you need to bring the Arhat and her sunny lion to the stage. That's what Quinn, the director, told you to do.

  "If the stage is a lie,

  Why didn't the Green Lion burn it up?

  It must have some truth. Some reality.

  Surely it's more real than the audience."

  A strange expression crosses the Arhat's face. Her heavenly nirvana seems to storm over. The Arhat is angry.

  "The human heart should be a prison cell.

  Feelings belong locked up, not out in the open.

  The Green Lion shows the world

  Without emotions, as it should be."

  That's nonsense. You know it is. The heart shouldn't lock things up. The heart should feel. Who ever heard of a heart that couldn't feel?

  "The director told us to come get you,"

  the Understudy says.

  "I don't know where you're going,

  But we're trying to stop the demon.

  Won't you join us?"

  He points back at the empty wooden structure, squeezing your hand absentmindedly.

  The Arhat shakes her head. Her straight finger points toward the path up the mountain. Red torii arches define the path.

  "Phonies,"

  says the Arhat.

  "Phony arches. They say

  That torii mark the boundary

  Between the ordinary and the sacred.

  I want to prove them wrong.

  You two run back to your stage full of lies.

  I'll burn the demon up

  After I'm finished with these Shinto angels."

  It's hard to imagine why someone would be so eager to burn up the furniture, whether it's sacred or not. The Arhat doesn't seem so placid after all. It seems like underneath her tranquil eyes lurk a lot of emotions. She probably locks them up in her heart, like she said. Why does she pretend those feelings don't exist? That seems like the biggest lie here.

  The Understudy pulls you away from the crazy green monster and the crazier orange-robed woman and you run back together toward the stage of lies. Are you just going to wait around for the Arhat? What else can you do?

  The sound of drumming grows louder.

  You two slide down a slope of green grass, relishing being out of the harsh light of the Green Lion's partial reality. The stage is ahead, lit spooky crimson by misty, streaming Fresnel lights.

  Visible across the hashigakari, a long shadow made of claws is pranci
ng like a maniac. Running in place, leaping, a black scar in the bloodbath of floodlights, the shadow stretches out past the stage onto the grass. Punchinoni cares not at all whether he is watched, now. Punchinoni doesn't care, doesn't think. Punchinoni dances.

  The Understudy takes a deep breath, looks you in the eye, and says,

  "I want to dance, too. I'll wear the Punch mask.

  I can outdance Punch. We can keep him occupied

  Until we finish the job the director gave us.

  Would—would you dance with me?"

  The partly-broken Punch mask is here backstage. Punch must have taken it off when the Arhat arrived. The Understudy pulls it on, and the split closes shut over his face. The zucchini nose points at you.

  He holds out his hand.

  Would you dance with him?

  Well, would you?

  No one will tell you what to do.

  The choice is up to you.