Coming to Terms

by James Reston

  WAYNE: He influenced Dürer, Signorelli and Verrocchio.

  WAYNE and STU are just voices now.

  STU: Them I’ve heard of.

  WAYNE: Portrait of a Man? The Labors of Hercules? David? The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian? Tobias and the Angel?

  STU: Never heard of him.

  WAYNE: The tomb of Sixtus IV?

  STU: Never heard of him.

  WAYNE: Good God, he was a contemporary of Botticelli!

  STU: Never heard of him.

  WAYNE: Christ, you’re dumb.

  STU: I NEVER HEARD OF HIM.

  Spot stays on MAN’s face. Slow fade.

  END OF PLAY

  HOW I GOT THAT STORY

  Amlin Gray

  About Amlin Gray

  Born in New York City in 1946, Amlin Gray was drafted in 1966. A conscientious objector, he served as a medic in Vietnam. Trained as an actor after his army discharge, by the early 1970s Gray had taken up playwriting; his first two plays were presented at the O’Neill Theater Center in 1974 and 1976. He became a resident playwright at Milwaukee Repertory Theater in 1977, since which time 13 of his original plays, adaptations and translations have first been seen there. These include Kingdom Come, Zones of the Spirit and, most recently, an adaptation of Christmas Carol. Commissioned by Milwaukee’s Theatre X, The Fantod was cited by the American Theatre Critics Association as one of nine outstanding new plays produced in regional theatre during the 1978-79 season. Gray has been the recipient of Guggenheim, Rockefeller and National Endowment for the Arts grants, and is a 1985 McKnight Fellow.

  Production History

  How I Got That Story was first presented by Milwaukee Repertory Theater in April 1979, under the direction of Sharon Ott. The play’s New York premiere, directed by Carole Rothman, took place at The Second Stage in December 1980. In February 1982 the play re-opened Off Broadway, again under Rothman’s direction.

  Playwright’s Note

  Every sound effect in the play is made, live or on tape, by the Event actor. Where possible, the audience should be able to recognize his voice.

  The setting is a wide, shallow space, as bare of props and set pieces as possible. This will help to characterize the Event as the Reporter sees it: broadly, shallowly, and in sharply isolated fragments.

  The back wall should be textured in a range of shades from green to greenish brown, perhaps with collage materials (bamboo, scraps of Asian writing, etc.) blended in. The backdrop must serve alike for city scenes and scenes set in the countryside. To facilitate the Event’s transformations, masked breaks should be provided in the back wall. Slides announcing the titles of the scenes, etc., appear on the back wall, as do photographs of the Event, as described.

  A list of scenes follows:

  ACT ONE

  1Accreditation

  2Tip

  3Audience

  4Strip

  5Field

  6Imprintment

  7Planes

  8Run

  ACT TWO

  1Village

  2Self-Criticism

  3Rescue

  4Proposal

  5Work

  6Orphanage

  7Home

  Characters

  THE REPORTER An eager young man in his late 20s.

  THE HISTORICAL EVENT. The actor playing this part appears at times as the entire Event, at other times as people who make up parts of the Event, as follows:

  THE DEPUTY COORDINATOR

  MR. KINGSLEY

  AN AMBONESE PEDESTRIAN

  A BONZE

  MADAME ING

  A STREET URCHIN

  A G.I. IN MIMI’S FLAMBOYANT

  LIEUTENANT THIBODEAUX (pronounced “TIH-buh-doe”)

  PFC PROCHASKA

  A GUERRILLA

  SERGEANT PEERS

  LI (pronounced “Lee”)

  A CIVILIAN FLIGHT ANNOUNCER

  AN AMERICAN PHOTOGRAPHER

  AN AIR FORCE PILOT

  AN AMBONESE PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE OFFICER

  AN AMBONESE SOLDIER

  A GUERRILLA INFORMATION OFFICER

  OFFICER X

  AN AMBONESE NUN

  Time

  The mid-1960s.

  Place

  Vietnam.

  The Play

  How I Got That Story

  This play is dedicated to

  SHARON OTT

  ACT ONE

  As the audience is just about getting settled, the EVENT walks into the playing area, stands utterly impassive, and, his mouth moving minimally, begins to articulate a strange and Asian-sounding musical piece. If any stage light is on him, it goes out with the house lights. HE continues his instrumental-sounding version of the foreign melody in the darkness.

  Slide: HOW I GOT THAT STORY

  Slide: starring

  Slide: (Actor’s name) as The Reporter

  A light comes up as the slide goes off, showing the REPORTER with pencil poised over his notepad, trying to locate the source of the elusive music. The light goes out.

  Slide: and

  Slide: (Actor’s name) as The Historical Event

  A light comes up on the EVENT, from whose passive presence music continues to issue. HE is now standing on his head.

  Slide: ACCREDITATION

  Lights come up on the REPORTER. HE is wearing a rumpled lightweight jacket with ink stains around the pockets. HE holds a somewhat crushed felt hat in one hand and speaks to the audience.

  REPORTER: Hello there. This is Am-bo Land. My new job with the TransPanGlobal Wire Service brought me here. It’s not the safest place right now, but this is how I figure it. The last two years I’ve been reporting on the western part of East Dubuque. A lot goes on there. If you add it all up right, then you’ve got western East Dubuque. That’s fine. But if you add up Am-bo Land, it’s everyplace. It’s it. It’s what the world is like. If I just keep my eyes wide open I can understand the whole world. That’s how I figure it. These are the Am-bo Land offices of TransPanGlobal. Good-sized outfit, hey? I’m here to pick up my accreditation card so I can work incountry. Spell that word without a hyphen.

  VOICE: Next.

  The REPORTER walks over to a desk. The DEPUTY COORDINATOR is sitting behind it.

  COORDINATOR: May I help you?

  REPORTER: I’m here to see Mr. Kingsley.

  COORDINATOR: May I ask your business?

  REPORTER: I’m just picking up my card so I can work incountry.

  COORDINATOR: You’ll see Mr. Kingsley.

  REPORTER: Thank you.

  COORDINATOR: Straight back, third door to the right, first left, and down the hall.

  REPORTER: Thanks.

  COORDINATOR: He’s expecting you.

  REPORTER: He is?

  COORDINATOR: Yes.

  REPORTER: How?

  COORDINATOR: You said you work for TransPanGlobal?

  REPORTER: Yes.

  COORDINATOR: I’m sure you know, then, that our business is communication.

  REPORTER: Thank you very much.

  The REPORTER moves off and into the maze of the COORDINATOR’s directions. When HE gets to KINGSLEY’s office, KINGSLEY is waiting for him. KINGSLEY stands up from his desk and shakes the REPORTER’s hand.

  KINGSLEY: I’m so happy to meet you. Please sit down. (HE indicates a chair in front of his desk. The REPORTER sits) Don’t mind if I stare. It’s one of the little pleasures of my job when a byline changes to a face. You look quite like your byline, I might say. I couldn’t be more pleased.

  REPORTER: Well, thank you.

  KINGSLEY: I admire your work. Before I’d read two pages of the samples that you sent us, I said, “Bob”—please call me Bob, that’s what I call myself—

  REPORTER: Okay, Bob.

  KINGSLEY: I said, “Bob, this is a man for TransPanGlobal. An impartial man. He views all sides and then he writes the truth as he believes it.”

  REPORTER: If I may, sir—

  KINGSLEY: Bob.

  REPORTER: Bob, I
’m not sure I’d put it quite that way. I don’t think belief is too much help to a reporter. What I try to do is see, then write the truth—Bob—as I see it.

  KINGSLEY: My mistake. Poor choice of words. My meaning was, you don’t allow some pietistic preconception to subvert your objectivity. You write what you see.

  REPORTER: That’s very nicely said, Bob. I’ll subscribe to that.

  KINGSLEY: On the other hand, you don’t write everything you see.

  REPORTER: I’m not quite sure I—

  KINGSLEY: If your wife farts in church you don’t run it on the human interest page.

  REPORTER I’m not married.

  KINGSLEY: No, I know you’re not. That was a figure of speech.

  REPORTER (“Go on”): Okay.

  KINGSLEY: To bring this down to cases. The Government of Madame Ing is fighting for its life. You probably know that the guerrillas don’t confine themselves to Robert’s Rules of Order. Madame Ing is forced, in kind, to bite and scratch a little. You may see a few examples. Some abridgement of the freedom of internal opposition. Some abridgement of the outer limbs of those involved. These things may rock you. Nothing wrong with that—as long as you keep one thing very firmly in mind. When we send out reports, the nearest terminal for them is the Imperial Palace. Madame Ing eats ticker tape like eel in fish sauce. That’s the A-l delicacy here, you’ll have to try it. Can you handle chopsticks?

  REPORTER: Yes, I—

  KINGSLEY: Madame Ing is very sensitive to how she’s viewed from overseas. Let’s face it. When we applied for permission to set up an agency here, we didn’t apply to the guerrillas. It’s Ing who allowed us to come here, and it’s Ing who has the power to send us back. (Sliding a card across the desk to the REPORTER) Let’s have a signature.

  REPORTER: What’s this?

  KINGSLEY: Your press card.

  REPORTER: (Pleased): Oh. (HE signs)

  KINGSLEY (Deftly seals the card in plastic): You’ll find this plastic proof against the rainy season, jungle rot. . . . I took a card like this intact right off the body of a newsman who had all but decomposed.

  REPORTER: What happened to him?

  KINGSLEY: Madame Ing expelled him but he didn’t leave. The will of a developing government will find a way. (HE hands the REPORTER his sealed card) We’re very glad you’re with us.

  Gray-out. KINGSLEY disappears as the REPORTER, somewhat overloaded, retraces his steps through the maze of “corridors” and out onto the streets. His journey is accompanied by the sounds—made on tape, like all the sounds that follow, by the voice of the EVENT—of a ticker-tape machine, crossfading with the putt-beep-swish of Hondas.

  Slide: TIP

  Lights full up on the REPORTER, still a bit nonplussed as HE makes his way along the street. HE puts the press card in his hatband and the hat back on his head. The tape ends with a whooshing sound as a sudden wind blows the REPORTER to a standstill, makes him grab his hat. HE stands quite puzzled.

  REPORTER: That was odd. A sudden breeze, now nothing. (HE wets his finger and holds it up; shrugs) Oriental weather. (Starts walking again) I’ve heard that the guerrillas move so fast you feel a wind and don’t see anything, but sitting in your pocket is a bomb. (A moment’s delay, then frantically HE pats his pockets from the chest down. Gives a sigh of relief. Then, registering something, returns to the first pocket that HE checked. Slowly HE draws out a neatly folded sheet of rice paper. Carefully HE opens it. It contains a single wooden match. HE reads the message on the paper) “Han Sho Street and Perfume Boulevard in twenty minutes. A man will ask you for a light.” (Checking his watch) Twenty minutes. That would be at two o’clock. What time is it now? (Checking) Twenty minutes of two! Excuse me, sir? (A MAN in a conical reed hat has walked on) Sir. Han Sho Street and Perfume Boulevard. Which way? (The AMBONESE PEDESTRIAN snatches the REPORTER’s hat off his head and runs) Hey! Hey! (A chase ensues, with the MAN appearing from unexpected places, then vanishing, the REPORTER farther and farther behind him. A continuation of the street-sounds tape accompanies the chase) Hey, come back here! Stop! I need that! (Finally the MAN strolls on with his reed hat in his hand and the REPORTER’s on his head. Puffing, the REPORTER comes in sight) Sir, it’s not the hat I want. I won’t begrudge you that. I know you probably live in very straitened circumstances. I just want the press card. (The MAN points at an offstage sign) Oh. Han Sho Street and Perfume Boulevard. (The MAN holds out his own hat, bottom up. The REPORTER puts money in it. The MAN takes the REPORTER’s hat from his head and flips it to its owner. Then the MAN ambles off, counting his money) I made it. No one here though. (HE takes the match out of his pocket and holds it awkwardly in front of him. After a moment) I’ll take the opportunity to absorb a little atmosphere. (Writing in a little spiral notebook) Busy intersection. People. Hondas. Over there a big pagoda. Lots of Buddhists in the windows, dressed in saffron robes. (As HE goes on, the BONZE—in saffron robes—comes on, unseen by him. The BONZE is carrying a large red gasoline can) All ages. Every window filled with faces. They’re all looking over here in my direction. Not at me, though. I don’t think at me. (The BONZE has “poured” a pool of gasoline on the pavement) I can smell their incense. (The BONZE has set the can down and come up behind the REPORTER. The REPORTER spins around) Oh! You startled me. (Pause. The BONZE just stands there) Are you my contact? (Pause) You’re supposed to ask me something. (The BONZE stands. The REPORTER starts to hold the match up again, to give the man a hint. The BONZE takes it) That’s not incense! That’s gas!

  In one resolute movement, the BONZE walks back to the puddle of gas and sits down cross-legged in the middle of it. HE “empties” the rest of the can over his head.

  BONZE: Down with Madame Ing! Down with the repressive government of Am-bo Land! (HE scrapes the match on the pavement and at once is “burning” [a red special and a piece of paper crackled in each hand can give the effect]. The REPORTER stands rooted with horror)

  REPORTER: Oh my god. He’s burning. People up and down the street are watching. I am too. I’m watching. (Quickly) I’m not watching. I’m not here! I’m a reporter! I’m recording this! (HE writes) “The monk was sitting in the center of a column of fire. From time to time a light wind blew the flames away from his face. His face was twisted with the pain.” The pain, my god—! (To himself) No! You’re not here. You’re just recording this. You look at it, you take the pencil, and you write it down. (The BONZE topples sideways) My god. (HE forces his pencil to his pad and writes. Tape fades up: a low repeating chant in an Asian-sounding language) “Charred black . . . black circle on the pavement . . . wisps of orange fabric drifted down the street.”

  The lights fade out. The chant continues in the darkness.

  Slide: AUDIENCE

  Lights come up on the REPORTER, still shaken from his experience at the street corner.

  REPORTER: I went and talked this morning to the Reverend Father of the Han Sho Street Pagoda. Here, (HE takes out his notebook) I think I’ve got it clear now. He explained to me that the—what’s that? (HE can’t read his writing)—the immolation was a political act and a spiritual act at the same time. There are six thousand monks in Am-bo Land. Of these six thousand, one hundred and fifty have applied for permission to kill themselves. They wish to demonstrate their faith. But the Reverend Father withholds permission till the worldly motive—political protest—is sufficient by itself to justify the act. (Quoting) “The spiritual act must be politically pure; the political act must be spiritually pure.” It’s both at once. And so it’s sort of—neither. . . . If I’d had some sand or water—or I might have tried to damp the fire with my jacket—but that would have been unethical. . . . I’ve got it all down here, though. (A gong sounds. HE starts) The most amazing thing has happened! I’m about to talk to Madame Ing! She summoned me! Reporters have waited years without getting an audience. I can’t believe this is happening.

  The gong sounds again, a little louder. The REPORTER walks awestruck into the Presence. MADAME ING is seated, reg
ally.

  ING: Here I sit and stand.

  REPORTER: Um . . . yes. (At a loss what to say) I’ve seen you on the cover of Time magazine.

  ING: Do not mention that loathsome publication in my presence.

  REPORTER: But they named you “Woman of the Year.”

  ING: What year?

  REPORTER: Why, last year.

  ING: Why not this year?

  REPORTER: They never give it to anyone twice in a row.

  ING: In my country one must grow in honor as one grows in years. Time should have named me “Woman of the Decade,” next year “Woman of the Century,” and so on. I have summoned you.

  REPORTER: I’m flabbergasted.

  ING: I wish not to know what that word means.

  REPORTER: To what do I owe the extraordinary honor of your summons?

  ING: To your crime.

  REPORTER: My crime?

  ING: You bribed the monks of Han Sho Street Pagoda to set one of their fellows on fire.

  REPORTER: What?

  ING: They filled his veins with morphine till his blood was thin. They led him to the street and they set fire to him.

  REPORTER: That’s not true.

  ING: Not true?

  REPORTER: No. The man was alone. Nobody led him to the street.

  ING: Then he was hypnotized.

  REPORTER: He wasn’t.

  ING: How do you know?

  REPORTER: Because I heard him speak.

  ING: A man can speak under hypnosis.

  REPORTER: Well, I’m sure he wasn’t hypnotized.

  ING: Men of the press are expected to have documentation for what they say. Do you have proof?

  REPORTER: I saw him.

  ING: Look at me. You see my face?

  REPORTER: Yes. . . .

  ING: Am I smiling?

  REPORTER (Peering as through darkness at her unreadable expression): I don’t know.

  ING; The monk was hypnotized.

  REPORTER: You have no proof.

  ING: I know. You have admitted you do not know. Madame Ing has won that argument.

  REPORTER: All right, then, let’s just say that he was hypnotized. What makes you think I was behind it?