Trying to Find Chinatown: The Selected Plays of David Henry Hwang Page 6

  LONE: With my dice.

  MA: Mine now. (He offers them again) Here.

  (Pause. Lone runs Ma’s hand across his forehead.)

  LONE: Feel this.

  MA: Hey!

  LONE: Pretty wet, huh?

  MA: Big deal.

  LONE: Well, it’s not from playing with die siu.

  MA: I know how to sweat. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.

  LONE: Yes, but are you willing to sweat after you’ve finished sweating? Are you willing to come up after you’ve spent the whole day chipping half an inch off a rock, and punish your body some more?

  MA: Yeah. Even after work, I still—

  LONE: No, you don’t. You want to gamble, and tell dirty stories, and dress up like women to do shows.

  MA: Hey, I never did that.

  LONE: You’ve only been here a month. (Pause) And what about “the guys”? They’re not going to treat you so well once you stop playing with them. Are you willing to work all day listening to them whisper, “That one—let’s put spiders in his soup”?

  MA: They won’t do that to me. With you, it’s different.

  LONE: Is it?

  MA: You don’t have to act that way.

  LONE: What way?

  MA: Like you’re so much better than them.

  LONE: No. You haven’t even begun to understand. To practice every day, you must have a fear to force you up here.

  MA: A fear? No—it’s ’cause what you’re doing is beautiful.

  LONE: No.

  MA: I’ve seen it.

  LONE: It’s ugly to practice when the mountain has turned your muscles to ice. When my body hurts too much to come here, I look at the other Chinamen and think, “They are dead. Their muscles work only because the white man forces them. I live because I can still force my muscles to work for me.” Say it. “They are dead.”

  MA: No. They’re my friends.

  LONE: Well, then take your dice down to your friends.

  MA: But I want to learn—

  LONE: This is your first lesson.

  MA: Look, it shouldn’t matter—

  LONE: It does.

  MA: It shouldn’t matter what I think.

  LONE: Attitude is everything.

  MA: But as long as I come up, do the exercises—

  LONE: I’m not going to waste time on a quitter.

  MA: I’m not!

  LONE: Then say it—“They are dead men.”

  MA: I can’t.

  LONE: Then you will never have the dedication.

  MA: That doesn’t prove anything.

  LONE: I will not teach a dead man.

  MA: What?

  LONE: If you can’t see it, then you’re dead too.

  MA: Don’t start pinning—

  LONE: Say it!

  MA: All right.

  LONE: What?

  MA: All right. I’m one of them. I’m a dead man too.

  (Pause.)

  LONE: I thought as much. So, go. You have your friends.

  MA: But I don’t have a teacher.

  LONE: I don’t think you need both.

  MA: Are you sure?

  LONE: I’m being questioned by a child.

  (Lone returns to practicing. Silence.)

  MA: Look, Lone, I’ll come up here every night—after work—I’ll spend my time practicing, okay? (Pause) But I’m not gonna say that they’re dead. Look at them. They’re on strike; dead men don’t go on strike, Lone. The white devils—they try and stick us with a ten-hour day. We want a return to eight hours and also a fourteen-dollar-a-month raise. I learned the demon English—listen: “Eight hour a day good for white man, all same good for Chinaman.” These are the demands of live Chinamen, Lone. Dead men don’t complain.

  LONE: All right, this is something new. No one can judge the Chinamen ’til after the strike.

  MA: They say we’ll hold out for months if we have to. The smart men will live on what we’ve hoarded.

  LONE: A Chinaman’s mouth can swallow the earth. (He takes the dice) While the strike is on, I’ll teach you.

  MA: And afterwards?

  LONE: Afterwards—we’ll decide then whether these are dead or live men.

  MA: When can we start?

  LONE: We’ve already begun. Give me your hand.

  Scene Three

  Late afternoon, four days later. Lone and Ma are doing physical exercises.

  MA: How long will it be before I can play Gwan Gung?

  LONE: How long before a dog can play the violin?

  MA: Old Ah Hong—have you heard him play the violin?

  LONE: Yes. Now, he should take his violin and give it to a dog.

  MA: I think he sounds okay.

  LONE: I think he caused that avalanche last winter.

  MA: He used to play weddings back home.

  LONE: Ah Hong?

  MA: That’s what he said.

  LONE: You probably heard wrong.

  MA: No.

  LONE: He probably said he played for funerals.

  MA: He’s been playing for the guys down at camp.

  LONE: He should play for the white devils—that will end this stupid strike.

  MA: Yang told me for sure—it’ll be over by tomorrow. L

  ONE: Eight days already. And Yang doesn’t know anything.

  MA: He said they’re already down to an eight-hour day and five-dollar raise at the bargaining sessions.

  LONE: Yang eats too much opium.

  MA: That doesn’t mean he’s wrong about this.

  LONE: You can’t trust him. One time—last year—he went around camp looking in everybody’s eyes and saying, “Your nails are too long. They’re hurting my eyes.” This went on for a week. Finally, all the men clipped their nails, made a big pile, which they wrapped in leaves and gave to him. Yang used the nails to season his food—he put it in his soup, sprinkled it on his rice, and never said a word about it again. Now tell me—are you going to trust a man who eats other men’s fingernails?

  MA: Well, all I know is we won’t go back to work until they meet all our demands. Listen, teach me some Gwan Gung steps.

  LONE: I should have expected this. A boy who wants to have twenty wives is the type who demands more than he can handle.

  MA: Just a few.

  LONE: It takes years before an actor can play Gwan Gung.

  MA: I can do it. I spend a lot of time watching the opera when it comes around. Every time I see Gwan Gung, I say, “Yeah. That’s me. The god of fighters. The god of adventurers. We have the same kind of spirit.”

  LONE: I tell you, if you work very hard, when you return to China, you can perhaps be the Second Clown.

  MA: Second Clown?

  LONE: If you work hard.

  MA: What’s the Second Clown?

  LONE: You can play the pi pa, and dance and jump all over.

  MA: I’ll buy them.

  LONE: Excuse me?

  MA: I’m going to be rich, remember? I’ll buy a troupe and force them to let me play Gwan Gung.

  LONE: I hope you have enough money, then, to pay audiences to sit through your show.

  MA: You mean, I’m going to have to practice here every night—and in return, all I can play is the Second Clown?

  LONE: If you work hard.

  MA: Am I that bad? Maybe I shouldn’t even try to do this. Maybe I should just go down.

  LONE: It’s not you. Everyone must earn the right to play Gwan Gung. I entered opera school when I was ten years old. My parents decided to sell me for ten years to this opera company. I lived with eighty other boys and we slept in bunks four beds high and hid our candy and rice cakes from each other. After eight years, I was studying to play Gwan Gung.

  MA: Eight years?

  LONE: I was one of the best in my class. One day, I was summoned by my master, who told me I was to go home for two days because my mother had fallen very ill and was dying. When I arrived home, Mother was standing at the door waiting, not sick at all. Her first words to me, the son away f
or eight years, were, “You’ve been playing while your village has starved. You must go to the Gold Mountain and work.”

  MA: And you never returned to school?

  LONE: I went from a room with eighty boys to a ship with three hundred men. So, you see, it does not come easily to play Gwan Gung.

  MA: Did you want to play Gwan Gung?

  LONE: What a foolish question!

  MA: Well, you’re better off this way.

  LONE: What?

  MA: Actors—they don’t make much money. Here, you make a bundle, then go back and be an actor again. Best of both worlds.

  LONE: “Best of both worlds.”

  MA: Yeah!

  (Lone drops to the ground, begins imitating a duck, waddling and quacking.)

  Lone? What are you doing?

  (Lone quacks.)

  You’re a duck?

  (Lone quacks.)

  I can see that.

  (Lone quacks.)

  Is this an exercise? Am I supposed to do this?

  (Lone quacks.)

  This is dumb. I never seen Gwan Gung waddle.

  (Lone quacks.)

  Okay. All right. I’ll do it.

  (Ma and Lone quack and waddle.)

  You know, I never realized before how uncomfortable a duck’s life is. And you have to listen to yourself quacking all day. Go crazy!

  (Lone stands up straight.)

  Now, what was all that about?

  LONE: No, no. Stay down there, duck.

  MA: What’s the—

  LONE (Prompting): Quack, quack, quack.

  MA: I don’t—

  LONE: Act your species!

  MA: I’m not a duck!

  LONE: Nothing worse than a duck that doesn’t know his place.

  MA: All right. (Mechanically) Quack, quack.

  LONE: More.

  MA: Quack.

  LONE: More!

  MA: Quack, quack, quack!

  (Ma now continues quacking as Lone gives commands.)

  LONE: Louder! It’s your mating call! Think of your twenty duck wives! Good! Louder! Project! More! Don’t slow down! Put your tail feathers into it! They can’t hear you!

  (Ma is now quacking up a storm. Lone exits, unnoticed by Ma.)

  MA: Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack. Quack . . . quack. (He looks around) Quack . . . quack . . . Lone? . . . Lone? (He waddles around the stage, looking for Lone) Lone, where are you? Where’d you go? (He stops, scratches his left leg with his right foot) C’mon—stop playing around. What is this?

  (Lone enters as a tiger, unseen by Ma.)

  Look, let’s call it a day, okay? I’m getting hungry.

  (Ma turns around, notices Lone right before Lone is about to bite him.)

  Aaaaah! Quack, quack, quack!

  (They face off, in character as animals. Duck / Ma is terrified.)

  LONE: Grrrr!

  MA (As a cry for help): Quack, quack, quack!

  (Lone pounces on Ma. They struggle, in character. Ma is quacking madly, eyes tightly closed. Lone stands up straight. Ma continues to quack.)

  LONE: Stand up.

  MA (Eyes still closed): Quack, quack, quack!

  LONE (Louder): Stand up!

  MA (Opening his eyes): Oh.

  LONE: What are you?

  MA: Huh?

  LONE: A Chinaman or a duck?

  MA: Huh? Gimme a second to remember.

  LONE: You like being a duck?

  MA: My feet fell asleep.

  LONE: You change forms so easily.

  MA: You said to.

  LONE: What else could you turn into?

  MA: Well, you scared me—sneaking up like that.

  LONE: Perhaps a rock. That would be useful. When the men need to rest, they can sit on you.

  MA: I got carried away.

  LONE: Let’s try . . . a locust. Can you become a locust?

  MA: No. Let’s cut this, okay?

  LONE: Here. It’s easy. You just have to know how to hop.

  MA: You’re not gonna get me—

  LONE: Like this. (He demonstrates)

  MA: Forget it, Lone.

  LONE: I’m a locust. (He begins jumping toward Ma)

  MA: Hey! Get away!

  LONE: I devour whole fields.

  MA: Stop it.

  LONE: I starve babies before they are born.

  MA: Hey, look, stop it!

  LONE: I cause famines and destroy villages.

  MA: I’m warning you! Get away!

  LONE: What are you going to do? You can’t kill a locust.

  MA: You’re not a locust.

  LONE: You kill one, and another sits on your hand.

  MA: Stop following me.

  LONE: Locusts always trouble people, if not, we’d feel useless. Now, if you become a locust, too . . .

  MA: I’m not going to become a locust.

  LONE: Just stick your teeth out!

  MA: I’m not gonna be a bug! It’s stupid!

  LONE: No man who’s just been a duck has the right to call anything stupid.

  MA: I thought you were trying to teach me something.

  LONE: I am. Go ahead.

  MA: All right. There. That look right?

  LONE: Your legs should be a little lower. Lower! There. That’s adequate. So how does it feel to be a locust? (He gets up)

  MA: I dunno. How long do I have to do this?

  LONE: Could you do it for three years?

  MA: Three years? Don’t be—

  LONE: You couldn’t, could you? Could you be a duck for that long?

  MA: Look, I wasn’t born to be either of those.

  LONE: Exactly. Well, I wasn’t born to work on a railroad, either. “Best of both worlds.” How can you be such an insect!

  (Pause.)

  MA: Lone . . .

  LONE: Stay down there! Don’t move! I’ve never told anyone my story—the story of my parents’ kidnapping me from school. All the time we were crossing the ocean, the last two years here—I’ve kept my mouth shut. To you, I finally tell it. And all you can say is, “Best of both worlds.” You’re a bug to me, a locust. You think you understand the dedication one must have to be in the opera? You think it’s the same as working on a railroad.

  MA: Lone, all I was saying is that you’ll go back too, and—

  LONE: You’re no longer a student of mine.

  MA: What?

  LONE: You have no dedication.

  MA: Lone, I’m sorry.

  LONE: Get up.

  MA: I’m honored that you told me that.

  LONE: Get up.

  MA: No.

  LONE: No?

  MA: I don’t want to. I want to talk.

  LONE: Well, I’ve learned from the past. You’re stubborn. You don’t go. All right. Stay there. If you want to prove to me that you’re dedicated, be a locust ’til morning. I’ll go.

  MA: Lone, I’m really honored that you told me.

  LONE: I’ll return in the morning. (Exits)

  MA: Lone? Lone, that’s ridiculous. You think I’m gonna stay like this? If you do, you’re crazy. Lone? Come back here.

  Scene Four

  Late that night. Ma, alone, still in locust position.

  MA: Locusts travel in huge swarms, so large that when they cross the sky, they block out the sun, like a storm. Second Uncle—back home—when he was a young man, his whole crop got wiped out by locusts one year. In the famine that followed, Second Uncle lost his eldest son and his second wife—the one he married for love. Even to this day, we look around before saying the word “locust,” to make sure Second Uncle is out of hearing range. About eight years ago, my brother and I discovered Second Uncle’s cave in back of the stream near our house. We saw him come out of it one day around noon. Later, just before the sun went down, we sneaked in. We only looked once. Inside, there must have been hundreds—maybe five hundred or more—grasshoppers in huge bamboo cages—and around them—stacks of grasshopper legs, grasshopper heads, grasshopper antennae, grasshoppers with one leg, still t
rying to hop but toppling like trees coughing, grasshoppers wrapped around sharp branches rolling from side to side, grasshoppers’ legs cut off grasshopper bodies, then tied around grasshoppers and tightened’til grasshoppers died. Every conceivable kind of grasshopper in every conceivable stage of life and death, subject to every conceivable grasshopper torture. We ran out quickly, my brother and I—we knew an evil place by the thickness of the air. Now, I think of Second Uncle. How sad that the locusts forced him to take out his agony on innocent grasshoppers. What if Second Uncle could see me now? Would he cut off my legs? He might as well. I can barely feel them. But then again, Second Uncle never tortured actual locusts, just weak grasshoppers.

  Scene Five

  Just before dawn. Ma is still in locust position.

  LONE (Offstage, singing): Hit your hardest Pound out your tears The more you try The more you’ll cry At how little I’ve moved And how large I loom By the time the sun goes down

  MA: You look rested.

  LONE: Me?

  MA: Well, you sound rested.

  LONE: No, not at all.

  MA: Maybe I’m just comparing you to me.

  LONE: I didn’t even close my eyes all last night.

  MA: Aw, Lone, you didn’t have to stay up for me. You coulda just come up here and—

  LONE: For you?

  MA:—apologized and everything woulda been—

  LONE: I didn’t stay up for you.

  MA: Huh? You didn’t?

  LONE: No.

  MA: Oh. You sure?

  LONE: Positive. I was thinking, that’s all.