Trying to Find Chinatown: The Selected Plays of David Henry Hwang Page 7

  MA: About me?

  LONE: Well...

  MA: Even a little?

  LONE: I was thinking about the Chinamen—and you. Get up, Ma.

  MA: Aw, do I have to? I’ve gotten to know the grasshoppers real well.

  LONE: Get up. I have a lot to tell you.

  MA: What’ll they think? They take me in, even though I’m a little large, then they find out I’m a human being. I stepped on their kids. No trust. Gimme a hand, will you?

  (Lone helps Ma up, but Ma’s legs can’ t support him.)

  Aw, shit. My legs are coming off. (He lies down and tries to straighten his legs out)

  LONE: I have many surprises. First, you will play Gwan Gung.

  MA: My legs will be sent home without me. What’ll my family think? Come to port to meet me and all they get is two legs.

  LONE: Did you hear me?

  MA: Hold on. I can’t be in agony and listen to Chinese at the same time.

  LONE: Did you hear my first surprise?

  MA: No. I’m too busy screaming.

  LONE: I said, you’ll play Gwan Gung.

  MA: Gwan Gung?

  LONE: Yes.

  MA: Me?

  LONE: Yes.

  MA: Without legs?

  LONE: What?

  MA: That might be good.

  LONE: Stop that!

  MA: I’ll become a legend. Like the blind man who defended Amoy.

  LONE: Did you hear?

  MA: “The legless man who played Gwan Gung.”

  LONE: Isn’t this what you want? To play Gwan Gung?

  MA: No, I just wanna sleep.

  LONE: No, you don’t. Look. Here I brought you something.

  MA: Food?

  LONE: Here. Some rice.

  MA: Thanks, Lone. And duck?

  LONE: Just a little.

  MA: Where’d you get the duck?

  LONE: Just bones and skin.

  MA: We don’t have duck. And the white devils have been blockading the food.

  LONE: Sing—he had some left over.

  MA: Sing? That thief?

  LONE: And something to go with it.

  MA: What? Lone, where did you find whiskey?

  LONE: You know, Sing—he has almost anything.

  MA: Yeah. For a price.

  LONE: Once, even some thousand-day-old eggs.

  MA: He’s a thief. That’s what they told me.

  LONE: Not if you’re his friend.

  MA: Sing don’t have any real friends. Everyone talks about him bein’ tied in to the head of the klan in San Francisco. Lone, you didn’t have to do this. Here. Have some.

  LONE: I had plenty.

  MA: Don’t gimme that. This cost you plenty, Lone.

  LONE: Well, I thought if we were going to celebrate, we should do it as well as we would have at home.

  MA: Celebrate? What for? Wait.

  LONE: Ma, the strike is over.

  MA: Shit, I knew it. And we won, right?

  LONE: Yes, the Chinamen have won. They can do more than just talk.

  MA: I told you. Didn’t I tell you?

  LONE: Yes. Yes, you did.

  MA: Yang told me it was gonna be done. He said—

  LONE: Yes, I remember.

  MA: Didn’t I tell you? Huh?

  LONE: Ma, eat your duck.

  MA: Nine days, we civilized the white devils. I knew it. I knew we’d hold out ’til their ears started twitching. So that’s where you got the duck, right? At the celebration?

  LONE: No, there wasn’t a celebration.

  MA: Huh? You sure? Chinamen—they look for any excuse to party.

  LONE: But I thought we should celebrate.

  MA: Well, that’s for sure.

  LONE: So you will play Gwan Gung.

  MA: God, nine days. Shit, it’s finally done. Well, we’ll show them how to party. Make noise. Jump off rocks. Make the mountain shake.

  LONE: We’ll wash your body, to prepare you for the role.

  MA: What role?

  LONE: Gwan Gung. I’ve been telling you.

  MA: I don’t wanna play Gwan Gung.

  LONE: You’ve shown the dedication required to become my student, so—

  MA: Lone, you think I stayed up last night ’cause I wanted to play Gwan Gung?

  LONE: You said you were like him.

  MA: I am. Gwan Gung stayed up all night once to prove his loyalty. Well, now I have too. Lone, I’m honored that you told me your story.

  LONE: Yes . . . That is like Gwan Gung.

  MA: Good. So let’s do an opera about me.

  LONE: What?

  MA: You wanna party or what?

  LONE: About you?

  MA: You said I was like Gwan Gung, didn’t you?

  LONE: Yes, but—

  MA: Well, look at the operas he’s got. I ain’t even got one.

  LONE: Still, you can’t—

  MA: You tell me, is that fair?

  LONE: You can’t do an opera about yourself.

  MA: I just won a victory, didn’t I? I deserve an opera in my honor.

  LONE: But it’s not traditional.

  MA: Traditional? Lone, you gotta figure any way I could do Gwan Gung wasn’t gonna be traditional anyway. I may be as good a guy as him, but he’s a better dancer. (Sings)

  Old Gwan Gung, just sits about

  ’Til the dime-store fighters have had it out

  Then he pitches his peach pit

  Combs his beard

  Draws his sword

  And they scatter in fear

  LONE: What are you talking about?

  MA: I just won a great victory. I get—whatcha call it?—poetic license. C’mon. Hit the gongs. I’ll immortalize my story.

  LONE: I refuse. This goes against all my training. I try and give you your wish and—

  MA: Do it. Gimme my wish. Hit the gongs.

  LONE: I never—I can’t.

  MA: Can’t what? Don’t think I’m worth an opera? No, I guess not. I forgot—you think I’m just one of those dead men.

  (Silence. Lone pulls out a gong. Ma gets into position to begin. Lone hits the gong. They do the following in mock-Chinese-opera style.)

  I am Ma. Yesterday, I was kicked out of my house by my three elder brothers, calling me the lazy dreamer of the family. I am sitting here in front of the temple trying to decide how I will avenge this indignity. Here comes the poorest beggar in this village. (He cues Lone) He is called Fleaman because his body is the most popular meeting place for fleas from around the province.

  LONE (Singing):Fleas in love,

  Find your happiness

  In the gray scraps of my suit

  MA: Hello, Flea—

  LONE (Continuing):Fleas in need

  Shield your families

  In the gray hairs of my beard

  MA: Hello, Flea—

  (Lone cuts Ma off, continues an extended improvised aria.)

  Hello, Fleaman.

  LONE: Hello, Ma. Are you interested in providing a home for these fleas?

  MA: No!

  LONE: This couple here—seeking to start a new home. Housing today is so hard to find. How about your left arm?

  MA: I may have plenty of my own fleas in time. I have been thrown out by my elder brothers.

  LONE: Are you seeking revenge? A flea epidemic on your house? (To aflea) Get back there. You should be asleep. Your mother will worry.

  MA: Nothing would make my brothers angrier than seeing me rich.

  LONE: Rich? After the bad crops of the last three years, even the fleas are thinking of moving north.

  MA: I heard a white devil talk yesterday.

  LONE: Oh—with hair the color of a sick chicken and eyes round as eggs? The fleas and I call him Chicken-Laying-an-Egg.

  MA: He said we can make our fortunes on the Gold Mountain, where work is play and the sun scares off snow.

  LONE: Don’t listen to chicken-brains.

  MA: Why not? He said gold grows like weeds.

  LONE: I have h
eard that it is slavery.

  MA: Slavery? What do you know, Fleaman? Who told you? The fleas? Yes, I will go to Gold Mountain.

  (Sound of gongs. Ma strikes a submissive pose to Lone.)

  LONE: “The one-hundred-twenty-five-dollars passage money is to be paid to the said head of said Hong, who will make arrangements with the coolies that their wages shall be deducted until the debt is absorbed.”

  (Ma bows to Lone. Sound of gongs. They pick up fighting sticks and do a water-crossing dance, using their sticks to imitate oars. Dance ends. They stoop next to each other and rock.)

  MA: I have been in the bottom of this boat for thirty-six days now. Tang, how many have died?

  LONE: Not me. I’ll live through this ride.

  MA: I didn’t ask how you are.

  LONE: But why’s the Gold Mountain so far?

  MA: We left with three hundred and three.

  LONE: My family’s depending on me.

  MA: So tell me, how many have died?

  LONE: I’ll be the last one alive.

  MA: That’s not what I wanted to know.

  LONE: I’ll find some fresh air in this hole.

  MA: I asked, how many have died.

  LONE: Is that a crack in the side?

  MA: Are you listening to me?

  LONE: If I had some air—

  MA: I asked, don’t you see—?

  LONE: The crack—over there—

  MA: Will you answer me, please?

  LONE: I need to get out.

  MA: The rest here agree—

  LONE: I can’t stand the smell.

  MA: That a hundred eighty—

  LONE: I can’t see the air—

  MA: Of us will not see—

  LONE: And I can’t die.

  MA: Our Gold Mountain dream.

  (Tang/Lone dies. Using the movement language of Chinese opera, they mime the following: Ma throws his body overboard. The boat docks. Ma exits, walks through the streets. He picks up one of the fighting sticks while Lone becomes the mountain.)

  I have been given my pickax. Now I will attack the mountain.

  (Ma does a dance of labor. Lone sings:)

  LONE: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 stops dancing.)

  MA: This mountain is clever. But why shouldn’t it be? It’s fighting for its life, like we fight for ours.

  (Lone/Mountain picks up a stick. Ma and Lone/Mountain do a battle dance. Dance ends.)

  This mountain not only defends itself—it also attacks. It turns our strength against us.

  (Lone does Ma’s labor dance while Ma plants explosives in midair. Dance ends.)

  This mountain has survived for millions of years. Its wisdom is immense.

  (Lone and Ma begin a second battle dance. This one ends with them dancing together: Ma has subdued the mountain. Lone breaks away, does a warrior strut.)

  LONE: I am a white devil! Listen to my stupid language: “Wha che doo doo blah blah.” Look at my wide eyes—like I have drunk seventy-two pots of tea. Look at my funny hair—twisting, turning, like a snake telling lies. (To Ma) Blah blah doo doo tee tee.

  MA: We don’t understand English.

  LONE (Angry): Blah blah doo doo tee tee!

  MA (With Chinese accent): Please you-ah speak-ah Chinese?

  LONE: Oh. Work—uh—one—two—more—work—two—

  MA: Two hours more? Stupid demons. As confused as your hair. We will strike!

  (Sound of gongs. Ma is on strike.)

  (In broken English) Eight hours day good for white man, all same good for Chinaman.

  LONE: The strike is over! We’ve won!

  MA: I knew we would.

  LONE: We forced the white devil to act civilized.

  MA: Tamed the barbarians!

  LONE: Did you think—

  MA: Who woulda thought?

  LONE:—it could be done?

  MA: Who?

  LONE: But who?

  MA: Who could tame them?

  MA AND LONE: Only a Chinaman!

  (They laugh.)

  LONE: Well, c’mon.

  MA: Let’s celebrate!

  LONE: We have.

  MA: Oh.

  LONE: Back to work.

  MA: But we’ve won the strike.

  LONE: I know. Congratulations! And now—

  MA:—back to work?

  LONE: Right.

  MA: No.

  LONE: But the strike is over.

  (Lone tosses Ma a stick. They resume their stick battle as before, but Ma is heard over Lone’s singing.)

  LONE:MA:

  Hit your hardest Wait.

  Pound out your tears I’m tired of this!

  How do we end it?

  The more you try Let’s stop now, all right?

  The more you’ll cry

  At how little I’ve moved Look, I said enough!

  And how large I loom

  By the time the sun goes down.

  The Dance and the Railroad

  (Ma tosses his stick away. Lone, already aiming a blow toward Ma’s stick, hits Ma instead and mistakenly knocks him down.)

  MA: Oh! Shit!...

  LONE: I’m sorry! Are you all right?

  MA: Yeah. I guess.

  LONE: Why’d you let go? You can’t just do that.

  MA: I’m bleeding.

  LONE: That was stupid—where?

  MA: Here.

  LONE: No.

  MA: Ow!

  LONE: There will probably be a bump.

  MA: I dunno.

  LONE: What?

  MA: I dunno why I let go.

  LONE: It was stupid.

  MA: But how were we going to end the opera?

  LONE: Here. (He applies whiskey to Ma’s bruise) I don’t know.

  MA: Why didn’t we just end it with the celebration? Ow! Careful.

  LONE: Sorry. But Ma, the celebration’s not the end. We’re returning to work. Today. At dawn.

  MA: What?

  LONE: We’ve already lost nine days of work. But we got eight hours.

  MA: Today? That’s terrible.

  LONE: What do you think we’re here for? But they listened to our demands. We’re getting a raise.

  MA: Right. Fourteen dollars.

  LONE: No. Eight.

  MA: What?

  LONE: We had to compromise. We got an eight-dollar raise.

  MA: But we wanted fourteen. Why didn’t we get fourteen?

  LONE: It was the best deal they could get. Congratulations.

  MA: Congratulations? Look, Lone, I’m sick of you making fun of the Chinamen.

  LONE: Ma, I’m not. For the first time. I was wrong. We got eight dollars.

  MA: We wanted fourteen.

  LONE: But we got eight hours.

  MA: We’ll go back on strike.

  LONE: Why?

  MA: We could hold out for months.

  LONE: And lose all that work?

  MA: But we just gave in.

  LONE: You’re being ridiculous. We got eight hours. Besides, it’s already been decided.

  MA: I didn’t decide. I wasn’t there. You made me stay up here.

  LONE: The heads of the gangs decide.

  MA: And that’s it?

  LONE: It’s done.

  MA: Back to work? That’s what they decided? Lone, I don’t want to go back to work.

  LONE: Who does?

  MA: I forgot what it’s like.

  LONE: You’ll pick up the technique again soon enough.

  MA: I mean, what it’s like to have them telling you what to do all the time. Using up your strength.

  LONE: I thought you said even after work, you still feel good.

  MA: Some days. But others . . . (Pause) I get so frustrated sometimes. At the rock. The rock doesn’t give in. It’s not
human. I wanna claw it with my fingers, but that would just rip them up. I wanna throw myself headfirst onto it, but it’d just knock my skull open. The rock would knock my skull open, then just sit there, still, like nothing had happened, like a faceless Buddha. (Pause) Lone, when do I get out of here?

  LONE: Well, the railroad may get finished—

  MA: It’ll never get finished.

  LONE:—or you may get rich.

  MA: Rich. Right. This is the Gold Mountain. (Pause) Lone, has anyone ever gone home rich from here?

  LONE: Yes. Some.

  MA: But most?

  LONE: Most . . . do go home.

  MA: Do you still have the fear?

  LONE: The fear?

  MA: That you’ll become like them—dead men?

  LONE: Maybe I was wrong about them.

  MA: Well, I do. You wanted me to say it before. I can say it now: “They are dead men.” Their greatest accomplishment was to win a strike that’s gotten us nothing.

  LONE: They’re sending money home.

  MA: No.

  LONE: It’s not much. I know, but it’s something.

  MA: Lone, I’m not even doing that. If I don’t get rich here, I might as well die here. Let my brothers laugh in peace.

  LONE: Ma, you’re too soft to get rich here, naive—you believed the snow was warm.

  MA: I’ve got to change myself. Toughen up. Take no shit. Count my change. Learn to gamble. Learn to win. Learn to stare. Learn to deny. Learn to look at men with opaque eyes.

  LONE: You want to do that?

  MA: I will. ’Cause I’ve got the fear. You’ve given it to me.

  (Pause.)

  LONE: Will I see you here tonight?

  MA: Tonight?

  LONE: I just thought I’d ask.

  MA: I’m sorry, Lone. I haven’t got time to be the Second Clown.

  LONE: I thought you might not.

  MA: Sorry.

  LONE: You could have been a . . . fair actor.