WOMAN: There’s nothing left. Learn to love it.
MAN: Don’t be ridiculous.
WOMAN: Touch it.
MAN: It’s flabby.
WOMAN: It’s strong.
MAN: It’s weak.
WOMAN: And smooth.
MAN: Do you mind if I put on my shirt?
WOMAN: Of course not. Shall I get it for you?
MAN: No. No. Just sit there.
(Picks up his shirt. He pauses, studies his body)
You think it’s cute, huh?
WOMAN: I think you should learn to love it.
MAN
(To belly)
: You’re okay, sir. You hang onto my body like a great horseman.
WOMAN: Not like that.
MAN
(Still to belly)
: You’re also faithful. You’ll never leave me for another man.
WOMAN: No.
MAN: What do you want me to say?
(Woman leans over to Man. She touches his belly with her hand.)
Scene Four
Night. Man is alone. Flowers are gone from stand. Mat is unrolled. Man lies on it, sleeping. Suddenly, he starts, awakened by the sound of the
shakuhatchi.
He sits up and grabs his sword, then relaxes as he recognizes the instrument. He crosses to a screen and listens, then returns to the mat and sits. He takes out the stolen flower. He stares into it.
Scene Five
Day. Woman is cleaning while Man exercises. She is on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor.
MAN: I heard your playing last night.
WOMAN: My playing?
MAN:
Shakuhatchi.
WOMAN: Oh.
MAN: You played very softly. I had to strain to hear it. Next time don’t be afraid. Play out. Fully. Clear. It must’ve been very beautiful, if only I could’ve heard it clearly. Why don’t you play for me sometime?
WOMAN: I’m very shy about it.
MAN: Why?
WOMAN: I play for my own satisfaction. That’s all. It’s something I developed on my own. I don’t know if it’s at all acceptable by outside standards.
MAN: Play for me. I’ll tell you.
WOMAN: No, I’m sure you’re too knowledgeable in the arts.
MAN: Who? Me?
WOMAN: You being from the city and all.
MAN: I’m ignorant, believe me.
WOMAN: I’d play, and you’d probably bite your cheek.
MAN: Ask me a question about music. Any question. I’ll answer incorrectly. I guarantee it.
WOMAN
(Looking at the floor)
: Look at this.
MAN: What?
WOMAN: A stain.
MAN: Where?
WOMAN: Here? See? I can’t get it out.
MAN: Oh. I hadn’t noticed it before.
WOMAN: I notice it every time I clean.
MAN: Here. Let me try.
WOMAN: Thank you.
MAN: Ugh. It’s tough.
WOMAN: I know.
MAN: How did it get here?
WOMAN: It’s been there as long as I’ve lived here.
MAN: I hardly stand a chance.
(Pause)
But I’ll try.
(He begins to scrub)
One—two—three—four! One—two—three—four! See, you set up . . . gotta set up . . . a rhythm—two—three—four. Used to practice with a rhythm. One—two—three—four. Yes, remember. Like battle . . . like fighting, one—two—three—four. One—two—three—four. Look . . . there it goes . . . got the sides . . . the edges . . . fading away . . . fading quick . . . toward the center to the heart…two—three—four. One—two—three—four—dead!
WOMAN: Dead.
MAN: I got it! I got it! A little rhythm! All it took! Four! Four!
WOMAN: Thank you.
MAN: I didn’t think I could do it . . . but there—it’s gone—I did it!
WOMAN: Yes. You did.
MAN: And you—you were great.
WOMAN: No—I just watched.
MAN: We were a team! You and me!
WOMAN: I only provided encouragement.
MAN: You were great! You were!
(Man grabs Woman. Pause.)
WOMAN: It’s gone. Thank you. Would you like to hear me play s
hakuhatchi
?
MAN: Yes I would.
WOMAN: I don’t usually play for visitors. It’s so . . . I’m not sure. I developed it—all by myself—in times when I was alone. I heard nothing . . . The air began to be oppressive—stale. So I learned to play s
hakuhatchi
. I learned to make sounds on it. I tried to make these sounds resemble the human voice. The
shakuhatchi
became my weapon. It kept me from choking on many a silent evening.
MAN: I’m here. You can hear my voice.
WOMAN: Speak again.
MAN: I will.
Scene Six
Night. Man is sleeping. Suddenly, he starts. He lifts his head up. He listens. The
shakuhatchi
melody rises up once more. This time, however, it becomes louder and more clear than before. He gets up. He cannot tell from what direction the music is coming. It seems to come from all directions at once, as omnipresent as the air. Slowly, he moves toward a sliding panel through which the woman enters and exits. He puts his ear against it, thinking the music may be coming from there. Slowly, he slides the door open just a crack, ever so carefully. He peeks through the crack. As he peeks through, the upstage wall of the set becomes transparent, and through the scrim, we are able to see what he sees. Woman is upstage of the scrim. She is carrying the vase of flowers in front of her as she moves slowly upstage of the scrim. She is transformed; she is beautiful. She wears a brightly colored kimono. Man observes this scene for a long time. He then slides the door shut. The scrim returns to opaque. The music continues. He returns to his mat. He picks up the stolen flower. It is brown and wilted, dead. He looks at it, throws it down. The music slowly fades out.
Scene Seven
Morning. Man is practicing sword maneuvers. He practices with the feel of a man whose spirit is willing but flesh is inept. He tries to execute deft movements but is dissatisfied with his efforts. Suddenly, he feels something buzzing around his neck—a mosquito. He slaps his neck, but misses it. He sees it flying near him. He swipes at it with his sword. He keeps missing. Finally, he thinks he’s hit it. He runs over, kneels down to recover the fallen insect. He picks up the two halves of the mosquito on two different fingers. Woman enters the room. She again looks as she normally does. She is carrying the vase of flowers, which she places on its shelf.
WOMAN: I’m sorry?
MAN: Look.
WOMAN: What?
(He brings over the two halves of the mosquito to show her.)
MAN: See?
WOMAN: Oh.
MAN: I hit it—chop!
WOMAN: These are new forms of target practice?
MAN: Huh? Well—yes—in a way.
WOMAN: You seem to do well at it.
MAN: Thank you. For last night. I heard your
shakuhatchi
. It was very loud, strong—good tone.
WOMAN: Did you enjoy it? I wanted you to enjoy it. If you wish, I’ll play it for you every night.
MAN: Every night!
WOMAN: If you wish.
MAN: No—I don’t—I don’t want you to treat me like a baby.
WOMAN: What? I’m not.
MAN: Oh, yes. Like a baby who you must feed in the middle of the night or he cries. Waaah! Waaah!
WOMAN: Stop that!
MAN: You need your sleep.
WOMAN: I don’t mind getting up for you.
(Pause)
I would enjoy playing for you. Every night. While you sleep. It will make me feel . . . like I’m shaping your dreams. I go through long stretches when there is no one in my dreams. It’s terrible. During those times, I avoid my bed as much as possible. I paint. I weave. I play
shakuhatchi
. I sit on mats and rub powder into my face. Anything to keep from facing a bed with no dreams. It is like sleeping on ice.
MAN: What do you dream of now?
WOMAN: Last night—I dreamt of you. I don’t remember what happened. But you were very funny. Not in a mocking way. I wasn’t laughing at you. But you made me laugh. And you were very warm. I remember that.
(Pause)
What do you remember about last night?
MAN: Just your playing. That’s all. I got up, listened to it, and went back to sleep.
(Resumes practicing with his sword)
WOMAN: Another mosquito bothering you?
MAN: Just practicing. Ah! Weak! Too weak! I tell you, it wasn’t always like this. I’m telling you, there were days when I could chop the fruit from a tree without ever taking my eyes off the ground.
(Continuing to practice with his sword)
You ever use one of these?
WOMAN: I’ve had to pick one up, yes.
MAN: Oh?
WOMAN: You forget . . . I live alone . . . out here . . . there is . . . not much to sustain me but what I manage to learn myself. It wasn’t really a matter of choice.
MAN: I used to be very good, you know. Perhaps I can give you some pointers.
WOMAN: I’d really rather not.
MAN: C’mon—a woman like you—you’re absolutely right. You need to know how to defend yourself.
WOMAN: As you wish.
MAN: Do you have something to practice with?
WOMAN: Yes. Excuse me.
(She exits. She reenters with two wooden sticks)
Will these do?
MAN: Fine.
(He takes one)
Nice. Now, show me what you can do.
WOMAN: I’m sorry?
MAN: Run up and hit me.
WOMAN: Please.
MAN: Go on—I’ll block it.
WOMAN: I feel so . . . undignified.
MAN: Go on!
(She taps him playfully.)
Not like that! C’mon!
WOMAN: I’ll try to be gentle.
MAN: What?
WOMAN: I don’t want to hurt you.
MAN: You won’t. Hit me!
(Woman charges at Man , quickly, deftly. She scores a hit.)
WOMAN: Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.
MAN: No.
WOMAN: I hurt you.
MAN: Don’t be ridiculous!
WOMAN: Do you wish to hit me?
MAN: No.
WOMAN: Do you want me to try again?
MAN: No. Just practice there—by yourself—let me see you run through some maneuvers.
WOMAN: Must I?
MAN: Yes! Go!
(Woman goes to an open area.)
My greatest strength always was as a teacher.
(Woman executes a series of movements with great skill and fierceness. Her whole manner is transformed. Man watches with increasing amazement. Her movements end. She regains her submissive manner.)
WOMAN: I’m so embarrassed. My skills—they’re so—inappropriate. I look like a man.
MAN: Where did you learn that?
WOMAN: There is much time to practice here.
MAN: But you—the techniques . . .
WOMAN: I don’t know what’s fashionable in the outside world.
(Pause)
Are you unhappy?
MAN: No.
WOMAN: Really?
MAN: I’m just . . . surprised.
WOMAN: You think it’s unbecoming for a woman.
MAN: No, no. Not at all.
WOMAN: You want to leave.
MAN: No!
WOMAN: All visitors do. I know. I’ve met many. They say they’ll stay. And they do. For a while. Until they see too much. Or they learn something new. There are boundaries outside of which visitors do not want to see me step. Only who knows what those boundaries are? Not I. They change with every visitor. You have to be careful not to cross them, but you never know where they are. And one day, inevitably, you step outside the lines. The visitor knows. You don’t. You didn’t know that you’d done anything different. You thought it was just another part of you. The visitor sneaks away. The next day, you learn that you had stepped outside his heart. I’m afraid you’ve seen too much.