by Gavin McCrea
—As the man says, she said, time is moan-ay.
Her father took up his own script from the floor and put it under his arm. Then he cast around for a place to put himself. Eva did not move, nor did her father ask her to. He went to lean against the back wall. Raised his hands and held them frozen a few inches apart. Once everyone had settled, he clapped them together.
—All right, let’s move on to scene four. That’s you, Alissa. You must know these lines by now, so try without the script. From the top.
The play they were rehearsing obviously had a Chinese theme, for the things pinned onto the noticeboard all related to China. Pages of Chinese calligraphy. Photographs of Chinese cities and Chinese communes and Chinese opera. Posters of Chinese propaganda. On the table was a pile of anthologies of Chinese poetry and Laozi and Confucius, and a book on whose spine a single word was printed: MAO.
Eva turned the playscript over. THE SING-SONG TRIBUNAL was the title on the front. Underneath it said: AN EPIC. A superfluous bit of information, she thought, given the size of the thing, the weight of it on the lap. She flicked through it to the end: over two hundred pages. Which explained why Max appeared even thinner than usual; why the tendons of his neck were prominent, as were the bones at the base, and why there were dark depressions in his cheeks, and why a new hole had been punched into his belt and the buckle fastened a long way to one side and the unused length of leather hung down his front to his mid-thigh: this was how Max looked after one of his bouts of intensive writing.
Alissa took a mask from the props table and came to stand at the edge of the acting space.
—No, not that one, Paul said, taking the mask from her and giving her another. Try this one this time.
Eva had not seen these masks before. They did not belong to her parents. Most probably they were Max’s. Recent additions to his ever-expanding collection of precious things. They certainly conformed to his taste. Hewn from single blocks of wood and painted in swirling colours that made the human face look like a butterfly wing, simultaneously inviting the gaze and warning against the touch; they had an unnerving beauty. The one her mother was now holding had a gold forehead and nose. Black cheeks. Frowning red lips. Holes for the eyes, just big enough to poke a finger through. But closed at the mouth; no opening. An impediment to speech. Chinese.
Her mother took a moment to study the design of the mask and to feel its texture. Then she pressed it against her face. Eva was startled by the change: her mother had disappeared into her eyes, which, wet and shining, seemed to bore into the world.
Her father came around and tied the straps at the back.
—Not so tight, her mother said, her voice audible behind the wood but changed; deadened.
Her father, having checked how the mask looked and nodding his approval, went to stand behind Doris at the director’s table. From there he said:
—Right, Alissa. In your own time.
By wagging its chin, her mother adjusted how the mask was sitting. She rubbed her fingertips over its front, as if memorising its lineaments and adopting them as her own. Peering down through the eye holes, she ran a toe along the line of tape that marked the acting space. She withdrew her foot and paused. Then took a stride inwards.
—No! said her father. Go back. In order for there to be theatre, a second is all that’s needed. As soon as the tip of your nose, or your toe, enters the stage, the story is already being told.
Her mother stepped back out. Recomposed herself by shaking out her arms and legs. Then launched herself forward exactly as before.
—Again? You’re waiting till your entire body is already on before showing us who you are. I want to see your character right away. Before you enter, the lines of your body should already be showing a specific state.
Her mother returned to her starting point. Her limbs had visibly begun to twitch.
—You mustn’t think, said her father, addressing the entire group, that to come into a space, and to go out again, is an easy thing to do. It requires a huge amount of imagination. And with a mask on, a hundred times more again.
Her mother went again and this time round managed to complete the scene. Eva could not fathom what story was being told, or what sort of personality her mother’s character was supposed to have; all she could gather was that her mother was playing some sort of Chinese prostitute, and that this prostitute had some grievances she wanted to vent.
—All right, Alissa, her father said, that was all right. Now I want you to do it again, only this time I want you to forget being realistic. Naturalism, remember, is for fakes.
Her mother went again. The same lines. The same gestures. Making, as far as Eva could see, no substantive changes to her previous performance.
Once finished, her mother stood outside the space with her hands on her hips, awaiting judgement. Her father fixed her with a solemn look. Bowed his head, ceremoniously, as towards someone very slightly higher than he.
—Alissa, he said, if I may?
He approached her mother and took her mask off. Made a tour of the acting space with the mask facing outwards, so that the group could see it and take it in.
—A mask is not make-up, he said. You don’t just put it on to go down the shops. Nothing about a mask will impress anyone unless you meet with it, join with it. Make it part of you, and you part of it. Inhabit it! A mask is artificial, so be artificial! Are you understanding what I’m saying? A mask is not there for you to hide behind. It won’t allow it. It’s a dictator, you must yield to it. Everything you do is at its service. If you don’t respect it, or if you use it incorrectly, it will reveal all your weaknesses, and denounce you without pity.
Reaching the director’s table, he put his right hand on Doris’s shoulder. Leaned in to get a better look at the girl’s notebook.
—Did I forget anything?
Doris held up the notebook and pointed at it with her pen. Max tipped sideways, also to look, though in his case with folded arms and a sceptical frown.
—Hmm, her father said. Hmm-hmm—
—What? said her mother, her hands still welded to her hips.
Her father was rubbing Doris’s back.
—Doris has made some quite, well, astute, I’d say, observations here, he said. Would you like to take a look, Alissa?
Eva craned her neck to try and see what Doris had written, but there were too many heads in the way.
—Yes, her father said, this is indeed very interess—
Crack!
First Eva’s attention flew to her mother’s face, which was red and enraged, and then to the mask, which her mother had just taken from her father’s hand and flung to the floor.
—My mask! Max said, jumping to his feet. What did Paul just say about respecting the masks?
Her mother ignored him.
—Can I have a word, Paul? she said.
Still leaning forwards, and keeping a hand resting on Doris’s shoulder, her father had tilted his head, as if to get another angle on his wife:
—What on earth is the matter with you?
—I need a minute. In private.
Her father straightened his posture. Curled up one corner of his mouth.
—There’s only one kind of business in this theatre, Alissa. And that’s public. Anything you’d like to say, you shouldn’t be afraid to say here, in front of the group.
Her mother laughed a sarcastic laugh, and then said:
—All right. We’ll do it your way.
She sauntered out to the centre of the acting space and, from there, turned to face the director’s table. Fleeing her gaze, Max suddenly became interested in his nails. Doris put the head of her pen into her mouth and sucked. Paul took his hands off the girl and folded them across his chest. In Eva’s stomach, there was the swirl of nerves that is the anticipation of an incident.
—I have some questions about this approac
h you seem to be taking, her mother said. You know, China. The masks.
—Are you worried about the masks? Or are you worried about your performance just now?
—The masks.
—Because, honestly, you shouldn’t be worried about your performance, my dear. The English have always worked primarily with the voice. It’s a challenge for us to engage our entire body, as I’ve been asking you to do. The problem goes far back. To our schooling.
—I’m not worried about my performance, Paul. It’s this China stuff that’s bothering me. What’s the point of it? I mean, if the radical transformation of the theatre is our goal, it can’t be the result of some artistic whim. We’re sailing very close to chinoiserie, aren’t we? To the kind of cultural imperialism we’re supposed to despise?
—No, no, Alissa. You mustn’t—
Max stood up. Came round the table to lean on its front edge.
—You mustn’t think that. Our aim is to assimilate some facets of the Chinese approach, right, but for a distinctly Western purpose. We’re not trying to make counterfeits of Chinese art. Rather we’re isolating a number of devices used in Chinese theatre, and adapting them, developing them.
—Look, Max, her mother said tiredly, I’m not trying to undermine you. I think highly of you and your work. I’m just not convinced that your motivations are wholly aesthetic. Your political sympathies with China aren’t a secret.
—They’re not a secret, Alissa, because I don’t make a secret of them. We’re all communists here, aren’t we? Or at least we’re meant to be. We should all be happy there’s a place in the world where communism hasn’t degenerated. That place happens to be China. I think we should be talking about it. Nay, shouting about it!
Nodding forcefully, her father took over:
—Listen, darling, I understand your concerns. We, you and me and Max, we belong to the generation for whom the Soviet Union represented the hope of the world, the quintessential locale of revolution. It is hard for us to imagine another in its place. But Doris’s generation, Eva’s, Iris’s, they won’t be able to rely on Russia for direction in the same way we did. Not after everything that’s gone on. They’re going to have to open their minds to other examples of communism in practice, in different places around the world. So maybe it’s time for us, too, to make a leap of imagination. To go elsewhere for inspiration. Maybe that’s the test of what it means to be a revolutionary today.
—Is your aim to stir up public opinion against Russia? Because I think that’s what we ought to avoid, especially now, with so many people leaving the Party.
Max shook his head sadly:
—Condemning Russia isn’t our intention, Alissa. Not at all. But it’s true what you say, I do see China as the only way out of the terrible logic of the blocs that we’re stuck in. This two-camp notion of society: America versus Russia.
Alissa folded her arms against him.
—A third way isn’t what I signed up for, Max. When Paul and I first talked about establishing this theatre, the banner we imagined hanging on the front was bright and distinct. Red. Communist. And that meant, and I think it still means, friendship with Russia. If, amongst yourselves, you’ve come up with an alternative position, then it’s only fair that I, we, all of the ensemble, know what it is.
She tossed her chin in Doris’s direction.
—Wouldn’t you say so, Doris?
Doris pointed her pen at the space between her flat little breasts:
—Me?
—Is there someone else here with that name?
—Ahm—
—What’s your view on all of this?
—Well, I—
—Put yourself in my shoes. If you were running a theatre, and performing in it besides, wouldn’t you like some clarity on the political attitudes that were going to be adopted, on the stage and, it seems, off it as well?
Doris nodded slowly.
—I suppose if I was you, yeah. I’d want to know.
—Thank you, Doris.
Alissa turned a hand towards the girl, as if to present her.
—You see, even—
—Personally, though, Doris broke in, I don’t see how wearing Chinese masks in a play means rejecting Russia. Necessarily.
Eva caught her breath.
Her mother gave Doris a strained smile before turning on her heels and going slowly to the refreshments table, as if to pour herself something. Instead she pounded a fist on top, making all the cups rattle.
—You can all go and fuck yourselves, she said. I’ve had it.
—Alissa, said Max, going to her, you’ve got to calm down.
—Don’t come near me, Max, she said, holding up an open palm to stop him. Not a step closer.
—All right, all right, said Max, halting where he was.
—Just tell me this, she said. The character I’m playing, this Chinese prostitute, LIXIN. What does her name mean again?
—Embrace the new, said Max.
—That’s right. Well, I think something new here is what she’s calling for. A new vehicle to carry her.
—What do you mean?
—I mean, I’m not playing her.
—What? It’s the main part! I wrote it for you!
—What is it with you men and your fascination with prostitutes? And why are men who don’t frequent them the most fascinated? Queers above all?
—Christ, Alissa, said her father, get a hold of yourself. Listen to what you’re saying.
—What I’m saying is that LIXIN is a role that is itself about the struggle for a role, is it not?
—You could say that about any great role, said Max.
—Well, I’ll just come out and say it then. I don’t care how big the role is, I’m not playing the fucking prostitute. She’s not right for me, I’m not right for her. I want another part.
—Oh God, oh Lord, said her father. Which one?
—The narrator figure, THE JUDGE.
—What? No, said Max. That’s a male role.
—So? You have men running around in women’s nighties all the time.
—That’s not the same, said her father.
—I’m not saying it’s the same, said Alissa. Nothing’s the same.
—You’re serious? said Max. You’ve thought about this?
—Yes, I’ve thought about it.
Eva watched her mother move to the window, where — framed by the blazing white of the day — she uttered the simple words that would bring the final storm:
—I want to be THE JUDGE. So I’m going to be THE JUDGE. And that’s the end of it.
—In which case—
While the adults were arguing, Eva had come out of her seat and picked her mother’s mask off the floor and brought it to the acting space. The room, all the faces, now turned to look at her there.
—In which case, I’ll play the prostitute, Papa. I’ll show Mama how it’s done.
Shaking his head and tutting, her father advanced towards her with an arm outstretched:
—Stop it, Eva. This isn’t a game. Give me thaa—
Her mother froze him by raising her voice.
—Paul! For Christ sake. She just feels left out. Let her do it. It’ll only take a minute. We could all use the break, wouldn’t you say?
Her father inflated his cheeks and blew through his lips:
—All right, all right.
Eva found her mother’s face, and their eyes locked, and an understanding passed between them. When playing the prostitute, her mother had done whatever she had wished to do, and so had created nothing. Now Eva would do only what she could and would therefore accomplish what was demanded.
Her mother helped her on with the mask. Its insides rubbed against her cheekbones. Her lips, when she moved them, brushed and kissed the wood. Her breaths returned amplified
. In the space for the nose, odours of men.
Her mother stepped away and gave her the floor.
—Do you want the script?
—No, I’ll make up my own words.
Standing on the yellow line, Eva became conscious of the gallery of actors. And of Simon, who had come into the room and was standing with a foot against the back wall. And Doris, the assiduous note-taker. And Max, dear old Max, whom Eva probably wanted to please most of all. What were they expecting of her? A prostitute, that was all.
So she entered as that.
And she did the legs.
And she did the hips.
And she did the mink stole and the high heels.
And by fluttering her hands in front of the mask’s eye-holes, she did the eyelashes.
But she could sense that this was not impressing anyone.
By looking around at the faces, she could see it.
So she switched.
Go inside. Locate a feeling. See the character. Make the character appear. Her father’s past instructions materialised in her body as intentions, if not exactly as conscious thoughts. Draw a picture of the body in space. Freeze for a fraction of a second. Give the audience time to receive the image. Here, in stillness, make the character live. Then complete the gesture. Give it rhythm, balance. Avoid the slowness that tries to be profound. But take the time to finish everything.
Exit.
There was silence where she expected applause.
Her father helped her off with the mask.
—Well, my love, wow, that was, that was—
She wiped her forehead, pressed her hands onto her cheeks. Her face felt altered, as though it had metamorphosed to fit its disguise, and was now, as if registering its freedom, reverting to its habitual arrangement. What must I look like?
—Was I any good, Papa?
With a little grimace she deflected the oncoming praise.
—Why, yes, darling, you were very, how shall I ss—
—You were fine, said her mother.
—Max? said Eva. What did you think? I’m in the drama club in school. I’ve been practising.
—And it shows, sweetheart, said Max. You gave us detail. Nuance. Truly, you captured the psychology of—