The Sisters Mao

by Gavin McCrea

  —You failed to be great, so now all you want is order, order, order. You think there’s no room in this world for greatness. For astounding deeds. For dreams to be achieved.

  —Dreams? Are we in your dream now? What astounding deed do you want achieved here? That we torment each other to death, is that it?

  —Does the violence frighten you?

  —Not even remotely.

  Iris jabbed a finger into their mother’s upper arm with enough force to rock her. Their mother stopped herself from falling sideways again by planting her right hand on the floor. With her left, she swatted away Iris’s finger. Action and reaction, prod and parry, they had been rehearsing this ritual for years but were only performing it now for the first time.

  —Why are you doing this? their mother said. What do you want?

  —I want you to say sorry.

  —Me?

  —You.

  —

  —Just the one word: sorry. We’d take that.

  —And then?

  —Then you die.

  —If you want me to die here, I’m game. Look what you’ve done to me. In front of these people whom I love. What else do I have to lose?

  —No, not yet.

  —When then? How long must this go on?

  Their mother came onto all fours, then got to her feet, slowly, one leg, now the other. She fixed her skirt so that it sat below the knee once more.

  Iris watched her through narrowed eyes:

  —Don’t forget the role you’re playing.

  Their mother brushed down the front of her blouse.

  —You could start by speaking kindly to me, she said. Treating me like a human being.

  —Act like one yourself then, said Iris. You demean us. You called us rats. I shit on you. Your whole soul is warped and soiled and ugly.

  Their mother refolded her collar:

  —All right. Help me then. Tell me what to do.

  —There’s only one answer, said Iris, you must go away. At once. Far away.

  —With you?

  —No. You’re not one of us. You must go alone.

  —I’ll only go if you come with me. We’re one. We’re family.

  —Family? Stop pretending we’re the same.

  —We are, at the end of the day.

  —Are you mad, woman?

  —Maybe I am.

  Iris used the gun to gesture into the wings:

  —This is our house now, not yours. You must leave.

  —I can’t go. I can’t stay. Help me. Order me. Make me do something. I can’t think, I can’t act.

  —So now you see what a monster you are.

  —All right, yes.

  Iris turned the gun round so that its handle was facing out, then offered it to their mother:

  —You people, you think you’ve seen and done it all. You prink yourselves up and stick your noses in the air as though you were the lords of creation, but really you’re nothing. You want an order? I’ll give you an order. Take the gun and go to your dressing room. Get dressed. Make yourself nice. Then shoot yourself.

  —Fine. If you come with me.

  —With you? You crazy bitch.

  —Speak kindly to me.

  —An order always sounds unkind. Now you know how it feels.

  Their mother took the gun.

  —Do it! said Iris. Go!

  Their mother walked firmly offstage.

  A detached observer, Eva had nevertheless felt entangled in the performance. She had played the punisher, too, and taken pleasure in the pain of it. Having her mother back in the wings was like a reconciliation. There were tears in her mother’s eyes.

  —You’re crying, Mama, Eva said.

  —It’s just crying, her mother said.

  There was nothing stopping her mother from leaving the wings and going backstage. No one was blocking her way any more. Sunny had gone to sit on the ground and pet the skin and hair of anyone who came near him. Keith was looking after the children, making sure they did not harm themselves with props or on sharp corners. Her mother’s path was free. She could simply walk away. Instead she stayed and presented the gun to Eva: its handle in her right hand, its barrel and its shaft lying across the open palm of her left, half an offering, half an exhibition.

  What now?

  Eva thought this behaviour curious. Had they rehearsed this? Was she supposed to do something in particular? Eva did not know what to think. She had that state of mind where the absurdity of things and their plainness, their horror and their insignificance, were visible at the same time.

  Then it came back to her: the plan. The public trial. The tribunal. Her mother, she who had given up the struggle, was to be struggled against. Made to plead in front of the people and forced to bow in an acknowledgment of guilt.

  Eva looked onto the stage. The set was a mess. Props were scattered about. Furniture was overturned. Four children remained lying on the floor. Glen and Eggie were sitting against the backdrop, flapping their arms and flipping their fingers in the air.

  Iris was standing centre stage, where she had a direct view of Eva and their mother in the wings; her head was tilted, her hip cocked, in anticipation of the next round.

  The cameramen were filming Iris from two different angles: one at thirty degrees to the left, the other at forty-five degrees to the right.

  In the darkness of the auditorium, figures moved about. The sound was that of a busy pub; no booing or heckling, just people talking loudly amongst themselves. On top of this, coming through the open auditorium doors, was the bang-bang-bang of the main door being barged in. And beyond that again, the faint nee-naw of police sirens.

  It was all wrong. Eva’s inside was all wrong, just as the outside was all wrong; there had to be a correlation. This illness she was feeling, had she caused it herself? Something chemical in her, an old poison released? A madness of the eye which had travelled to the mind and made it extravagant? She looked back into the wings, where the other Wherehouse members were lying about like hospital patients, as ill as she was. All of this was her fault. She had infected them, and together they had created this mayhem. She turned back to the stage. Haloing the scene now was a luminous circle of diverse colour. Weaving through space were rays of crystal white, crossing and recrossing, making exquisite patterns. I must not see this. I must not think of this.

  But then the thought hit her: she had been drugged. Iris had laced their food or spiked their drink. What was happening was, she was tripping. Everyone was.

  Incensed — an instantaneous jump from stupefaction to rage — she grabbed the gun out of her mother’s hand.

  —Give me that.

  She walked forward to the frontier between onstage and off, the meeting of light and shadow. There, she froze. Overcome by the simple difficulty of coming on. It was all about fear — I don’t know if I can pull this off — and the only way past it was to remind herself that events were not in her hands. She was dealing with someone else’s words, someone else’s actions more than her own. The not-owning of her actions was there from the start.

  She stepped onto the stage with the gun held in both hands.

  Let this be the play.

  Iris welcomed her on with a warm smile.

  —What a mess, Eva said, suddenly remembering CHRISTINE’s lines. What on earth have you been up to?

  —It was Miss Julie, said Iris, falling back into JEAN. She brought the servants in. You must have been fast asleep. Didn’t you hear anything?

  —I slept like a log.

  Eva walked an arc — centre stage right, downstage, centre stage left — and Iris did the same in the opposite direction, round the counter, and thus they began to circle each other like gladiators in a ring. Iris appeared entirely focussed, completely calm, whereas Eva, furious and at the same time morbidly aware
of the presence of the audience, kept darting her eyes this way and that anticipating apparitions on the stage, suspecting enemies in the shadows, expecting mockery and contempt.

  —Dressed for church already? said Iris.

  —You promised to come with me to Communion this morning, said Eva.

  —Did I? What’s the sermon today.

  —Execution of John the Baptist, I expect.

  —Oh God, that’s a long one.

  Eva felt the heat of the lights on her face, and the corresponding drain from her veins. Her hands were wet where they held the gun. To be on stage was to say to many people, Look at me, and there were indeed many of them, a wall of faces. She had the horrifying sense that if she paused at all they would start to clap again, or to laugh, so she gave herself little internal shoves, in an effort to keep herself going.

  —What have you been doing, up all night? she said. You’re quite green in the face.

  —Nothing, said Iris. Just sitting here. Talking to Miss Julie.

  —She doesn’t know what’s right and proper, that one.

  —It’s strange, you know, when you think of it.

  —It?

  —Of her.

  —What’s strange?

  —Everything. You aren’t jealous of her, are you?

  Iris gave Eva a staring look as she said this. The brightness in it was shattering. This was God in the light of the eye, and at the same time it had a malevolent glint, which appeared to criticise Eva’s performance. It seemed to say that Iris could do Eva’s part, any part, better than her. It made clear that, as she played JEAN, Iris was imagining herself as CHRISTINE as well, identifying the things that she would do differently from Eva. Iris was probably not seeing Eva at all, but only her own reflection. Adjusting her performance not to Eva’s decisions but to those taken by an image of herself.

  Feeling abandoned, Eva started to falter. She found herself hanging in space without the slightest idea of what she was going to say next.

  —Stop, she said.

  The theatre stopped, the action ceased, and what was left were two women: just them all alone on the earth.

  —What are you doing with your eyes? You’re putting me off. Let’s try it again, and don’t do it this time.

  Iris did not object to this interruption. Without shifting her pose even minimally, she waited for her new cue.

  —What a mess, Eva said, restarting the scene.

  This time they got only a few lines in, as far as Execution of John the Baptist, before Eva halted the action again.

  —I don’t know why you can’t just look at me, she said. Is there something that’s keeping you from looking at me, just that?

  They began again. This time Eva merely fed her lines to Iris in a monotone, while Iris played her part to the full. Eva prowled around Iris, at a distance, taking her in, making sense of her. Dissecting her in front of her.

  —Stop pulling faces, she said.

  And Iris altered herself according to her instruction.

  —You’re telling us too much.

  And Iris agreed.

  —Don’t sell the words. Don’t colour them.

  And Iris obeyed.

  —God, Iris, can’t you invent anything? Haven’t you got even the tiniest drop of imagination? You’re being ponderous. Take a look at yourself. Where are you? Make an effort to make less effort. Wait, who told you to do that? Did I tell you to do that? Do as you’re told.

  Eva could not remember her mother ever praising her. Or even spending that much time with her. Iris had got most of their mother’s attention. Criticising Iris was their mother’s passion, to which Iris responded by suggesting impossible things to do — I want to be a lorry driver, I want to go to Botswana — which she knew her mother would shoot down. This made it seem like Iris had been forced to give up many dreams, but what was really happening was, Iris was seducing their mother, monopolising her, consuming all of her attention with increasingly outlandish fantasies, all the while preventing Eva from getting any of what she wanted; forcing Eva to beg.

  —What do you think you are doing to yourself, Iris? Actually, all right, go ahead and pose if you want to. In fact, put your hand here like this. Bend your knees. Lift your leg. Pull your own hair. Drop down on your knees. Crawl on the floor. What are you doing with your face? Smack that look away. Harder. I said, harder.

  When someone from the audience called out their own direction, Eva shouted back:

  —Fuck off. Don’t tell my little actress what to do.

  From the foyer came the sound of glass smashing as the main door was broken in. A group of hecklers, no doubt waiting for this moment, shouted in unison:

  —Saved at last!

  And there was a hullaballoo.

  Feeling a new sense of urgency, Eva approached Iris, who was crawling around on the floor, and fastened her hand round the back of her neck. She led her around like a dog for a few steps, then took her by the hair and led her around again, this time with Iris’s face lifted up. From there, Eva pulled her up to a stand, and began to manipulate her body into a variety of awkward gestures. Iris submitted to this without dropping a single line. As Eva lifted her arms up, or bent her back over, or twisted her head and her torso in different directions, her voice climbed and plunged, widened and narrowed, burst out and collapsed in, but did not stop its flow.

  —Have you no more to give? Eva shouted at her. Cut out ninety per cent. Now double it. Be more exacting. You needn’t pretend you don’t know what’s coming next.

  —Ohh! the crowd roared as Eva pitched a knee into Iris’s stomach.

  —Ohh! as she kicked Iris in the side, causing her to fall down onto her back.

  Rearing over Iris’s prone body, Eva drove her boot into Iris’s ribs, then her thigh. Buried a fist into her stomach. Thumped her in the chest. Landed a blow with dreadful force on her chin, then repeated it, as though purposely falling on a bruise, simply for the cruelty of it. But in fact no real cruelty was taking place. Iris was collaborating with her according to the principle of victim control, whereby she who was on the receiving end was actually in command. When Eva smacked Iris, Eva herself was not initiating the action; the appearance of being struck was being created by Iris, while Eva was simply following her movements. When Eva used her free hand to take Iris by the throat, instead of squeezing, she was pulling her fingers outwards. Iris grabbed her wrist, in order to give the impression that she was trying to break her grip, but really she was pulling her hand towards her. It was Iris who was yanking the strings and Eva who was obeying.

  —This is our Hall of Justice, Eva said. You’re in the People’s Court. Are you ready to confess?

  —I’ve nothing to confess, Iris said.

  —Don’t give us that. Confess now and we’ll be lenient.

  Iris tried to speak again but Eva’s grip on her neck prevented her. At least, that was the impression that Iris wanted to give.

  —Speak up! said Eva. Make an honest confession! Say, I’m to blame.

  —I’m to blame.

  —You’re only saying it.

  —I am to blame.

  —You want to play games, you little fuck? You’ve been accused, and now you must pay.

  —What’s my crime? Tell me. If I’m guilty, I’ll admit to it.

  Eva released Iris’s neck by throwing it down. The back of Iris’s skull struck the boards with a bang. Eva took a few paces stage right. In the foyer blue lights were flashing. People were pouring out of the auditorium and onto the street through the now open main door. Police officers with torches and guns were coming in this direction, shouting orders at the fleeing audience and at Eva onstage.

  Eva turned back to Iris, who was sitting on the boards with her legs spread out in front of her and supported by both hands behind her. In that moment Eva felt a connection to Iris. Despite ev
erything, she believed in their rapport. Iris was her sister. They were related as one breath was to another. Same mind, same belief.

  —If you’ve done nothing wrong, said Eva, why would you be here?

  —Just tell me, what have I done?

  —You asked us here, to this theatre, so that we would eventually abuse you. You planned it this way, didn’t you? We’re following your directions. We’re part of your stupid game. I can’t believe we fell for it. The only reason we’re on this stage is to help you make amends for your mistake.

  —History will repeat itself if it’s not properly judged.

  —All right, so let’s deal with the main charge first.

  —What’s that?

  —Something you’ve got away with all your life. Something you’ve never been punished for. Now do you take the blame?

  —For that night?

  —For what night? Say it.

  —I don’t know what you want me to say. I was a child.

  —All these years we’ve been making excuses for you. Blaming ourselves. But do you see that, in fact, it was all you?

  —Some of it was me, but—

  —Some? You destroyed everything. Single-handedly.

  —All right, yes. I destroyed it all. But I also made everything you have today possible. Without me, none of you would be who you are, where you are. But if you really think I’m to blame for your failures, and all the problems you see, then go ahead. I won’t stop you.

  —So you consent?

  Eva wiped her sweating brow with the back of her hand, the same one which held the gun. Metal flashed.

  —Do whatever you want, said Iris.

  —I want to fucking kill you.

  —It’s a terrible thing to kill. But all right. If you feel you have to, do it.

  —You really want me to, don’t you.

  —What you want, I want too. I’m not going to fight you.

  —That’s not Zen, you know. That’s just passivity. You make me sick.

  —Imagine if somehow you could live life differently. If you could wake up and feel that you’d begun afresh. The past all forgotten. That’s what you’d be giving me. The gift of reincarnation.

  —You don’t really belief that shit.