MAN: Are you talking about death? I’m ready to die.
WOMAN: Fear for what is worse than death.
MAN: What?
WOMAN: Falling. Falling through the darkness. Waiting to hit the ground. Picking up speed. Waiting for the ground. Falling faster. Falling alone. Waiting. Falling. Waiting. Falling.
(Man exits. Woman goes out through the door to her room. After a long beat, he reenters. He looks for her in the main room. He goes to the mat, sees her shakuhatchi. He puts down his sword, takes off his bundle and coat. He goes inside. He comes out. He goes to the mat, picks up her shakuhatchi, clutches it to him. He moves everything else off the mat, sits and puts the shakuhatchi to his mouth. He begins to blow into it. He tries to make sounds. He continues trying through the end of the play.
The upstage scrim lights up. Upstage, we see the woman. She has hung herself and is hanging from a rope suspended from the roof. Around her swirl thousands of petals from the flowers. They fill the upstage scrim area like a blizzard of color.
Man continues to attempt to play. Lights fade to black.)
END OF PLAY
THE HOUSE OF SLEEPING BEAUTIES
(1983)
Adapted from the short story by Yasunari Kawabata
To Natolie
Production History
The House of Sleeping Beauties opened with The Sound of a Voice under the title Sound and Beauty at The Joseph Papp Public Theater/New York Shakespeare Festival (Joseph Papp, Producer), in New York City on November 6, 1983. It was directed by John Lone and assisted by Lenore Kletter; the set design was by Andrew Jackness; the costume design was by Lydia Tanji; the lighting design was by John Gisondi; and the music was by Lucia Hwong. There was also a dancer, Elizabeth Fong Sung, in this production. The cast was as follows:
WOMAN Ching Valdes
KAWABATA Victor Wong
Characters
WOMAN, Japanese, late seventies.
YASUNARI Kawabata, a leading Japanese novelist, seventy-two.
Place
The sitting room of the House of Sleeping Beauties, Tokyo.
Time
1972.
Scene One: night.
Scene Two: the following evening.
Scene Three: several months later, evening.
Scene Four: one week later, evening.
Definitions
bon-odori is a festival dance.
hara-kiri is a ritual suicide.
koto is a zither-like Japanese musical instrument.
sensei is a revered teacher.
Shifuno Tomo is a popular magazine.
Playwright’s Note
This play is a fantasy. In historical fact, Kawabata’s composition of his novelette House of the Sleeping Beauties and his unexplained suicide occurred many years apart.
Many people helped me develop this play, and I’d like to thank especially Grafton Mouen, Jean Brody, John Harnagel, Marcy Mattox, Natolie Miyawaki, Nancy Takahashi, Mitch Motooka and Helen Merrill.
Scene One
A sitting room. Not richly decorated. Desk, pillows, low table, equipment for tea, cabinet, screen, mirror, stove. It is night. Woman sits at desk, writing. Kawabata paces.
WOMAN: Now, you mustn’t do anything distasteful.
KAWABATA: Distasteful?
WOMAN: You mustn’t stick your fingers in the girl’s mouth or anything like that.
KAWABATA: Oh, no. I wouldn’t think of it.
WOMAN: Good. All my guests are gentlemen.
KAWABATA: Would you please put that down?
WOMAN (Indicating the pen): This?
KAWABATA: Yes. I’m not here to be interviewed.
WOMAN: Perhaps. I am, however, accountable to my girls—
KAWABATA: Fine.
WOMAN:—and must therefore ask a few questions of those who wish to become my guests.
KAWABATA: You assume too easily, madame.
WOMAN: Oh?
KAWABATA: You assume that my presence here identifies me as just one type of man.
WOMAN: On the contrary, sir.
KAWABATA: Why did you assume I was going in there, then?
WOMAN: I never assumed any such thing. Did you assume I was going to allow you in there?
(Pause.)
KAWABATA: “Allow me”?
WOMAN: Actually, I identify two types of men, sir—gentlemen and those who do not behave. My guests are all gentlemen. They do not disgrace the house. Obviously, very few men meet these requirements.
KAWABATA: What are you talking about?
WOMAN: I must protect my girls—and the house.
KAWABATA: Well, I mean, I’m certainly not going to assault a girl, if that’s what you mean. Is that what you think? That I look like a man who goes to brothels?
WOMAN: Neither looks nor brothels has much to do with it, sir. My experience has taught me that in most cases if you scratch a man you’ll find a molester.
KAWABATA: Well, if you take that kind of attitude . . .
WOMAN: A look in most men’s bottom drawers confirms this.
KAWABATA: . . . how is any man to prove he’s a . . . a gentleman, as you say?
WOMAN: I take a risk on all my guests. But I have my methods; I judge as best I can.
KAWABATA: That’s ridiculous. That men must be . . . tested to become your customers. But all your customers are practically ghosts anyway—of course they don’t object. Their throats are too dry to protest.
WOMAN: Guests.
KAWABATA: I’m sorry?
WOMAN: They’re not customers, they’re guests.
KAWABATA: Well, I, for one, do not intend to become a guest, understand?
WOMAN: You are very proud.
KAWABATA: Proud?
WOMAN: But that doesn’t necessarily mean you are not a gentleman. Sometimes the proudest men are the best behaved. So, you don’t want to be my guest. What do you want?
KAWABATA: I only want to talk.
WOMAN: About what?
KAWABATA: Your house.
WOMAN: Window shopping?
KAWABATA: No.
WOMAN: I’m sorry.
KAWABATA: I want to know why the old men come here.
WOMAN: But all your answers are in there.
KAWABATA: No, they’re not. I could never feel what they feel, what brings them back—a parade of corpses—night after night. But you—perhaps they share their secrets.
WOMAN: I have no secrets.
KAWABATA: Old Eguchi—
WOMAN: And I’m no gossip.
KAWABATA: He talked to me last week.
WOMAN: Yes, he called and said you were coming.
KAWABATA: Said he comes here almost every night. I wanted him to tell me more, but he said I could only know more by talking to you.
WOMAN: He said you wished to gain entrance.
KAWABATA: No—he’s making the same mistake as you. I won’t be able to feel what he feels because my mind’s different.
WOMAN: Oh?
KAWABATA: Eguchi’s so old.
WOMAN: And you’re young?
KAWABATA: Well, no. Not in years.
WOMAN: Oh.
KAWABATA: But my mind is young. Eguchi’s is gone. He sits on his futon each afternoon swatting bees with tissue paper. Listen, I know you’re a woman of business—may I offer you some fee for what you know?
WOMAN: Money?
KAWABATA: Don’t worry. I’m not with the police or anything.
WOMAN: Don’t be ridiculous. What do you take me for?
KAWABATA: What do I—?
WOMAN: You might as well pay me to tell you how one falls in love.
KAWABATA: What do you take yourself for, madame—acting like a sorceress, a sensei. You’re just an old woman running this house. I have questions, and I’m willing to pay for the answers.
WOMAN: I have questions also. Fair, sir? (Pause) How old are you?
KAWABATA: I won’t answer just anything, you know.
WOMAN: Don’t worry. Neither will I.
WOMAN: Married?
KAWABATA: My wife passed away . . . several years ago.
WOMAN: I’m sorry. Children?
KAWABATA: Yes. Two. Daughters. Why are you asking this?
WOMAN: Don’t worry. I’m no gossip. Retired?
KAWABATA: Uh—no . . . I mean, yes.
WOMAN: Yes or no?
KAWABATA: Uh—no.
WOMAN: No? No. Profession?
KAWABATA: Uh—teacher.
WOMAN: Teacher.
KAWABATA: University level, of course.
WOMAN: There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?
KAWABATA: That’s all?
WOMAN: Now, what would you like to know?
KAWABATA: From that, you decide?
WOMAN: I would like you to join me in a game, though.
KAWABATA: A game?
WOMAN: Yes. And as we play, we can talk about the rooms. Do you mind?
KAWABATA: Well, if it’s harmless.
WOMAN: Quite. Would you like some tea?
KAWABATA: Oh, yes. Please. Thank you. This game—what’s it called?
WOMAN: I don’t know. It’s old. Geishas used to play it with their customers, to relax them. (She brings the tea, pours it)
KAWABATA: Relax? Perhaps it will relax me. (He laughs softly) Now, why do you want me to play this?
(Woman pulls a box out of the desk and opens it. Inside are twenty-five smooth tiles, five times as long as they are wide. While she speaks, she stacks them in five layers of five tiles each, such that the tiles of each layer are perpendicular to those of the layer below it.)
WOMAN: So we can get to know each other. As I said, I must protect my girls from men who do not behave.
KAWABATA: You talk as if men should be put on leashes.
WOMAN: No, leashes aren’t necessary at all. (She finishes the tower) There. We’ll take turns removing tiles from the tower until it collapses. Understand?
KAWABATA: Is this a game you ask all your customers to play?
WOMAN: Guests. You can’t touch the top layer, though, and you can only use one hand.
KAWABATA: But what’s the object? Who wins, who loses?
WOMAN: There are no winners or losers. There is only the tower—intact or collapsed. Just one hand—like this. (She removes a piece)
KAWABATA: My turn? What am I trying to do?
WOMAN: Judge the tiles. Wriggle that one, for instance—yes, that one you’re touching—between your fingers. Is the weight of the stack on it? If so, don’t force it. Leave it and look for another one that’s looser. If you try to force the tiles to be what they’re not, the whole thing will come crashing down.
KAWABATA: A test of skills? There—(He removes a piece) Your turn.
WOMAN: See? Simple.
KAWABATA: What kind of a test—? You’re just an old woman. What kind of a contest is this?
WOMAN: Let’s talk about you, sir. We want to make you happy.
(They continue to take turns removing tiles throughout the following section.)
KAWABATA: Happy? No, you don’t understand. You can’t—
WOMAN: Our guests sleep much better here. It’s the warmth, they say.
KAWABATA: I don’t have any trouble sleeping.
WOMAN: Don’t you?
KAWABATA: Sometimes . . . sometimes I choose not to go to bed. But when I do, I sleep.
WOMAN: Our guests are never afraid to go to sleep.
KAWABATA: It’s not that I’m afraid.
WOMAN: The darkness does not threaten them.
(Pause.)
KAWABATA: Old Eguchi—he says that the girls . . . that they are naked.
WOMAN: Yes.
KAWABATA: He says they are very beautiful, but I hardly . . .
WOMAN: For you, I would pick an especially pretty one.
KAWABATA: For me—? Don’t start—
WOMAN: How old was your wife when you first met her?
KAWABATA: My wife? Oh, I don’t know. She must have been—oh, maybe nineteen.
WOMAN: Nineteen. That is a beautiful age. I would pick one who is nineteen.
KAWABATA: Don’t be ridiculous. She’d see me and—
WOMAN: But you forget, sir—our girls won’t see anything.
KAWABATA: I suppose you have some way of guaranteeing this. I suppose it’s never happened that some girl has opened her eyes—
WOMAN: No. Never.
(Kawabata is having a particularly difficult time with a tile.)
KAWABATA: Look at this. (He holds out his hand, laughs) Shaking. Would you mind putting some more wood in the furnace?
WOMAN: Of course. (She rises to do so as she talks) I know what girl I would pick for you. She is half Japanese, half Caucasian. She has the most delicate hair—brown in one light, black in another. As she sleeps, she wriggles her left foot, like a cat, against the mattress, as if to draw out even the last bits of warmth.
(Woman returns to the table, sits. As she does, Kawabata removes a tile and causes the tower to fall.)
KAWABATA: Ai! You shook it.
WOMAN: No.
(During the next section, Woman gets up, goes to the cabinet, removes a small jar filled with clear liquid and a tiny cup. She pours the liquid into the cup.)
KAWABATA: Maybe an accident, but still—
WOMAN: I assure you.
KAWABATA:—when you sat down.
WOMAN: I was perfectly still.
KAWABATA: No, you shook the table.
WOMAN: I didn’t touch it.
KAWABATA: Just a bit.
WOMAN: Really.
KAWABATA: But at the crucial moment.
WOMAN: Please, sir.
KAWABATA: Just as it was about to give.
WOMAN: Thank you for playing.
KAWABATA: It wasn’t fair.
WOMAN: Please—
KAWABATA: It was my first time.
WOMAN:—take this cup.
KAWABATA: What?
WOMAN: Here.
(He takes it.)
KAWABATA: What is this?
WOMAN: To help you sleep.
KAWABATA: Sleep?
WOMAN: To assure you a restful evening—in there. (Pause) If you wish to, you may now go in. You’re my guest. If you still have questions after tonight, I’ll try to answer some—
KAWABATA: I can just—
WOMAN:—on your next visit.
KAWABATA:—go in?
WOMAN: Welcome. Your name?
KAWABATA: My name?
WOMAN: We keep names of all our guests.
KAWABATA: But I don’t see why . . .
WOMAN: Our guests are our friends. Sometimes we like to let our friends know if we have something special. Don’t worry, it is confidential.
KAWABATA: Kawabata. (He drinks from the cup)
WOMAN: May I help you undress, Mr. Kawabata?
KAWABATA: Oh, yes. Thank you.
(They go behind the screen.)
I can just . . . go in?
WOMAN: Yes. On the right, second door. (Pause) She’s a very pretty girl.
KAWABATA: Second door.
WOMAN: On the right. She’s asleep, waiting for you.
(She gives him a key. Pause.)
KAWABATA: I’m really only curious.
WOMAN: I know. That’s why you should go in.
KAWABATA: What if . . . something happens?
WOMAN: Something?
KAWABATA: What if she wakes up?
WOMAN: Even if you were to try your utmost—you could cut off her arms and she wouldn’t wake up ’til morning. Don’t worry.
(They come out from behind the screen. He wears a light robe.)
Sleep well, Mr. Kawabata. A boy will wake you and bring you tea in the morning.
KAWABATA: Uh—thank you.
(She opens the door.)
WOMAN: Listen.
KAWABATA: Listen?
WOMAN: To the waves. And the wind.
(Silence.)
Good night, Mr. Ka
wabata.
(He walks through the door; she closes it. She moves to the table, begins cleaning up the tiles, as lights fade to black.)
Scene Two
It is the following evening. In the darkness, we see a flame. Then, the lights come up. Woman sits at the desk. Kawabata is burning his record from yesterday; he tosses it into the stove.
KAWABATA: I’m not a teacher, madame. I’m a writer.
WOMAN: Oh. A writer?
KAWABATA: Have you read my novels, short stories?
WOMAN: Have you ever been published in this? (She holds up a magazine)
KAWABATA: Shifuno Tomo? Trash.
WOMAN: Then I haven’t read you.
KAWABATA: I don’t write about beauty tips or American movie stars.
WOMAN: So you’re going to write a report on us.
KAWABATA: I’m not a reporter. I write stories, novels. For some time now, I’ve been thinking about old men. How it must—
WOMAN: If you wish to write your report, Mr. Kawabata, you must realize the consequences of your actions. You understand, don’t you, that we can’t let the outside know we’re here. That would mean the end of the house.
KAWABATA: And that should worry me?
WOMAN: Does it? Didn’t you sleep well?
KAWABATA: Hardly. I was afraid to touch the covers and disturb her. I studied the walls until I fell asleep, watched the colors change in the dark.
WOMAN: I see.
KAWABATA: But what I’ve learned about the state to which men come—to think they return—night after night—for that.
Trying to Find Chinatown: The Selected Plays of David Henry Hwang Page 15