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

by David Henry Hwang

  WOMAN: Then why have you returned?

  KAWABATA: Me?

  WOMAN: Why didn’t you just write your report and destroy the house?

  KAWABATA: Story. I wanted…to burn that.

  WOMAN: Is that all?

  KAWABATA: Yes. That’s all. (He chuckles) I certainly have no desire to repeat last night’s experience. It’s been so many years since I’ve had to share a bed. No room to stretch.

  WOMAN: Well, then, go.

  KAWABATA: What?

  WOMAN: If you’ve done what you’ve come for, then you must want to leave.

  KAWABATA: Yes. I will. But first, I thought I might talk . . . to you.

  WOMAN: What about? You’ve burned your record, you’re no longer a guest, you plan to write your report without concern for the house, my girls, or myself.

  KAWABATA: Yourself?

  WOMAN: Our relationship is hardly suited to polite conversation.

  KAWABATA: You will be all right.

  WOMAN: “All right”? How can you be so insensitive? You talk like a man who lives in other men’s beds.

  KAWABATA: You are very defiant, madame. Defiance is admirable in a woman. Defiance in a man is nothing more than a trained response, since we always expect to get our way. But a woman’s defiance is her own.

  WOMAN: Mr. Kawabata, you must not write this report.

  KAWABATA: What if I do?

  WOMAN: Then my life is over.

  KAWABATA: Don’t be melodramatic.

  WOMAN: Please. Don’t talk of things you know nothing about. I can tell you. Only one other time—twenty years ago—have I ever misjudged a guest. He came back the next evening, as you have tonight, and informed me he was . . . with the authorities. Then he left. I didn’t know what to do. First, I tried to imagine all the awful things that could happen, hoping that by picturing them, I would prevent them from taking place, since real life never happens like we envision it will. Finally, after an hour of this, I decided to sleep. As I lay in bed, I began to wonder, what else could I do? Where else could I go? I saw myself being carried up to Mount Obasute. My girls were carrying me up. “You’re old now, Mama!” they cried. “We’ll join your bones when we ourselves become old!” They left me in a cave and danced a bon-odori down the mountain, singing “Tokyo Ondo” as they went. (She sings a little of it) I thought, “Look at them dancing. That’s why I’m here and they’re leaving me. Anyone who can dance down the mountain is free to go.” And the next thing I knew, I was dancing a bon-odori right up there, on my bed—the springs making the sounds young people make in beds. And I danced down the hall to a telephone and began looking for a new house for my girls. (Pause) That was twenty years ago. Look at me today. I can’t even raise a foot for three seconds, let alone dance. I’m old, and I have no savings, no money, no skills. This time, Mr. Kawabata, I would have to stay on Mount Obasute.

  KAWABATA: Look, madame, even if I wrote this story, it’s possible that your house won’t be affected.

  WOMAN: Why? Don’t people read them?

  KAWABATA: Of course. But people will likely think it’s all from my head. You haven’t read my stories. Like what you said to me—“Listen to the waves,” you said.

  WOMAN: Yes, they often help men sleep.

  KAWABATA: In one of my novels, the boy always makes love to the woman while listening to the waves. The critics would probably laugh—“Old Kawabata and waves. Can’t he think of anything new?”

  WOMAN: And if the authorities—some of whom already suspect our existence—if they read your story, that won’t make them certain? (Pause) What is that story to you?

  KAWABATA: I want to write this story. I can do it, I know. I haven’t written a story in . . . in . . .

  WOMAN: That’s just one story to you. This is my life.

  KAWABATA: Better if you were rid of it.

  WOMAN: Then you must change the facts—

  KAWABATA: You made a mistake, madame.

  WOMAN:—to confuse the authorities.

  KAWABATA: You chose not to cooperate with me yesterday.

  WOMAN: But even that—

  KAWABATA: You thought I was like the rest of them.

  WOMAN: No, you mustn’t write this report!

  KAWABATA: You misjudged me. Now you see I’m different.

  WOMAN: Yes, you are a reporter.

  KAWABATA: You should have just told me about the house.

  WOMAN: Mr. Kawabata—

  KAWABATA: But you assumed—

  WOMAN:—think of the girls.

  KAWABATA: The girls?

  WOMAN: The money they receive here.

  KAWABATA: You shame them.

  WOMAN: They are from poor families.

  KAWABATA: They would be better off—

  WOMAN: They come of their own will.

  KAWABATA:—doing—working at . . . any other job.

  WOMAN: And the old men.

  KAWABATA: Don’t tell me that.

  WOMAN: We care about them. Look at this.

  KAWABATA: At what?

  WOMAN: At what you’ll destroy.

  KAWABATA: You humiliate them. Their despair—it’s so great.

  WOMAN: What do you know?

  KAWABATA: Your girls—are they all still virgins?

  WOMAN: Was yours?

  KAWABATA: Yes. Do you see the depth of the old men’s despair?

  WOMAN: How do you know?

  KAWABATA: That they can’t even find the manhood to—

  WOMAN: Mr. Kawabata, how do you know she was still a virgin?

  (Pause.)

  KAWABATA: Don’t worry. I didn’t . . . molest her. I walked into the room. I didn’t believe she was going to be naked. I knew you’d told me, but I thought, no, you couldn’t go that far, it would be unfair to give men exactly what they want. But she was lying on her back, the blanket leaving bare two white shoulders and her neck. I couldn’t see clearly yet, so I ran my fingers from one shoulder, across her neck, to the other shoulder. Nothing blocked my finger’s path—nothing, no straps, only taut, smooth skin. I still couldn’t believe it, so I placed my index finger at the base of her throat and moved down, under the blanket, farther and farther down—one unbroken line—all the way. When I knew, I pulled my hand away. She moaned and turned away from me. I looked at my finger, placed it at the top of her spine and followed the hard bumps all the way down. I looked at my finger again, tasted it. Then I placed it against the back of her knee, under her nostrils, behind her ear, in the hair under her arm. And every place my finger touched, it pressed. And everywhere it pressed, her skin resisted with the same soft strength, and I thought, “This…is youth.” I lay down and buried my nose against her scalp, my nose rubbing up and down as her foot rubbed against the sheets. When I woke up, it was just past dawn. The room was bright. That’s when I tried to assault her—yes, it’s true, I tried. But I’m an honorable man, so don’t worry for her. If I had known she was a virgin, I would never have even thought of it to begin with.

  (Pause.)

  WOMAN: Well, this is too bad. You know the rules of the house, don’t you?

  KAWABATA: Yes.

  WOMAN: But still . . .

  KAWABATA: But I didn’t.

  WOMAN: Very technical.

  KAWABATA: I don’t know why. It was too bright in the room. I became sad, then angry. I wanted to hit her or something. But instead, I tried that instead.

  WOMAN: Can I get you some tea?

  KAWABATA: Huh? Yes, please. Thank you.

  WOMAN: Why do you do that kind of thing anyway?

  KAWABATA: I told you, I don’t know. And don’t make it sound like I do it often.

  WOMAN: No, I mean about sleeping with your head in her hair.

  KAWABATA: Oh, that.

  WOMAN: Don’t you worry about suffocating?

  KAWABATA: I have my reasons.

  WOMAN: Well, go on. There’s very little you can’t tell me now.

  (Pause.)

  KAWABATA: Her hair—the girl last night. It had a speci
al smell. Like a lady friend of mine.

  WOMAN: Your wife?

  KAWABATA: No, I’m afraid not. Maybe thirty years ago. She was married to—oh, some kind of Hong Kong businessman, maybe even a movie producer—I can’t remember. I do remember she lived alone with her servants—he was away—in a huge castle in Kowloon. It really was—a castle in Kowloon. I didn’t know they had castles either. Where did we meet? Kyoto? I can’t—you see, I’d even forgotten her until I smelled that girl’s hair. My lady friend, I’d smell her hair and she’d cry, “Don’t do that. It’s filthy!” But I’d smell her hair for hours. I wonder what she’s doing now. She was the only woman who ever winked at me.

  WOMAN: Mr. Kawabata . . .

  KAWABATA: I was shocked. This was many years ago, you know.

  WOMAN: I apologize. For my hysteria.

  KAWABATA: Have you . . . seen my point?

  WOMAN: Yes.

  KAWABATA: About the story? My writing?

  WOMAN: Yes. Would you like to be our guest again tonight?

  KAWABATA: What? Even after—?

  WOMAN: I misjudged you. You are honest. That’s a rare quality. I was irrational. This time, no charge. Only please stay.

  KAWABATA: I came here to burn my record.

  WOMAN: We can make you a new one. The girl I’ve picked out for you tonight is more experienced than the one before.

  KAWABATA: It’s not the same one?

  WOMAN: No. Isn’t it better to have a different one?

  KAWABATA: You understand that I won’t . . . do anything like . . . last night.

  WOMAN: Of course, Mr. Kawabata. I see you’re a gentleman after all. Your sleeping medicine?

  KAWABATA: My—oh, thank you. I don’t quite understand.

  WOMAN: Don’t understand. Just enjoy tonight’s sleep. May I help you undress?

  KAWABATA: Thank you. I suppose . . . I can’t refuse your generosity.

  WOMAN: Thank you.

  (They go behind the screen. Again she helps him undress and put on a kimono.)

  KAWABATA: Uh—where was your house located before?

  WOMAN: Before? We’ve always been here.

  KAWABATA: No, but that story you told—the one about your guest the policeman.

  WOMAN: Oh, that.

  KAWABATA: Where did you move from?

  WOMAN: We didn’t. (Pause) Things just worked out.

  (They come out. She opens the door, gives him a key.)

  Third door on your left. This one’s even prettier—and more experienced.

  KAWABATA: What do you mean, “more experienced”? After all, she’s sound asleep.

  WOMAN: Good night, Mr. Kawabata.

  (He walks through the door; she closes it. She returns to the desk, pulls out her record book and begins to write. Lights to black.)

  Scene Three

  Evening, several months later. Kawabata is sitting alone. Silence. Woman enters from door to rooms.

  WOMAN: Yes, I can arrange something tonight. (Pause) But you should know better. You’ve been a guest for five months now. Why didn’t you call first, instead of just bursting in?

  KAWABATA (Sharply): I’m sorry!

  WOMAN: It will be a few minutes before things are ready.

  (Pause.)

  KAWABATA: Can you give me some of that sleeping medicine?

  WOMAN: Now? Well, if you like.

  KAWABATA: No, not that. The kind you give the girls.

  WOMAN: The girls?

  KAWABATA: Yes. I want to sleep as deeply as they do.

  WOMAN: Sir, that kind of medicine isn’t healthy for old men.

  KAWABATA: I can’t take it. I’m your guest, aren’t I? You always say so. You always say you want to serve your guests, don’t you?

  WOMAN: What’s wrong with this? (She holds up the usual cup)

  KAWABATA: I wake up. I wake up at two, three in the morning. Sometimes it takes me an hour to fall back to sleep. I just lie there.

  WOMAN: Your body shouldn’t be building up resistance.

  KAWABATA: That’s not it.

  WOMAN: If you’re tired of my girls, I can arrange something special.

  KAWABATA: Will it help me sleep? (Pause) See? Whatever you do with the girls—it doesn’t matter if I have to lie there like a stone.

  WOMAN: Is there a girl here you’d like to see again?

  KAWABATA: No. It’s not the girls, it’s me. When I began coming here, I’d lie awake at nights, too, but I’d love it, because I’d remember . . . things I’d forgotten for years—women, romances. I stopped writing—even exercises—it all seemed so pointless. But these last few weeks, I smell their skin, run my fingers between their toes—there’s nothing there but skin and toes. I wake up in the middle of the night, and all I can remember was what it was like to remember, and I’m a prisoner in that bed.

  WOMAN: I’m sorry. I can’t—

  KAWABATA: No. Listen. It’s getting worse. Last night, when I woke up, all I could think of was the death of my friend.

  WOMAN: I’m sorry.

  KAWABATA: I hadn’t thought of Mishima’s suicide in a year. But last night—it began again—what must it have been like? (Pause) Hara-kiri. How does a man you know commit hara-kiri? A loved one, a friend. Strangers, of course. They kill themselves daily. But someone you know—how do they find that will? (Pause) The will. To feel your hands forcing steel through your stomach and if the hands stopped the pain would stop, but the hands keep going. They must become another being, your hands. Yes. Your hands become another being and the steel becomes you.

  WOMAN: You shouldn’t give your friend more respect than he deserves.

  KAWABATA: He was a man, though. He had his lover stand behind him and chop off his head when the cutting was done.

  WOMAN: I’m not going to give you dangerous drugs. I’m sorry. (Pause) Don’t worry so much about your friend, Mr. Kawabata. People commit suicide for themselves. That’s one thing I know. I had a sister, Mr. Kawabata. My parents sent her away to Tokyo, hoping that she would be trained in the tea, the dance, the koto, to attract a man of wealth. I wept with envy at the fine material Mother bought for her kimonos—gold thread, brocade. The day she left, I was angry—she was crying at her good fortune. Years went by; we were both engaged. She came back from Tokyo for her wedding and we could barely recognize her—she had neither the hands nor the speech of anyone we knew. I got very angry at her haughtiness. My chore was to pick the maggots from the rice, and I purposely left a few in, hoping she would get them . . . Their wedding was the most beautiful I’d ever seen. Just before she was to leave, my sister cornered me outside, tears streaming down her face, and begged my forgiveness . . . They tried to keep the story a secret from us, but, well . . . such a romantic story; the stuff legends are made of. It seems my sister had a lover in the village, that they had pledged fidelity long before she left for Tokyo. The next morning, my father went to draw water from the well. In the dim light before dawn, two faces came rushing up to the water’s surface. Two faces—my sister and my fiancé . . . So don’t worry about your friend, Mr. Kawabata. People kill themselves to save themselves, not others. (Pause) Now, I’m going to prepare something special. There will be two girls. There will be twice the warmth.

  (She exits. He goes to the cabinet, takes out the vials and a cup. He pours and drinks three glasses of the sleeping potion. He returns the items. She reenters.)

  KAWABATA: Madame?

  WOMAN: Yes.

  KAWABATA: If I were to commit hara-kiri, would you chop off my head?

  WOMAN: Mr. Kawabata—

  KAWABATA: No! Answer me. If I gave you a sword—I’d pay you, you know—I wouldn’t expect you to do it for nothing.

  WOMAN: This type of question doesn’t help either of us.

  KAWABATA: Listen—would you chop off my head when I whispered, “Now. Please. Now.” Or would you walk away laughing, counting your change?

  WOMAN: Will you stop that? Will you stop that selfishness?

  KAWABATA: No! The question is
—answer it!—would you chop—

  WOMAN: No! No! That’s your question, yours only. You never think of anyone else’s suffering—you’re so self-centered, all you men, every last one of you. Have some woman chop off your head, leave her alone, do you think of her? She takes her few dollars, she buys some vegetables, she eats and slowly withers away—no glory, no honor, just a slow fading into the background—that’s all you expect. No, Mr. Kawabata, if I wanted to commit hara-kiri, would you chop off my head?

  KAWABATA: Women don’t commit hara-kiri.

  WOMAN: What if I did? What if I were the first?

  KAWABATA: This is pointless.

  WOMAN: I know—you think I would do it the woman’s way, just slipping the tiny knife in here. (Points to the base of her neck) But what if I wanted to do it like a man? Completely. Powerfully.

  KAWABATA: That’s a foolish question.

  WOMAN: I would do it better than you.

  KAWABATA: Don’t be absurd.

  WOMAN: I would be braver.

  KAWABATA: What a ridiculous notion!

  WOMAN: If you didn’t chop off my head, I’d be glad.

  KAWABATA: This is a waste of time.

  WOMAN: Because then, I’d be braver than you or your friend.

  KAWABATA: Don’t blaspheme Mishima.

  WOMAN: I’d die like the generals.

  KAWABATA: You’re just an old woman.

  WOMAN: I’d be the old woman who died like the generals.

  KAWABATA: Show some respect.

  (Pause.)

  WOMAN: So quiet now, aren’t you, Mr. Kawabata. Why don’t you spout glorious phrases about chopping off my head? (Pause) Or why don’t you write your report and destroy us all? (Pause) Your room is ready. Should I help you undress?

  KAWABATA: No. (He starts to leave, still dressed)

  WOMAN: Don’t forget your key.

  (He returns, takes the key.)

  Fourth door on your right.

  (He exits. She closes the door. Pause. She goes to her desk, takes out a makeup kit. She stands next to the mirror, powders her face completely white, does her eyes, her mouth. She then goes to the door to the rooms, pulls up a chair and sits facing the door.)