by James Comins
Jo no Ha Ni
Act II, Scene Two
You turn away. There’s no use trying again. Columbia's made her mind up. She knew Punch was lying all along. She just doesn’t like you. That’s all it is.
Maybe Pierrot’s right: Columbia isn’t for you. Let her spend her time with Punch. You don’t care. Really you don’t. You can make other friends. There’s always Quinn, if you can find her. After all, you hardly even know Columbia. She’s probably mean. She’s probably boring. She probably plays backgammon for fun. It doesn't matter that she doesn't like you.
You don't even care.
Trudging away down the hillside under the swinging paper lanterns, you pass Pierrot, who squeezes an enormous accordion studded with mother-of-pearl. As he plays a sad milonga, you drag one foot after the other, one foot after the other. They feel like lead, your feet. Your heart feels like lead, too. Columbia.
You care so much.
Pierrot walks wistfully a few feet behind you. His sighing concertina narrates a world of loves lost but unforgettable. The stage and the audience come back into view. Their bodies are two-dimensional cardboard, but their eyes follow you in the dark.
From overhead, the black cry of a raven perched on top of the stage.
As you approach, the raven seems to fly straight at you. Ducking quickly from the divebomb, you feel a new, powerful emotion: Anger.
Anger. Rage. A desire for vengeance against that awful Punch who killed Quinn and poisoned Columbia against you. You aren’t jealous anymore, because you know he isn’t better than you. You both know how to lie and make up majestic stories. You aren’t jealous.
You’re angry.
Punch killed Quinn. He probably did. There was a knife, and her mask was covered in sticky blood. But—strange. It's not even the murder anymore. You have new feelings now. Bigger even than revenge for Quinn. Somehow this new feeling is so big that it swamps everything else.
You’re angry that Columbia was Punch's friend first. Angry that they have a history together, that they have inside jokes and stories and adventures that they’ve shared. Things only they know.
It isn’t fair. It isn’t, isn’t fair. Punchinoni probably even knows her middle name.
You want to get back at him.
Leaping to the stage, you shout for Punch to come out. Your mind is filled with violence that you know is right and proper. A spotlight comes down and lands a white oval across your shoulders. A red Fresnel light casts a bloody glow across the tree backdrop.
It’s time for a confrontation.
“Come out, you rotten Punchinoni!”
you exclaim.
“Come on out and fight!”
You stand on the polished yellow surface of the Noh stage. With all those eyes on you, you’re filled with an overpowering anger. You feel powerful, like you could do anything. You put your hands on your hips, the universal actor's symbol for bravery.
Punch dashes out from stage left. And he is dashing, the same way that Errol Flynn was dashing. He’s dashing and grinning and smug. His orange nose droops under his pinpoint eyes.
Brainless, empty of thoughts, you walk up to him and punch him right in the kisser. Your fist thumps into his face. Time seems to go in all directions, too fast and too slow.
His wooden mask splits in two.
Punchinoni reacts.
You react, too, because the real Punch wasn’t wearing a wooden mask, but a latex one. You haven’t punched a demon. You punched an actor in a mask. Reaching forward, you pull Punch's mask off.
Is it Quinn?
The audience gasps. You’ve violated one of the rules of Noh. You've changed a mask onstage.
And you’ve done something else wrong, too. In your bloodlust, in your thirst for vengeance, you haven't punched the real Punch, or even Quinn.
You’ve punched the Understudy.
The Understudy.
His innocent face is familiar. He’s that other guy, the one who used to stand in the corner and watch you and Quinn practice your parts. The quiet one. The one who didn’t have anything to say, and who didn’t have the courage to stand up and say it.
Well, he must have found his courage. He must have picked up the bloodstained Punch mask, wiped it off and put it on, because now he’s onstage with you. Where the real Punch is, you don’t know.
The Understudy. Huh.
“You punched me,”
he says, super lame.
His voice has no emphasis or diction. He’s not really a very good actor. But then again, you’re the one who forgot your mask at the start of the show. You shouldn’t be talking.
“I thought you were Punchinoni,”
you tell him.
His face goes that embarrassing red that faces go when they’re about to cry.
“I am Punchinoni,”
he insists.
“Or I was
Until you pulled my mask up.
Just look at it. You broke it.
I think it was really expensive.”
The Understudy looks out across the small proscenium of the stage. He wilts in the brutal glare of the audience’s dislike. He looks lost and tangled up, and you realize you’ve put him in a pretty bad spot. He might not be a great actor with his real face, but he played Punch well enough to convince you to punch him. But even though he was all prepared to recite Punch's lines, he can’t make up his own lines in the middle of the show. He doesn’t know how. He didn’t study under the great El Daishou the way you did.
The Understudy stares out at the audience, terrified.
Take pity on him. Make him feel better. After all, he’s a much less experienced actor than you.
“Why don’t we find the real Punch together?”
you ask him gently.
The Understudy looks at the split wood mask in your hand.
“So you can punch him, too?”
he asks.
“You’re just going to go around punching people?”
Then he starts crying. You feel embarrassed to be on stage with him. The audience isn’t sympathetic, and frankly neither are you. This is plain misbehaving. The Understudy seems to know it, too, and tries to pull himself together. Between quick, heaving breaths he starts trying to say what he feels.
“You. Don’t under. Stand,”
he heaves.
“This was. My big chance.”
He wipes his snotty nose on his sleeve.
“Someone. Else is al-always Punchinoni.
And I. Wanted to be Punchinoni.
To be the big star. I always wanted to.
Be the big star. And someone else was
The big star. And I had
One chance to go on stage.
And then. You ruined it.
And now. I'm nobody again.
And I didn’t. Even get to read my li-i-ines.”
He starts bawling again. You wonder what you can say to make him feel better.
“Do you want to go ahead and say your lines?”
you ask.
He shakes his head really hard.
“It’s too late,”
he moans.
He sounds devastated, but maybe he can snap him back together. Maybe he just needs a push.
You sling the elastic band back over his head and let the split devil mask fall back together over his face.
“Huzzah! Take that, you rotten Punch, my too-clever enemy!"
you shout.
"If I can’t have Columbia as a friend then no one will.
I’ll pull your mask off if I want, put it back on you again.
I don’t care how you feel about it!”
Sniffling beneath the cracked crooked mask, the Understudy takes a breath, composes himself. He leaps up and crosses his arms over his black-and-white diamond jumpsuit. Actually it’s pretty convincing, even though a wink of light shows through the middle of his mask.
The first thing out of his mouth is a squeak. He clears his throat and tries again:
“Columbia is mi
ne alone, you silly silly.
I’m an entrancer, a hypnotist. I know all the tricks.
It’s easy to corner someone and turn them into a friend
If you know how to talk to strangers, like me!”
The words are definitely Punch’s. The voice is pretty good, too. For a moment, when the mask lines up, you forget it’s just the Understudy and imagine it’s the real Punch talking. But it isn’t, and you can feel all your righteous anger draining out as you recite lines with this noodly little guy. Doing him a favor. Reading lines isn’t exactly what you want to do right now, but you figure, maybe you owe the Understudy for punching him.
“You think you’ve captured Columbia,”
you recite.
“You think you’ve fooled her with your talk,
But she’s the one who tricked you!
She told me she knows about your lies
And she doesn’t believe them!”
The Punch mask grins at you. The zucchini nose pokes right up into your face.
“You think people are gullible,”
the Understudy recites.
“But that’s never true.
She listens to my lies because we’re friends.
She enjoys my stories because we’re friends!”
Wait. Is Punch saying that he was friends with her before he told her those lies? So he wasn’t telling those lies in order to make friends, but just to entertain her? Did . . . did you try to make friends with Columbia the wrong way?
How do you make friends with someone like her? Actually, you might as well ask. . . .
“Then how did you make friends with her?”
You hope it isn’t a stupid-sounding question. You say it in your big stage voice and put one hand on your knee.
“All you have to do—”
the Understudy begins.
But a commotion interrupts him. Spinning, you find that the real, orange-skinned Punchinoni has landed snidely on the far end of the stage. The red floodlight gives him a demonic tint. His beady eyes are brazen and calculating. A third white spotlight snaps on and fixes on him as he steps into view along the bridge. Two Punches face off, with you in the middle. The real Punch crosses his arms and approaches. The stage isn't really that big, either.
“A second impostor,”
he whispers to himself.
It wasn’t a stage whisper, which means it wasn’t meant for the audience. He withdraws the military saber from its scabbard with a slink, and it’s clearly not a prop. It’s a real sword, and deadly sharp. And you realize: Punch really wants to kill the Understudy, the same way he killed Quinn.
And you shout:
“Look out! He killed someone already today
And he’s about to kill you!”
Punch’s wheedling telepathic voice whispers into your ear: I know you want to fight me. But I’d rather spend my time skewering this boy for dressing up like me. I hate phonies.
“Audience! Audience!
you shout at the Japanese people looking up at you.
“Somebody call the police!
Punch is evil, and he wants to kill us.
Get the authorities here quickly!”
The audience is motionless.
Cardboard.
Suddenly you feel very alone.
There’s nobody to defend you against the demon, nobody here at all except yourself and the Understudy. And he probably won’t be much help. You’ll probably have to protect him, too. It's time to step up and be a hero.
First, however—
“Who are you?”
the Understudy asks Punch.
“What are you even doing here?
I’m playing Punch tonight!
You need to get offstage so I can play my part!”
Punch’s lips curl down into a sneering frown.
“Your part?”
he whispers.
“The part that I, the Punchinoni Himself, originated?
The part that I made famous?
You think I’ll let you play me tonight?”
Punch stabs his sword into the wood of the stage, leans on it, and glares at the boy.
“I think I won’t,”
he adds.
Inadvisably the Understudy comes forward to touch Punch’s orange nose. Making contact, he tugs.
“But—but who is he?”
the Understudy asks, turning to you.
Facing Punch, the Understudy pulls harder, yanking. This time, the slobbery nose won’t come off.
“That’s the real Punchinoni,”
you say.
The Understudy gives you a funny look. He peels his own nose mask off absentmindedly and stands beside you in his goofy Spandex leotard.
“No way,”
he says.
“Punchinoni isn’t real.
He’s an amalgam of several mythopoeic caricatures.
He comes from Italian, English and Japanese folklore.
Somebody just made him up. He isn’t real.”
Smirking, the real Punch advances. His eyes light up with glowing embers, his clawed toes flex and scratch the surface of the stage, and his skin seems to bubble with rage and pride.
“Seems pretty real to me,”
you say, backing away.
The demon pulls Murakumo out from where he stuck it into the stage and starts sweeping it back and forth at you two like a crazy surgeon with a scalpel. Whoosh. Whoosh. Smoke seeps out from his enormous nostrils. Teeth like a mouthful of walrus tusks stick out in every direction.
Deciding that maybe the jokes are over and it’s time to leave, you take the Understudy by his skinny arm and tiptoe backwards. The end of the stage is right behind you. Bump into it and inch around . . . You're almost trapped, but you can slip along the side . . .
“What do you want?”
the Understudy asks Punch timidly.
The boy’s back presses against one of the bashira, the pillars supporting the arches overhead. He seems hypnotized by the flames in Punch’s eyes.
“I take offense at your costume,”
Punch spits at the boy.
“I take offense at the way you pretend to be something you’re not.
I take offense that you gave away some of my secrets.
So I’m going to kill you.”
The frightened Understudy stares down the point of Punch’s sword and gulps.
"You are not Punch,"
the real Punch continues.
"You are a boy. Look at you.
Your own identity hidden under stage makeup,
A mask disguising the face beneath.
Come out of your mask and costume
And put on your true colors."
And you’ve got a decision to make right here. Punch is totally focused on the Understudy. Will you try to get between Punch and the boy and risk getting stabbed? Or do you use this opportunity to make a break for it?
Punch is a murderer. He said so. He’ll kill you if you get in his way. He isn’t even human. He’s crazy.
But he’ll hurt an innocent kid if you don’t do something. The Understudy can’t handle it on his own. He doesn’t know how.
What will you do?
Do you defend the boy, or do you run?
Will you do the same thing to the Understudy that you did to Quinn? Forget about him? Run away? Get caught up in other feelings?
Are you a coward?
Well, are you?
. . .
. . . No. You can’t let him die like this. You've already failed Quinn. You've put this off long enough. In fact, you've put it off for too long, waited, procrastinated. It's time to confront Punch.
“Stop!”
you shout.
“Before you kill him, you’ll have to get through me!
And I’m mad at you anyways! You—”
You realize that saying “You stole Columbia from me” would sound really stupid compared to the fierce fight you’re getting yourself into. In fact, your righteous an
ger seems childish, thinking back. Were you really so worried about who got to be friends with Columbia first?
“You killed my best friend! You murdered her!
And now—”
You’ve got to say it. There’s nothing else to do. The police won’t be coming. What else are you going to do?
“And now I’m going to kill you!”
you finish.
Oh no. The saber point swings from the Understudy’s nose to yours.
“How?”
Punchinoni intones.
“How is someone like you going to defeat someone like me?
When I’m powerful, and evil,
And when I have a sword so sharp it can cut a blade of grass in two?”
Frankly, this is a very good question. Even when you announced that you planned on killing him, you sort of wondered how you were going to do it. And maybe, just maybe, more killing isn't the answer. Maybe there's another way to do it.
Or maybe you're just scared.
Inside your head, you hear: You chose to fight me. Now you have to do it! I’ll cut your hands off and turn them into hat antlers!
Honestly, you’re not sure how your bravery was supposed to help the Understudy anyways. Backing away toward stage left, you hiss to him:
“Run! Get away from here!
I’ll distract the demon while you go get help!”
This the Understudy understands. Sprinting away in the opposite direction, he ducks backstage and disappears.
Once again you’re alone with Punch, facing him down. He grins murderously and advances, pushing you back along the narrow walkway of the hashigakari.
Step.
Step.
Each step he takes, you take a step back.
A hunter and a stag. Two fencers on a cliff's edge. A cobra following a wounded bird.
A deadly tango.
Step.
Step.
Punch dives forward and slashes at you with the sword, and you fall backward onto your butt beside the backstage stuff.
The sword points at your throat. The demon's grin grows. You've saved the Understudy, but sacrificed yourself.
This is it. The end of your life.
Punch killed Quinn, and he's going to kill you, too.
You wish you had fallen in love before you died. Everyone always talks about falling in love. Too late now.
The Murakumo sword rises up.
One.
Last.
Time. . . .