Read Online Trying to Find Chinatown: The Selected Plays of David Henry Hwang by David Henry Hwang - Free Book Online
Authors: David Henry Hwang
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said to.
LONE: What else could you turn into?
MA: Well, you scared me—sneaking up like that.
LONE: Perhaps a rock. That would be useful. When the men need to rest, they can sit on you.
MA: I got carried away.
LONE: Let’s try . . . a locust. Can you become a locust?
MA: No. Let’s cut this, okay?
LONE: Here. It’s easy. You just have to know how to hop.
MA: You’re not gonna get me—
LONE: Like this. (He demonstrates)
MA: Forget it, Lone.
LONE: I’m a locust. (He begins jumping toward Ma)
MA: Hey! Get away!
LONE: I devour whole fields.
MA: Stop it.
LONE: I starve babies before they are born.
MA: Hey, look, stop it!
LONE: I cause famines and destroy villages.
MA: I’m warning you! Get away!
LONE: What are you going to do? You can’t kill a locust.
MA: You’re not a locust.
LONE: You kill one, and another sits on your hand.
MA: Stop following me.
LONE: Locusts always trouble people, if not, we’d feel useless. Now, if you become a locust, too . . .
MA: I’m not going to become a locust.
LONE: Just stick your teeth out!
MA: I’m not gonna be a bug! It’s stupid!
LONE: No man who’s just been a duck has the right to call anything stupid.
MA: I thought you were trying to teach me something.
LONE: I am. Go ahead.
MA: All right. There. That look right?
LONE: Your legs should be a little lower. Lower! There. That’s adequate. So how does it feel to be a locust? (He gets up)
MA: I dunno. How long do I have to do this?
LONE: Could you do it for three years?
MA: Three years? Don’t be—
LONE: You couldn’t, could you? Could you be a duck for that long?
MA: Look, I wasn’t born to be either of those.
LONE: Exactly. Well, I wasn’t born to work on a railroad, either. “Best of both worlds.” How can you be such an insect!
(Pause.)
MA: Lone . . .
LONE: Stay down there! Don’t move! I’ve never told anyone my story—the story of my parents’ kidnapping me from school. All the time we were crossing the ocean, the last two years here—I’ve kept my mouth shut. To you, I finally tell it. And all you can say is, “Best of both worlds.” You’re a bug to me, a locust. You think you understand the dedication one must have to be in the opera? You think it’s the same as working on a railroad.
MA: Lone, all I was saying is that you’ll go back too, and—
LONE: You’re no longer a student of mine.
MA: What?
LONE: You have no dedication.
MA: Lone, I’m sorry.
LONE: Get up.
MA: I’m honored that you told me that.
LONE: Get up.
MA: No.
LONE: No?
MA: I don’t want to. I want to talk.
LONE: Well, I’ve learned from the past. You’re stubborn. You don’t go. All right. Stay there. If you want to prove to me that you’re dedicated, be a locust ’til morning. I’ll go.
MA: Lone, I’m really honored that you told me.
LONE: I’ll return in the morning. (Exits)
MA: Lone? Lone, that’s ridiculous. You think I’m gonna stay like this? If you do, you’re crazy. Lone? Come back here.
Scene Four
Late that night. Ma, alone, still in locust position.
MA: Locusts travel in huge swarms, so large that when they cross the sky, they block out the sun, like a storm. Second Uncle—back home—when he was a young man, his whole crop got wiped out by locusts one year. In the famine that followed, Second Uncle lost his eldest son and his second wife—the one he married for love. Even to this day, we look around before saying the word “locust,” to make sure Second Uncle is out of hearing range. About eight years ago, my brother and I discovered Second Uncle’s cave in back of the stream near our house. We saw him come out of it one day around noon. Later, just before the sun went down, we sneaked in. We only looked once. Inside, there must have been hundreds—maybe five hundred or more—grasshoppers in huge bamboo cages—and around them—stacks of grasshopper legs, grasshopper heads, grasshopper antennae, grasshoppers with one leg, still trying to
LONE: What else could you turn into?
MA: Well, you scared me—sneaking up like that.
LONE: Perhaps a rock. That would be useful. When the men need to rest, they can sit on you.
MA: I got carried away.
LONE: Let’s try . . . a locust. Can you become a locust?
MA: No. Let’s cut this, okay?
LONE: Here. It’s easy. You just have to know how to hop.
MA: You’re not gonna get me—
LONE: Like this. (He demonstrates)
MA: Forget it, Lone.
LONE: I’m a locust. (He begins jumping toward Ma)
MA: Hey! Get away!
LONE: I devour whole fields.
MA: Stop it.
LONE: I starve babies before they are born.
MA: Hey, look, stop it!
LONE: I cause famines and destroy villages.
MA: I’m warning you! Get away!
LONE: What are you going to do? You can’t kill a locust.
MA: You’re not a locust.
LONE: You kill one, and another sits on your hand.
MA: Stop following me.
LONE: Locusts always trouble people, if not, we’d feel useless. Now, if you become a locust, too . . .
MA: I’m not going to become a locust.
LONE: Just stick your teeth out!
MA: I’m not gonna be a bug! It’s stupid!
LONE: No man who’s just been a duck has the right to call anything stupid.
MA: I thought you were trying to teach me something.
LONE: I am. Go ahead.
MA: All right. There. That look right?
LONE: Your legs should be a little lower. Lower! There. That’s adequate. So how does it feel to be a locust? (He gets up)
MA: I dunno. How long do I have to do this?
LONE: Could you do it for three years?
MA: Three years? Don’t be—
LONE: You couldn’t, could you? Could you be a duck for that long?
MA: Look, I wasn’t born to be either of those.
LONE: Exactly. Well, I wasn’t born to work on a railroad, either. “Best of both worlds.” How can you be such an insect!
(Pause.)
MA: Lone . . .
LONE: Stay down there! Don’t move! I’ve never told anyone my story—the story of my parents’ kidnapping me from school. All the time we were crossing the ocean, the last two years here—I’ve kept my mouth shut. To you, I finally tell it. And all you can say is, “Best of both worlds.” You’re a bug to me, a locust. You think you understand the dedication one must have to be in the opera? You think it’s the same as working on a railroad.
MA: Lone, all I was saying is that you’ll go back too, and—
LONE: You’re no longer a student of mine.
MA: What?
LONE: You have no dedication.
MA: Lone, I’m sorry.
LONE: Get up.
MA: I’m honored that you told me that.
LONE: Get up.
MA: No.
LONE: No?
MA: I don’t want to. I want to talk.
LONE: Well, I’ve learned from the past. You’re stubborn. You don’t go. All right. Stay there. If you want to prove to me that you’re dedicated, be a locust ’til morning. I’ll go.
MA: Lone, I’m really honored that you told me.
LONE: I’ll return in the morning. (Exits)
MA: Lone? Lone, that’s ridiculous. You think I’m gonna stay like this? If you do, you’re crazy. Lone? Come back here.
Scene Four
Late that night. Ma, alone, still in locust position.
MA: Locusts travel in huge swarms, so large that when they cross the sky, they block out the sun, like a storm. Second Uncle—back home—when he was a young man, his whole crop got wiped out by locusts one year. In the famine that followed, Second Uncle lost his eldest son and his second wife—the one he married for love. Even to this day, we look around before saying the word “locust,” to make sure Second Uncle is out of hearing range. About eight years ago, my brother and I discovered Second Uncle’s cave in back of the stream near our house. We saw him come out of it one day around noon. Later, just before the sun went down, we sneaked in. We only looked once. Inside, there must have been hundreds—maybe five hundred or more—grasshoppers in huge bamboo cages—and around them—stacks of grasshopper legs, grasshopper heads, grasshopper antennae, grasshoppers with one leg, still trying to
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