“In The Empty Space, Peter Brook begins with a comment that seeing five actors just standing on the stage his eye was drawn to one and not to the other four. He then goes on to make the point that the one able to attract his eye has a gift, is gifted. Fine. Perhaps. But I was sitting in a particularly dull bar back in Toronto one night in 1988. The faces were bland, boring, lifeless. Mr. Brook’s other four actors, if you will. And then a strange Flemish lady came on the bar’s television and informed Canada that our national hero, Ben Johnson, had been disqualified from the Olympics and that his gold medal was being taken back because he was so cooked up he could hardly find his way back to the dorm after the race or some such. Well, the faces in the bar became electric as everyone of them fell into the pure primary state of being of I AM BETRAYED. In that primary all the faces in the bar would have attracted Mr. Brook’s eye. But even as I watched, fascinated by the change in the people, I saw the faces close down as they were unable to stay in the primary of I AM BETRAYED and fell off into the redneck secondary state of being of ”We let the fucker into our country and what does he do”-I AM ANGRY-or the liberal secondary state of being of “Well, you know it’s hard on a black man in this country and his dad’s not here”-I UNDERSTAND. Actors get paid to stay in primary states of being-to stay in I AM BETRAYED and not roll over into secondaries. We pay five bucks or ten bucks or 129 bucks or however many fucking kwai to sit in the dark and watch you stay in primaries. To fully experience for us that which our systems are unable to fully experience for ourselves. Civilians, nonactors, retreat from primaries to the relative safety of secondaries to be able to live their lives, but pay money, sometimes a lot of money, to watch actors stay in primaries and experience live, before their very eyes, that which they themselves are unable to experience. They come to the theatre to watch actors act. To watch them find and stay in primaries. They come to watch artists-actors.”
As if coming out of a reverie, Geoffrey looked up and smiled at Fong. Had he said these things out loud or were they only in Fong’s head? Fong didn’t know. He noticed that the actors, to a man, were hanging on every word. Then, to Fong’s amazement, he was sure that he heard Geoffrey’s voice deep in his head, as if the late night whisper of a lover dropped into a tilted ear. “Watched her, Fong. We watched her. From down there. You the cop and me the director. We watched her. But at least I appreciated, loved what she did. Loved her. And she loved me.” Fong lifted his head from his hands and stared at the stage. Geoffrey was standing to one side. His interpreter was translating Geoffrey’s answer to a question about balance between playing actions and maintaining states of being. Evidently a whole section of Geoffrey’s talk had passed by as Fong was dealing with the voices in his head. As his translator finished, Geoffrey moved toward her and with the ease of theatre people everywhere put an arm around her shoulders and kissed her. Then to the actors: “I get carried away. We’ll pick up tomorrow.” There were smiles and thanks and good-byes as Geoffrey shouted, “Ming tien jien, see you tomorrow,” as the actors left.
In his seat at the back of the theatre, Fong lit a Kent and tried to release his tension with the smoke that he blew into the musty air.
Geoffrey packed up his bag and stopped as he was about to turn off the stage lights. He called out, “So do you really know why you’re here, Fong?”
Slowly, almost against his will Fong answered, “Because Fu Tsong loved this play.”
“She certainly did,” said Geoffrey as he struck the lights and headed down the steps into the theatre. “She claimed that everyone in the world was in this play. That all you had to do was allow yourself to know yourself. And once you did you would recognize yourself as one of the characters of Twelfth Night.”
“And who was she?” Fong found himself asking.
“Olivia, naturally. She who is loved.”
“And you?”
“For me to know, and indeed I do know, but seldom admit even to myself, let alone to you, Fong.” That hovered in the air for a moment, then Geoffrey added, “You of course are easier to spot in the play. Obvious to all but you, no doubt. You may have to see a few more rehearsals to allow yourself to know, ‘what all else do know.’”
The silence between the two men deepened even as the connection grew. Geoffrey felt lumpish in comparison to this thin tight Chinese man. Fong for his part felt outside, outside a world that Geoffrey Hyland clearly knew very well. A world that his wife had loved as she loved her life and the child that had grown within her.
Without prompting Geoffrey said, “Fu Tsong was brilliant when it came to making most eloquent music. I’ve never seen anyone understand their ventages and stops like her. She was the most artful actor with whom I have ever worked.” He didn’t say more but a set of lines from Twelfth Night sprang full blown into his head:
For a moment the two men stood in silence in the ancient theatre. An entire world separating them. A woman uniting them forever.
The call came at 3:22 in the morning of the third day. Wang Jun had found the street sweeper. There was a car waiting downstairs.
DAY THREE
It was 3:46 A.M. as Fong dragged himself into the passenger seat of the car. Wang Jun sat behind the wheel. He had on sunglasses, white gloves, and the hint of a smile.
“It’s very early in the morning,” sighed Fong.
“It’s almost tomorrow in Hawaii,” replied Wang Jun. “I’ll take your word for it. That dateline stuff always made me nervous. No matter what time it is in Hawaii, it’s too dark to be wearing sunglasses, Wang Jun.”
Wang Jun obediently flipped up his sunglasses. His smile broadened.
“Where did you find her?” asked Fong.
Wang Jun set the car in gear and with a laugh said, “Back in the country.”
Fong groaned. He hated the country.
“By one of the water towns,” Wang Jun added, as the smile creased his face. Fong really hated the filthy water towns.
Pleased with himself, Wang Jun flipped down his sunglasses, sped up Yan’an and headed out of the city.
The drive could take as little as an hour and a half or as long as six depending on the traffic. At that hour, it took just over two. Along the way they saw some fishermen pulling in their early morning catch from ancient manmade lakes, the odd farmer harnessing his water buffalo for its daily labours, and a great many people trudging their sorry asses toward Shanghai with their lives on their backs. At 4:50 the sun began to rise, and Fong wished that he had brought his sunglasses too. Wang Jun noticed but decided not to comment.
They passed by Grand View Garden in Qingpu County. The massive re-creation was a sort of theme park based on a classic piece of Chinese erotica, The Dream of the Red Chamber. Despite protests from the prudish, the place proved to be a magnet to Chinese tourists from hundreds of miles around. They all came, knowing the sordid story of concubine intrigue and couplings. They gawked from one re-created pavilion bedroom to the next, ogling the finery in which these bored slatterns lived or were supposed to have lived. At the time Fong remembered wondering how, as the brochure puts it, the exhibits could be “faithful in even the finest detail.” Faithful to what? It was a book. An incomplete book to boot. Fu Tsong howled with laughter when they went the first time. “And here’s where she blew the serving boy, and here’s where both of the men disrobed for her and did each other to please her. It’s beautifully re-created don’t you think? I wonder if the chamber pots are full. Those novel characters do use chamber pots, don’t they?” A few years after their first visit Fu Tsong, because of her popular portrayal of a young concubine on Beijing radio had been asked to lead a tour of dignitaries to the park. She begged Fong to come on the tour and, after not too much cajoling, he agreed.