Les Fleurs du Mal:
'The Thinking Man's Dance Theatre'
Presents:

Laszlo Najmanyi:
THE EXILED JOYCE

Characters:
Giorgio Joyce, Nora Barnacle Joyce, James Joyce, Lucia Joyce
and
Leopold Bloom
with
The Chorus of Immortals:
 Alice B. Toklas, Gertrude Stein, Bela Lugosi, Knut Hamsun, Samuel Beckett and Louis Ferdinand Céline

(The doors open 10 minutes before the show. The arriving audience is videotaped by an on-stage camera. There are large cardboard boxes, piles of used clothing on the dark stage. The backdrop is a lace-curtain, with a door-like opening in the middle. Three gong sounds. The lights go out after the second gong. There is 8-10 seconds of silence after the third gong. Leopold Bloom appears at the end of the corridor, which leads to the back-door of the stage. A miners' lamp  is lit, fixed to Bloom's forehead. Bloom is in his pajamas, holding his open ledger. He is surrounded by the Chorus, also in pajamas. They have miners' lamps too, on their foreheads. They are quietly humming the aria of King Philip, from the 4th Act of Verdi's Don Carlos. They line up on Bloom's sides. The light of their lamps shines on Bloom. They slowly dance to the music, as if they are walking.)

Narrator: (Prerecorded voice)
James Joyce, one of the creators of modern world-literature left Ireland at the age of 22, never to return. His conscience couldn't accept the conditions in his homeland. He resented the ever-present politics in Irish life and he wouldn't bow to the power of the churches, which was used to further divide the Irish. He couldn't bear the arrogance of the British Imperial authorities either. He despised the spiritual and ethical decay of his fellow citizens. The writer wanted to stay independent, but an independent minded person couldn't possibly survive in the Ireland of his youth, he thought.

Joyce, with his family, spent the first 11 years of his self-imposed exile in Trieste and Pola, which were parts of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy then. He was ill, couldn't provide for his family, they lived in crushing poverty. They had to move 70 times, with they small children, during this 11 years, because they couldn't pay the rent on their apartments. Joyce had glaucoma, he often lost his sight for extended periods. His wife, Nora Barnacle had to take up jobs as a cleaning lady. The writer, whenever his sight improved a little, taught English in the Berlitz Institute, or worked as a bank-clerk.

In 1915, after the outbreak of the First World War, the Joyce family, who traveled with British passports, were expelled from Austria, as citizens of an enemy state. They wanted to go to Zurich, Switzerland, where friends of theirs offered shelter for them, for the length of the war. They did not have enough money for the train ride, from Trieste to Zurich. A Hungarian friend of Joyce, a certain Mr. Fliege advised him to travel first to the ancient city, Szombathely (also known as Savaria, since the Roman times), in Western Hungary - to look up a certain Leopold Bloom there, a textile trader, who was (according to Mr. Fliege) a great admirer and patron of contemporary art and literature. Mr. Bloom will surely lend enough money to the writer, so the family could continue their travel to Zurich, Mr. Fliege did assure them.

(The Chorus quietly starts to sing the words of the aria. They repeat a single verse, over and over.)

After a disastrous train-ride, the Joyce family arrived to Leopold Bloom's house, on the Main Square of Szombathely, in the early hours of June 16, 1915. The master of the house was working on his taxes, when the Joyce knocked on his door.

(Bloom starts to walk through the corridor, toward the stage. He is followed by the Chorus. Bloom is reading from his ledger.)

Bloom:
2448 used infantry foot clothes
2795 used infantry foot clothes
3216 used infantry foot clothes
8715 used infantry foot clothes
3228 used infantry foot clothes
5432 used infantry foot clothes
4763 used infantry foot clothes
1974 used infantry foot clothes
That makes 32 571 used infantry foot clothes, total

(The Chorus echoes Bloom.)

Chorus:
2448 used infantry foot clothes
2795 used infantry foot clothes
3216 used infantry foot clothes
8715 used infantry foot clothes
3228 used infantry foot clothes
5432 used infantry foot clothes
4763 used infantry foot clothes
1974 used infantry foot clothes
That makes 32 571 used infantry foot clothes, total

(As they get to the stage, the Chorus lines up behind the lace curtain. Bloom walks to the front of the stage and lifts his ledger above his head, as if an offering. A two-sided screen closes behind him, as if a gate. Bloom gives a signal, the Chorus becomes quiet. They cover their lamps with their hands. Video-projection starts on the screen: title animation, numbers and crosses animation and Bloom's thoughts, written in handwriting. Bloom stands in the video-light, continues to read from his ledger.)

Bloom:
6750  used infantry foot clothes
2373  used infantry foot clothes
6721  used infantry foot clothes
1899  used infantry foot clothes
4395  used infantry foot clothes
2211 used infantry foot clothes
1450 used infantry foot clothes
5173 used infantry foot clothes
That makes 30 972 used infantry foot clothes total

(The Chorus echoes Bloom again.)

(Video projection starts on the lace-curtain: numbers and crosses animation.)

 Bloom:
6750  used infantry foot clothes
2373  used infantry foot clothes
6721  used infantry foot clothes
1899  used infantry foot clothes
4395  used infantry foot clothes
2211 used infantry foot clothes
1450 used infantry foot clothes
5173 used infantry foot clothes
That makes 30 972 used infantry foot clothes total

(Distant barking of packs of dogs starts up, from recording. The barking is slowly getting stronger.)

(The barking is getting stronger. When they hear Joyce's voice, Bloom and the Chorus goes quiet.)

Joyce: (Yells at the dogs.)
You shut your bloody mouth up you bloody British bastards!

(The dogs stop barking. Hard knocks on the back door.)

Ich wünsche sprache mit Herr Leopold Bloom, bitte!

 
1.
First Scene

Bloom: (Freezes in a frightened position.)

The tax man.

(A flashlight goes off in the hand of TS Elliot, burning Bloom's silhouette onto the phosphorescent paint covered screen behind him. Bloom walks away from the screen, leaving his silhouette behind, on the screen. He escapes to the right front of the stage. Hard knocking on the back door again.)

I shouldn't have listened to Molly. I should have paid the sales tax. The dream is over. They caught me, they came to take me away, they are going to confiscate everything I have. I'll not be able to bring Europe to Szombathely, after this. Savaria will never have her own music theatre built. Amen. Let it be so.

(Another banging on the back door.)

Joyce:
Ich wünsche sprache mit Herr Leopold Bloom, bitte!

Bloom: (Switches off his lamp, start to change to street-clothes.)
There will be no theatre, democracy, free market economy here. There will be no independent press, literature, meaningful art in Szombathely. The brain-drain continues. They are going to keep on killing souls. The hungry ghost of Mongolia will wed the frivolous specter of Byzant, on the ruins of this town of sorrow. The Temple of Isis will never be rebuilt. The revenge of Osiris will be cruel and mean, I know. I should have paid the sales tax. I trusted Molly's advice, but then she left me for good. Everything is falling apart. My great plan has failed miserably. Leopold Bloom will never be the Mayor of Szombathely, I assume.

(Another, very loud banging on the back door.)

Ja, ja, I'm coming, I'm coming!

(Bloom does not move.)

Nur ein moment bitte! Meshuga. Ja, ja, what is this, is there a war going on, or what? Such bad manners! Who dares to disturb the nightly rest of a peaceful taxpayer and his family?

Joyce:
Mein name ist James Joyce. Ich bin ein Schriftsteller von Ireland. Ich wünsche sprache mit Herr Leopold Bloom, bitte.

Bloom: (Relieved.)
You're not the tax man? It's not about the sales  tax?

(Bloom turns on his lamp, falls on his knees and gratefully holds up the ledger.)

It's really James Joyce? The writer? The human being? The spirit of Ireland? The giant of human spirit? The living conscience of Europe? Personally? The circle has turned full, indeed. My great work was not wasted, after all. Thank you, Molly, wherever your may be...

(Bloom stands up, claps his hands twice. The video screen, with Bloom's silhouette on it opens to the two sides. The Joyce family is standing at the back door, at the end of the corridor. Joyce is leaning on his wife and cane. There are 7-8 handbags on Nora's arm. Luca is standing motionless, hugging her plush-dog. Giorgio is having cramps, withdrawal syndromes.)

Please, come on in, Herr Joyce! We can talk in English too, if that would be easier for you.

Joyce: (Angrily.)
I speak fifteen languages, sir, among them the Hebrew and Sanskrit languages. Linguistically I certainly don't need your compassion, Mr. Bloom. You don't have to give me linguistic assistance at all. Verstehen?

Bloom:
I apologize, Herr Joyce. I did not mean to insult you. I am familiar with and greatly admire your works. I have read the Dubliners. I feel as if your Self-portrait as a Young Artist was written about me.

Joyce:
You are  blatantly claiming that you read my books. It does not impress me at all. Your claim is either true or it isn't. Most likely it isn't. I think you did not read a single book of mine, am I right? Even if you started to read some of them, I'm sure as hell that you stopped reading it after the third page, - but even that I doubt. As opposed to other contemporary authors, I don't write my books so anybody can read them, Mr. Bloom.

Bloom:
Your books did change my life, Herr Joyce. What a great honor to have you in my house. Mein lieber Joyce, you are an immortal.

Joyce:
There is no book, which could change your life, sir. A book can change the life of its author, maybe, but even that: what's for? And what could you possibly know about immortality, down here, in Szombathely? You don't have mountains. You don't have palm trees. You don't even have an Ocean. Dark corners, mud and dust. Dogs on British payroll. You shouldn't bother me with all this crap.

Nora:
James! Please!

Joyce:
Well, it doesn't matter, really. I did not come here to argue. Let's get over with it. Sie ist mein Frau, Nora. Er ist mein Sohn, Giorgio. Und Sie ist mein Tochter, Lucia. We are in a hurry, we don't want to waste your precious time, Mr. Bloom. We need your help urgently. Let me just tell you why we came to visit here, and off we go.

Bloom:
Please, come on in, Herr Joyce. You should feel yourselves right at home in my house. I would be pleased to aid you in any way I can.

(The Joyce family starts to walk toward the stage, through the corridor. They move slowly, painfully.)

Joyce:
Well, yes. Our time is as precious as yours is, sir. Yes? Therefore we just come in for a few minutes. We don't want to sit down. We don't want tea or coffee. Let me just tell you the purpose of our visit, then we say good-bye and continue our travel to Zurich. Thank you very much. I had enough of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. They mistook me for an Englishman here! They accused my son, Giorgio with pick pocketing. My daughter, Lucia was assaulted on the train by the conductor. My wife, Nora caught a cold, again. The soot has gotten into my eyes and activated my glaucoma. Following the instructions of our fellow passengers we got off the train at Körmend. The passengers told us, that Körmend is the name of Szombathely's railway station. They repeated it in four languages, Hungarian, German, Hebrew, Serbo-Croatian: "Get off the train at Körmend, because Körmend is the name of Szombathely's railway station. One of them even repeated the same thing in Latin. And the conductor was nodding his head: "Ach ja, Körmend, ja, ja Szombathely, ja, gut", he said.

We've got off the train at Körmend. Started to get dark. Started to rain. Our luggage was stollen, while we were looking for information. On our last money we had to hire a coach to get us to Szombathely. The driver was disgustingly drunk. He kept on losing his way on the dirt roads. He took us back to Körmend railway station several times, in the course of the night. My wife was having problems with her bladder. My son was having a nervous breakdown and he attacked us, when the lightning and thunder started. We were zig-zagging on back-breaking dirt roads, in the pouring rain. Nora was moaning, Giorgio was screaming, the driver kept on cursing and he fell off the coach twice. My daughter, Lucia retreated into a catatonic state. She was sitting motionless, hugging her toy dog, staring into the void. Sometimes she sung sad Irish ballads in the rain.

(The Joyce family gets to the stage. The phosphorescent screen closes behind them. They line up at the front of the screen, as if for the taking of a family picture. Flashlight goes off, burning the family's silhouette onto the screen.)

Second Scene

(The phosphorescent screen, with the Joyces' silhouette on it's wing opens to the sides. The Joyce family - except Lucia - steps back, behind the lace curtain. Lucia sings an upwardly arching melody and holds the last note for a long time. The Chorus repeats the last note twice, like a distant foghorn. The Chorus starts to sing 'Going To Sea No More', an Irish sailors' song. Lucia starts to dance a slow, dreamy, ballet-like dance, hugging her plush dog. Video projection starts - dream-variations. Lucia dances in the video-light. The screen closes behind her.)

Lucia:
I am dead. Cold inside. Cold and distant. Fog-like. Calm. Joyless. There is no fire, no will in me. No grace. I don't feel anything. I don't haveany desires. I don't have any opinions. I don't need company.

When my mother, Nora Barnacle Joyce deliberately and cruelly murdered my dog, Biki, I also died with him. By using my dad's method of  metempsychosis, I transplanted my soul into Biki just a few days before the murder. I transplanted my dreams,  laughter, the life energy from my heart into Biki dog and they all died with him. I died within Biki's body, when he was hit by a car on the street, in Trieste. My mother shouldn't have left that door open, shouldn't let Biki leave the house alone, even if she just burned something, as she was cooking one of her evil smelling meals. If that door was closed then, Biki would be still alive, and me too.

My mother wanted to kill my dog badly, because she knew that my soul is in Biki. Now she must die. Now she must die. A thousand deaths she must die. Nora, you've already far outlived your life. Nora must die.

If Biki was not hit by that car, I'd be still alive. I'd take dance classes, eat chocolate, get flowers, like everybody else. Now I'm just executing orders, like a robot. Because Biki's death must be avenged. I joined my family on this voyage only to kill my mother in an unguarded moment. I will kill my dad even, in order to get to her. I'd do it either with the help of my brother, or I'd kill her alone, if I must. I must finish her off, before she'd transplant her soul into somebody or something, so she could survive. This city seems to be the right place to kill a mom.

I want her black soul to roam these desperate alleys through eternity. I am surely dead, but not a grateful one. My soul is still meandering on that street in Trieste. The soul of Biki dog is with her, of course. And they will be still walking there, even when there will be no street, no houses standing where that cruel city, Trieste stood once. When there would be only a lifeless desert, covering the city's ruins, burning under the sweltering Sun, on the shores of the dried out sea. There is only a judgment alive in me.

(She pulls a long hat-pin out of her plush dog)

This is a poison-tipped pin, to kill my mother with.

Joyce:
Lucia darling, it's enough. We'll talk about it in Zurich, OK? Dad knows the solution. Everything's gonna be all right. Everything's gonna be OK. You'll get another dog. Don't be afraid of mom. She knows everything and she wouldn't mind if you'd sleep with me from now on. Just put that pin back into her hat. Now, please let me discuss a few things with Mr. Bloom. After that we'll leave for Zurich. There are many dogs, like Biki was, in Switzerland. They are all nice and big. I did like Biki too, just like you did, little one, even though he ate my manuscripts, always barked when I wanted to sleep and, well, he bit me sometimes. He's bitten other people too. Remember, he bit the Fettucini twins, Giselle and Alfredo too. They had to be taken to the hospital. Your mom liked Biki also, you can't possibly claim she didn't. Remember how hard she was crying as Biki was agonizing, bloodied on the cobblestones.

We had no idea that you are experimenting with metempsychosis. I shouldn't have left that damned manuscript open on my desk. Lucia you misunderstood everything I wrote or told you about the transmigration of the soul. Lucia, it is impossible to transplant our soul into an other being, or into an object. There is no such thing as metempsychosis. Only my blindness suggested such theories to me and I just toyed with the idea, it's only speculation, my dear. Our soul stays with us as long as my body stays alive. It lives in our heart, keeps our body going, until it makes any sense, then it just switches the body off. Everything you read in my manuscript is only theory, fiction, product of imagination. Your soul is still inside you, deep  inside  your heart, where it's always been.

Remember, mom helped you bury Biki at night, in the park, under the cypress trees. It's true that we couldn't afford a proper tombstone to Biki, but the book I am writing is going to be very popular, you will see! I'll get enough money for it, so we could build a nice memorial to Biki, in Zurich. And we'll buy you another dog, I promise. Can I continue my conversation with Mr. Bloom now?

Well, Mr. Bloom, a certain baron, Putzi Fliege - whom I tried, but absolutely failed to teach English in Trieste, - well, this baron Fliege advised me to visit you in Szombathely, if I am need assistance. He spoke rather highly of you, telling me that you are a great admirer and generous patron of contemporary literature. I hope he was telling the truth. Well, I surely need some help right now, because politics put me into a hopeless situation once again.

(Nora crosses her legs.)

We are traveling with British passports and the Austrian police mistook us for the enemy. Because of their senseless, little war, they expelled us from the Monarchy. We had to leave Trieste on a short notice, but we did not have enough money for the train-tickets to Zurich, where we could find shelter until the end of the war. I would appreciate your generosity and would immortalize you in my book if you would be kind enough to help us out with, let's say...

Nora: (Interrupts.)
I'm sorry, Mr. Bloom! May I use your bathroom?

 
4.
Fourth Scene

Joyce:
Nora! Please! Not again...

Nora:
Sorry, James. I apologize, Mr. Bloom. Probably I've got a cold on the train, or on the coach, in the rain. I just can't hold my bladder any longer. It's one of my chronic problems. It always occurs, when I get nervous. Whenever I run out of words, or use up all my arguments. When I can't think straight any longer, when I have only feelings left inside.

I'll tell you more about my state of health later. When and more importantly how I noticed the first group of syndromes. Because my condition did not start with extensive sweating and groin-pains, as this disease usually starts with, but it started with migraine-like headaches, ringing in the ears and dizzy spells. The groin-pains started much later.

Joyce:
Please, Nora!

Bloom:
But this is entirely natural, Frau Joyce. I am having extensive urinal problems myself, also. So does my daughter, Milly and my wife, Molly too.

(Claps his hands twice.)

Gertrude! Alice! Schnelle! Please show the bathroom to Frau Joyce. If Sam is there, get him out.

(Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas lead Nora to the bathroom.)

Nora: (On her way out.)
James, please, control yourself. Kids, keep an eye on dad. James, you are blind, realize it. Don't try to go anywhere alone. And don't say anything, but what we agreed upon, to Mr. Bloom. I'll be back soon, Mr. Bloom and we can continue our conversation. Everything is centered on the bladder, in my opinion. And it is not right to judge somebody, just because the person can't or won't hold her bladder.

Joyce:
Nora, please, don't torture me!

Bloom:
Relax,  Herr Joyce. Women's mind work differently than our mind does. They have selective memory and they love to contradict themselves. This is exactly why we find them so magical. Things that drive us raving mad appear entirely normal to them. And whatever we find natural, looks strange to them. And they are perfectly right. Males are hopeless in solving practical problems. If anything refuses to obey us, we'd just destroy or kill it. While women cook, do the laundry, care for us and the children, we make wars.

Where were we? Well, yes. You came to Szombathely on the recommendation of our Putzi. Such a nice lad, Putzi Fliege. A real bohemian - he was a counselor at City Hall. He's spent the entire Orphans' Fund on whores and booze in Moldavia. He is a real artist in siphoning off public moneys. Nobody could deal better with the sales tax than he could. Now I see why was the Mayor right when he let Putzi flee. I must thank him for sending you here. Putzi is a great artist of living well, a real connoisseur of life. He understands the voice of times. He is an unconditional admirer of you and your family.

Joyce:
I can't care less about all this. You and your Putzi should deal with this nonsense. I have nothing to do with contemporary art. I don't give a damn about contemporary artists. I have nothing in common with this age and I don't have soul mates. The main thing is that they've expelled us from Trieste and we've got to get to Zurich. I would appreciate your generosity and immortalize you in my book in progress, if you'd be kind enough to lend us...

(Nora screams in the bathroom. She staggers in horrified. There is a large, wet spot on her skirt. Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas are following her.)

Nora:
There is somebody or something in the bathroom! There is somebody or something in the bathroom!

Bloom:
Oh, that's just Sam. It isn't easy to share a house with immortals, Herr Joyce. Please forgive me for a moment. I'll be back in an instant.

(Bloom hurries to the bathroom. Joyce leans against the wall. Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas crawl into their box and turn off their lamps. Giorgio starts to search the room, looking for drugs. He looks inside the boxes, under the rags. Nora is paces up and down nervously. Bloom's voice is coming from the bathroom.)

Samuel! What are you doing here? You are doing it again? Shame on you, Samuel! Put on your clothes immediately! The trousers too! How many times should I warn you about this? Hinaus!

(Samuel Beckett  sidles in guiltily, trying to pull up his trousers. Bloom is at his heels, lecturing him. Beckett crawls into his box and closes the lid on it. Bloom stands by the box, continues to lecture Beckett.)

It is not enough to feel sorry for our sins, it is not enough to apologize for them, Samuel. That would be only cowardice on your side. We must have to compensate the victims of our improper behavior also. You can't complain, you'll have quite enough to think about. The bathroom is not yours, it is not ours, but it is mine, it is the bathroom of the Bloom family. You are an honored guest in my house, sir, but not more than a guest, take notice of it. If you want to use the bathroom in this house, you must ask permission from either me, or from Molly or Milly. And you can't die in this house either. Not even in the bathroom. Because you are an immortal. Whether you like it or not, you must always remember this.

(Knocks on the box.)

If you understood what I was saying Sam, give me a sign.

(Beckett knocks on the box from inside.)

Thank you, Sam. You just lost two days worth of provisions. You stay in your box for now. You shouldn't agonize, you shouldn't despair, you shouldn't try to flirt with the ladies. You write. And think.

(To Nora.)

I apologize, Frau Joyce! He's only Beckett, he came from Ireland too. He saw only destruction, wherever he went, he says. Nothing, but theatre is alive, and even theatre makes no sense anymore. Because there is no community to speak of. There is no cause, no message. Beckett wants to finish off theatre, once and forever. He wants to be the last playwright. He is writing the last theatre play, he thinks.

Nora:
His face is so gray. And stern too.

Joyce:
Don't create another scandal, Nora darling, please. Before you enter a bathroom - any bathroom, - you must knock on the door and if they say "Enter", you may enter. But, if the bathroom is occupied, if somebody is currently using it, you apologize, you close the door and wait, until the bathroom becomes free. Is it too much for you to keep in mind?

Nora:
I knocked on the bathroom door. There was no answer. I opened the door and saw an elderly, naked man sitting on the floor. His face was gray. He looked at me. "The game is over", he said sternly. And he closed his eyes.

Joyce:
Whenever you enter a bathroom and you see that it is currently occupied, you don't scream, but apologize, walk out, close the door again and wait patiently. What did you, Nora do instead? Yes? I want to hear it!

Nora:
I screamed.

Joyce: (Sharply)
And?!

Nora:
Yes.

Joyce:
You'd just let your bladder go. Again. I've had enough of this circus, Nora. Wherever we go, you...

Nora: (Sharply.)
I've had enough of you, too!

Bloom: (Knocks on the side of Beckett's box)
Samuel would like to die in the bathroom. In my bathroom. So he spends most of his free time there. He's got no family, no wife, no kids kids. Sometimes he locks the bathroom door and we must use a hook on a stick, to get him out. We'd like him to stay in his box, after work. Other people would like to use the bathroom too, Sam.

 
5.
Fifth Scene

(Bloom spots Giorgio, who is covering behind one of the boxes. He walks near and points the light of his lamp on the boy.)

Bloom:
Well, as I see the young Giorgio is already feeling right at home with us. Such a lovely child.

(Giorgio moans and grabs for Bloom, then he takes up an embryonic position on the floor.)

Joyce:
My son is not nice at all, and he is not a child since a long time, Mr. Bloom. You better don't get too near to him. If you touch him, or if you unintentionally insult him with a gesture or an accent, he'll attack you.

Bloom:
Well, the children of immortals are special people, Herr Joyce. Their behavior may look strange sometimes, but we must accept and adore them as they are. Life would be empty without them.

Joyce:
Giorgio is stealing my eye drops, Mr. Bloom. Giorgio is sneaky and mean. I use opium tincture to cure my glaucoma. And Giorgio likes opium, very much. Don't you, Giorgio?

Nora:
James! Please leave that child alone.

Joyce:
What 'child'?
I don't see any child here, but a dirty, old man, dressed in children's clothes.
This being here, this son of ours already knows and lived more than you, my dear, ever will.
This is not a child, but a space monster.
He's not going to have a career.
He's not going to have family, children.
All he does is craving for the next hit.
The opium is not a toy, Nora.
I know that it's not.

Nora:
If so, then why do you let him steal your opium?

Joyce:
Let's just not change subject now, Nora.

Giorgio:
I'm a worm.
I wriggle and crawl in the dark.
I'm a worm child.
I am small, weak, ugly, and I stink.
I crawl in sewage pipes, swarming with wriggling, slimy worms, like me.
I feel as their slimy skin is touching my own slimy skin.
Give me opium or I am going to suffocate!

Joyce:
Well, that was very nice, Giorgio.
Almost brilliant.
Try it again, maybe you can say it even more accurately.

Nora:
James, please don't torture that child.
Do you have any feelings left in you?
Don't you see that he is suffering?

Joyce:
Please don't tell me how should I raise my child.
Giorgio is my son.
Yet, he cannot suffer intelligently still.
Probably because he hasn't suffered enough as yet.
He is still not up to the standards of his dad.
There is still something pathetic in him.
He is still fallable, perishable, frail.
Is that so, Giorgio?
You still can't enjoy pain, can you?

(Giorgio crawls to the center of the stage, stands up painfully, as the phosphorescent screen closes behind him. Video projection starts on the screen: an opium dream.)

Giorgio:
I am a picture in a picture, which is dwelling in another picture and this other picture is hanging upside down, on the wall of a painted room, in a painting.
Crucified upside down on the world's cross I am falling into the bottomless pit.
I am getting cold and hot spells.
I have stomach cramps, I vomit bile and blood, I have diarrhea and it's like my swelling brains explode my skull.
I would rob, betray anybody on earth, I would cut anybody's throat in the dark, for money, for opium.

I hate you, dad.
I hate your glaucoma and your books and when you pass out next time, I'll get you.
I will use either your pillow, or your hat to dump you and get your drops.
Then I'll leave.

I'll just get on a boat and sail to the South Seas.
And I will dream about your death, as I will be resting under the palms.
And I'll be a picture in a picture, which rests in another picture and this picture is hanging on the Southern sky, on the Southern Cross.
Which stars you dad have never seen.
Now you just go ahead and tell me that my shoulders are not broad enough and my rhymes are limping.
Humiliate me, until you drop.
I want your opium, dad!

Joyce:
Brilliant.
Yes, sir, now that was my only son.
Bravo, Giorgio.
See, you can sing now, like an angel.
Come, get your drops.

(Walks to his son and signals to Nora. Nora is searching her handbags until she finds the eye drops and the dropper. She gives them to her husband. Giorgio bends his body backwards and opens his mouth. Joyce gives him 3 drops of opium tincture. The video-projection fades out. Flashlight goes off, burning the silhouettes of Giorgio and his father onto the phosphorescent screen. Giorgio slowly straightens up, his body relaxes. Lit by Bloom's lamp he staggers a few steps backward and falls on a heap of rags face down. His mother and father come to his aid. They turn him on his back.)

Giorgio: (On a calm, relaxed voice.)
Giorgio does not want to go anywhere from here.
He wants to stay forever in this room, where time stands still.
He wants to live here, in the dark, like a cave animal.
Now I start to levitate.
It's nice here, in Szombathely.
I feel nice now, again.
Exhale...

(He sighs, his head turns sideways, he passes out.)

Joyce:
Either you or your house did put a spell on my son, Mr. Bloom
Anyway, I'll take him to the railway station on my back.
Let us now return to the loan-question, with your permission.
We are in a hurry.
Nora's state of health makes me worry.
Lucia refuses to eat, since we left Trieste.
Giorgio is going to be terrible, when he comes to.

They stole the manuscript of my grand book at the Körmend railway station.
Now I must start from scratch again.
I am ill, I am almost blind.
We must get to Zurich where our friends are waiting for us.
I need 500 coronas right away.
According to Baron Fliege you should be able to afford to lend me such amount.

Bloom:
It might be a bit of an overstatement, on the side of our dear Putzi, Herr Joyce.
Let's talk about money later.
After breakfast, maybe.
The girls will give a change of clothes to Giorgio, unfortunately he did throw up on his suit.
Gertrude!
Alice!
Schnelle!

(Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas help Giorgio stand up and walk him out.)

6.
Sixth Scene

 
Nora:
You always torment the poor thing.

Joyce:
Giorgio is my son.

Nora:
He is mine too.

Joyce:

Are you sure about that?

Nora:
What?!

Joyce:
You have less in common with Giorgio, than this fellow, Bloom has

(He points to Bloom.)

with Szombathely.
You haven't read a decent book in your entire life.

Nora:
Why, you never wrote a book, which anybody would buy.

Joyce:
Remember, you peed in at the reception for the Ambassador of Peru, in Pola.

Nora:
Well, I'm going to pee, right in again, if you won't stop harassing me.

Joyce:
I am not harassing you, but rather you are harassing me, Nora.

Nora:
James, if you don't shut up I wet my skirt, I swear.

Joyce:
You are not going to pass urine in public again, Nora.
You know perfectly well the reason of our visit here and if you decide to stop controlling yourself we'll never get to Zurich and they are not going to publish my Ulysses and there will be no witness left to tell what was our age in reality.
You are too small for me, your limitations, your petty fears.
You tend to forget that you came from a family, which used the written words only to wrap buns in it.
Bakers.
You are at your place only if you are cooking, or cleaning the house, or...

(Joyce stops for a moment, rememberin all the great sex with Nora.)

You want Giorgio to become a baker, like your father was, Nora.
Giorgio should die rather, if he is not a genius, that's what I say.
And let me remind you again, that it was you, who wanted me, not I was, who wanted you in that room in the attic, when you managed to seduce me with your lips, Nora.

(Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas tip toe back to the stage, crawl into their box and switch of their lamps.)

These two here are sharing the same bloody box, aren't they?.
Who are these unfortunates?
Why are they all in pajamas?
Why are they sporting those miners' lamps?

Nora:
I don't care about pajamas and miners' lamps.
I don't care about boxes.
You see, James, you just crossed that particular, invisible line which we drew together, on our first night, June 16, 1904.
You are solely responsible for what's about to happen now.

Joyce:
Nora, no!

(Nora places a wash-basin on the floor, in between two chairs, at the front of the screen. Black-light turns on. Nora stands on the two chairs, above the wash-basin. Video projection starts up, throwing light onto Nora. She passes phosphorescent liquid from under her skirt, into the basin. The sound of the pouring liquid hitting the basin is being amplified. Flashlight goes off, burning Nora's silhouette onto the phosphorescent screen. The video-projection stops. Joyce collapses by the wall. Nora gets off the chairs and sits on one of them. Bloom walks up to her and - as a calming gesture, - puts his hand on her shoulder.)

Bloom:
Mein lieber Frau Joyce. Je apologisé, pour favour.
It is not unusual in this house to lose one's control over one's bladder.
Molly and Milly often pee in also, whenever they run out of arguments.
The scent of urine does not disgust me at all.
Just the opposite, I rather like it, I sometime even wet my pants deliberately.
Alice, Gertrude!
Schnelle!

(Nora  stands up. Bloom gently hugs her. Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas switch on their lamps, crawl out of their box, dry the floor with some rags, put the chairs and the wash basin back to their places, behind the lace curtain.)

No problem, Madame.
The girls are going to give you something dry to wear until they will wash, dry and iron your clothes.
Frankly, Frau Joyce, those colors do not go well with your complexion and personality.
Molly's clothes would fit you perfectly.
Anyway, we'll figure out something.
Alice, Gertrude, take care of Frau Joyce, please.
Schnelle!

(Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas leave the stage with Nora.)

7.
Seventh Scene

I managed to get Pablo Casals play a concert in Szombathely once.
After the sensational concert my neighbors stopped returning my greetings and they still smear chicken blood on my door.
A few weeks later they disconnected the power lines and turned off the gas to my house.
The city won't take my garbage away either.
Having no electricity the house is lit by pure spiritual energy.
If I clap twice, the spirit hears me and brights up the rooms.

(Bloom claps his hands twice. Gold light shine behind the lace curtain. Blooms claps twice again, the lights fade out.)

Casals was a follower of the Osiris cult, some say.
Others think he was spying for the Isis camp.
None of these two systems of beliefs mean anything to me, to tell you the truth.
And that's exactly the reason why my house is under siege by both flocks of fanatics.
They despise my origins.
They disdain my trade.
They exclude me, because I'm independent.
And because I offer them musical theatre, instead of fighting, now they want to kill me.

Ever since they shut down the utilities in the house, I stopped paying the sales tax.
And because they do not sweep my chimney either, I hide most of my income.

Joyce:
It sounds as if you'd talk about the Dublin of my youth,
Where only a madman or a criminal would dare to think differently.
It's all about who gets the taxpayers' money.
They accused me of cheating on my taxes too, even though I've never paid any taxes in my life.
And I will not pay a penny to any church or state in the future either.
I stopped smoking, just so they won't get rich on the tobacco tax.
No sir.
Well, let us now return to the question of the loan, if you may.

Bloom:
Let's talk about money later, Herr Joyce.
We have plenty of more important subjects to discuss.
For instance: how can it happen that Molly overcooks the kidney, so it loses that splendid urine flavor, which could give such pleasant, tingling sensations to the taste buds on the roof of one's mouth?
Why one can't buy fresh, decent quality calf's liver in this town?
I tell you, why.
Because a totalitarian liver culture sets the rules in Szombathely.
But pardon me - I don't like liver, I like kidney instead, the freshly cut kidney of a young calf, still bloody, medium rare.
They just can't gasp the idea of kidney pie in Szombathely.
No sir, they won't give up their liver for my kidney.

Joyce:
Sir, we are in a hurry.
We must get to Zurich before it's too late.
You can see the miserable state I am in
And you can see the miserable state of my family just as well.
Please let's discuss about the loan rather, I can maybe return to Szombathely after the war,  to discuss your situation in  this particular city.

(Nora and Giorgio, dressed in pajamas, return to the stage with Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. Giorgio is helped to lay down beside his sister, on a heap of rags. Alice and Gertrude return into their box. Nora walks up to Bloom and Joyce and connects to the conversation.)

Nora:
I don't think you should be too pushy with Mr. Bloom, James.
I am having a very nice time in this house.
The kids too, I think.
The bathroom is clean and it's not too far from here.
Your uniforms are really comfortable, Mr. Bloom.
I love uniforms, you know.
Have you ever been a soldier, Mr. Bloom?

Bloom: (The question makes him nervous.)
Well, I...

Nora: (Flirting.)
While my cloths are drying, I would love to take a rest...
Somewhere here...
May I?

Bloom: (Hypnotized by Nora.)
Anywhere, Madame, anywhere...

(Nora tries to make Bloom follow her to behind the lace curtain, but  she fails. Bloom won't move, just follows her with his eyes. Disappointed, she lays down with her children on the heap of rugs and hugs them. She kisses Lucia's forehead and puts Giorgio's thumb into his (or her own) mouth. She follows the conversation of Bloom and Joyce with her eyes closed.)

Liver cultures lead short, hard, self-destructive lives, my dear sir.
For the past two thousand years only liver-cultures ran Szombathely, never giving up their positions peacefully.
It is only for the past few decades that the cult of the kidney gained some popularity in this town, since a few of us moved here from Prague, where - with centuries of persistence and hard labor - we managed to practically annihilate the liver business.

Joyce:
Sir, let's just stop right here and now.
Let's forget about kidney and liver, Isis, Osiris, Savaria, music theatre.
I don't feel well.
My glaucoma is bothering me a great deal.
My head is about to explode.
Understand me: we Joyces do not eat neither liver, nor kidney.
We've been eating only potato, for the past 11 years now, Herr Bloom.
We do this to express our solidarity with Ireland.
I don't want you to put a kidney or a liver into my children's or my wife's mind.
Verstehen?
Well, once again, let's get back to the question of the loan now.
This is not a request, Mr. Bloom, I demand some seriousity.

Nora: (Her eyes are closed.)
You shan't demand anything from Mr. Bloom, James.
You better thank him for his hospitality instead, then you should have a rest too.
Before your glaucoma really starts to act up.
Do you remember the nightmarish train ride from Trieste to Körmend?
Do you remember the smoke, the soot, the flooded washrooms, the stench of the passengers?
You called them 'enemy race" then.
Do you remember riding on that coach, with the drunken driver, in the pouring rainstorm?

And now you want to do that hellish experience backward too?
It's not the life you've promised me, James.
I highly recommend that you accept Mr. Bloom's proposal, whatever it may be.
It's still going to mean more than whatever your books are supposedly about, or what you'll ever earn by them, in terms of food in the kitchen.

Joyce: (Hissing.)
You just don't say a word, Nora.
You should not try to give me any advises right now.
It is up to me, alone, to make this  decision.

Nora: (Raises her voice.)
You know what's coming next if you don't let me talk!

Joyce:
You shouldn't attempt to blackmail me, Nora.
Don't you see that I am in the midst of an important negotiation?
It's, about money, Nora.
A lot of money.
It would be enough to get us to Zurich.
To get my glaucoma operated on.
To put the kids into some nice sanitarium.
This much money means nothing to this guy.
He's a culture-snob.
He gives money only if he finds us sympathetic.

Nora: (Sighs.)
Oh, James...

8.
Eighth Scene

Bloom:
I don't want to talk about money yet, Herr Joyce, this is a cosmic moment.
I've been waiting for this moment in all my life, the last, the twelfth hour.
If you accept my proposal, you'd fulfill the prophecies of time.
A Curatorium can be officially formed and with twelve active members we can register our Civil Circle.
Based on pan-European traditions and world citizen values, this neopacifist, post-Babylonian Civil Circle is to support my candidacy for the mayoral seat of Szombathely, in the forthcoming elections.
My campaign speeches will be written by the best minds of the past century, by the immortals I host in my house.
By promising to lower the price of pork liver and to abolish the sales tax I will win the elections.
As soon as they hand me over the keys to the city I will build a permanent Musical Theatre on the ruins of the Cultural and Youth Center.
I'll transform my Civil Circle into a theatre company and we'll start the rehearsals right away.
The Leopold Bloom Musical Theatre will be financed by the income from the textile factories, which I'll build in the suburbs, to turn out millions upon millions of pairs of brand new infantry foot cloths monthly.

I want to bring Europe to Szombathely.
I especially want to bring here Ireland, the Irish, the Irish beer, liqueurs, culture, informatics.
Because I see only the Irish model suitable to pacify this divided outpost.
Just like in Ireland, we also had Celts, dwelling here, for centuries.
God, did they stink?
We also had a great number of our scientists, artists, writers chased away by churches and politics.
I want this town swarm, like ants with the Irish.
Millions of eccentric, cultured, green-conscious Irish informatics specialists should flood Savaria, to teach my people programming and to reprogram them, to fit the European standards for civil decency.
And the Irish will come, as soon as they smell the bear and the fresh kidney, you bet!

Nora:
It's you, who is forcing us to eat nothing, but potato, James.
It's not that we'd volunteer to eat nothing, but potato, for 11 years.
The kids would rather eat pancakes, with blueberry jam.
And I'd prefer kidney, fried on a bed of bacon and onions, on a bun, and I'd gladly wash it down with a pint or two of green beer, if I could be a citizen of Mr. Bloom's New Dublin.
You can write anything you want, James.
Words will never replace the pleasant sleepiness after a real dinner.

(Nora yawns.)

Ah...

Bloom:
I want to paint this city green.
Green as the color of Dublin, as I see it in my mind, after meditating on one of your Books, Herr Joyce.
I want to see the Irish on the streets, in green clothes, green hats, even their shoes are green.
I want to plant leafy trees and bushes all over town and on the barren hills around it.
I want to populate Savaria with dwarfs. elves, fairies, eccentrics and all kinds of bohemians.
We'll have sea ports too, because I am going to take over the Mediterrain, Dalmatia, Istria, the Italian seaside up to Venezia, maybe even further...
I'll change the weather also, so we'd have as much rain in Szombathely, as you enjoy in Dublin.
Statues of Immortals will talk on the Agora.
The foot cloth will hum in the suburbs.
I'll ban liver and abolish the sales tax.
I'll introduce a caste system, based on spiritual values.
I'll groom a new aristocracy from the best of the poor.
I'll have  an tricate network of tunnels drilled beneath the city and re-establish the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy.
I'll offer Savaria's throne to the last of the Habsburgs, or to one of his clones.
Then I'll resign from my mayoral seat and give all my time to my theatre-directorial chores.

In order to fulfill my plan I need only your 'yes' to my proposal, Herr Joyce.
Knowing your works, I'm sure you'll accept my terms.

Joyce:
Such a lunatic conspiracy...
To ban liver...
Permanent musical theatre in Szombathely...
My eyes, my brains are going to explode...
I don't need grand, world saving plans, sir.
All I need is cash and I need it now, I repeat.

Nora:
You shouldn't repeat anything to Mr. Bloom, James.
Mr. Bloom does not need repetitions.
You keep on repeating the same things to me too.
You keep on telling me that I should find joy in the details.
But I can't see any details when they are banging on the door for nonpayment of rent, James.
I can't see any details when we don't have money for opium and you don't go to work, because you are blind and Giorgio is getting upset.
I can't think of details, when we can't afford a tombstone to Lucia's dog, even.
No money for urologist, for pampers, rubber underwear.

Joyce:
Please shut up, Nora.
We'll discuss all these in Zurich.
Well, all right,
I can't do a thing.
Let's get over with it.
I am listening.
What's your proposal, Mr. Bloom.
What can you offer for our immortal souls?

Bloom:
Regardless of anything that our mischievous Putzi might told you about me, I am not a wealthy man, Herr Joyce.
I am dealing with used infantry foot clothes, in small quantities only.
There is nothing on my name, except this house on the Main Square, its door smeared with chicken blood.
I'm a tax cheat like eveybody in Szombathely.
I haven't been paying sales tax for the past 11 years, so I could maintain this house and pay for the keep of my esteemed guests.
While it is true that my guests have all reached the highest level of transcendence and perfectly happy with imaginary meals, their pajamas and masks still cost money and the miners' lamps still require frequent battery change.
I don't have money, but I definitively have a well laid plan: permanent musical theatre for the common Irish future.
I'm sorry, but I can't afford to give you a loan.
All I can possibly offer is an open ended invitation for you and your family: be my guest, stay in my house for as long as you please.
Join my Civil Circle and help me get elected to be the next mayor of Szombathely.
I'll give you room and board and you'll help us sort merchandise.
You'll write campaign speeches for me and do my accounting.
It's too bad that you won't consider switching to a kidney-based diet, but you are free to eat potatoes only too, if nothing tastier would come to your mind.

Madame could cook in my kitchen, once a week.
I think Molly or Milly wouldn't get too upset about that.
The kitchen stove burns wood.
Samuel will steal wood for you, from the railway station, if you ask him.
You better be careful, so he wouldn't corner Frau Joyce or Lucia in the bathroom.

You can get your own box.
Even the kids would be provided with separate boxes.
Because we all need privacy.

9.
Ninth Scene

(Giorgio starts to toss and turn on the rags. His mother and sister are trying to calm him down.)

Giorgio:
Too much light.
There is too much light here, in my father's blinding shadow.
Too many shadows.
There are too many shadows in my mother's light.
Semi-darkness keep me alive.
The opium's twilight.
The thin, aethereal veils of the Maya.
The hiding picture in the secret image of a picture.
The hours, which dwell in the minutes and the days, which live in the hours and the years, which sleep in the days and the centuries, which roar inside the years.

I am sitting on my bed, watching the tip of my shoes.
I don't remember anything else.
I can't grow up and become an adult, because I am already too old for that.
I can't even die, because I haven't been born yet.
The liveliness of life and the stillness of death equally horrify me.

I killed a man in Pola.
I smashed his head from behind, with a cobble stone.
He didn't hurt me.
I didn't even know him.
The fact that he kept on moving was bothering me.
It bothered me that he was coming from somewhere and he was going to somewhere.
He did not have to carefully plan each step he took, like I have to.
It was no problem for him to turn on the corners, to cut across the square, to say 'Hello' to somebody, to have a conversation with his friends, to eat whatever he put on his fork.
Did he deserve death?
I don't care.
Where is he now?
I don't know.
I don't even now where I am.

Joyce:
You should talk about all these with your mom, Giorgio.
I have no time for such things.
I am thinking.
I have to consider Mr. Bloom's proposal.
It is very unfavorable for is.
It is connected to politics.
And it would put us at his mercy for an eternity.

Giorgio:
But dad...

(Giorgio falls back on the rags and passes out again.)

Joyce:
Enough now.
The ability to think is the cruelest punishment the Gods can apply to the brain.
I am thinking instead of you, instead of my family, and - with the Lords permit - instead of Mr. Bloom too.
Because what is a genius, but a defective mind at the wrong place and wrong time.
Like this Leopold Bloom in Szombathely, right now.
I must keep on thinking.
I was born to think.
Searching for the freedom of thought I left my parents and my beloved Dublin in my youth.
I did find the freedom of thought.
My freedom obliges me to sit down in the night of each senseless day and put my current thoughts in writing.
This is my job.
My pay is shamefully low.
I am writing until the wee hours of the morning, every single day, for the past 11 years.
Writing has destroyed my sight.
I can't read what I write anymore.
I keep on thinking, even if I am penniless, in poor health, going blind.
I keep on thinking instead of the whole, deranged humanity, which is biting its own tail in the tight grip of Time's snake, oh yes.
For if I stop thinking and write down my life experiences, nobody else would do it instead of me.

Oh, Giorgio, please forgive me...
I am not replaceable.
Your mom is a worthy partner on this rewardless mission of mine.
But I'm afraid we are about to lose Lucia.
First she had herself killed along with her dog, Biki.
Now she is joining a musical theatre.

 
10.
Tenth Scene

(Lucia lets out a high pitch, rising scale. She holds the last note for a long time. The Chorus repeats the last note twice, like a distant foghorn. Lucia stands up and walks to his father, to the front of the screen. She sings an aria, from Pergolesi's Siciliana.
She stops after each verse and talks, as if she'd be translating the aria's words.)

Lucia:
I am scared, dad.
I am cold, mom.
I don't want to wear this dress any longer, because it is transparent and people can see me.
May I have a pajama too, like everybody else has?
And I would like my own box too, in this house, somewhere in this living room.
And if Signore. Bloom would bring me kidney to my box in the morning, I surely would eat it.

I want to reborn in this magical house, at number 40, Main Square, in Szombathely.
I don't want to go to Zurich, neither to anywhere in Switzerland.
Mom! Dad!
I am not going with you.

I'd rather stay here, in this kiddney smelling  heart of nothing.
I wanted to levitate in time, because space paralyzes me.
I am joining Signore Bloom's theatre troupe.
There is no hope for me anywhere else.
I want my third eye, I want success, therapy.
Dad, mom, please, do something so light would radiate from my forehead too!

I would like to sort used infantry foot clothes for a living, like the immortals do.
I am not interested in death anymore.
As I was laying on this heap of rags and inhaled its scent, my dead dog, Biki appeared to me.
He was nice, big, strong, warm and soft.
Biki licked my face and told me, it's too late, I can't kill anymore.
They gave the task of killing Nora to somebody else.
Mother, you shouldn't wait for me to kill you any longer.
Somebody else will do the job.
I'll be an actress instead, I will sing and dance and if I get my own box, I'll help Signore Bloom bring Europe to Szombathely.

(Lucia finishes the aria. The Chorus repeats the last note twice, like a distant foghorn. Flashlight goes off, burning the silhouette of Joyce and his daughter onto the phosphorescent screen. Lucia walks back to her mom and collapses beside her, like a wounded cygnetn. Joyce follows his daughter and stops by the heap of rags she is laying on. His shadow falls on Giorgio. Giorgio moans. His body tightens into a bridge-position.)

Nora:
Hush, be quiet little one.
Dad is going to give you opium soon again.
You just be nice to him.
Uncle Poldi promised us some kidney too.

Giorgio:
I want a dream, I want a vision.
Take dad's shadow away from me!

Bloom:
We'll ask Ferdinand to go and get you some opium from the pharmacist, young man.
I also use opium sometimes, to help me visualize my music theatre, whenever I get blinded by despair.
Don't worry about the opium, Herr und Frau Joyce.
One can always find drugs and alcohol in Szombathely.
And don't worry about the tax man either, if you see him following you.
He is after me, sneaky devil.
You are not from this town, he won't bother to investigate you.

We are going to erect a statue on the Main square, in loving memory of Fraulein Lucia's poor dog.
I'll get the best Italian tombstone-sculptors to carve it out of black marble.
The statue will look exactly like Biki was and it would even talk, through its built in speaker.
It will talk to the passers-by on Lucia's voice, it will bark at them and it will howl at the Moon.
And the young lady will get nice, singing, dancing roles in our new musical theatre.
We'll send your lovely wife to a spa in Transsylvania.
That sulfuric water does miracles to the bladders.

And you, Herr Joyce, you should give me your copyrights and pay my sales tax for the rest of my life.
Also, you should make me a leading character in Ulysses, your book in never ending progress.
I hope I am not asking too much for your guest-rights.

Joyce:
What are you talking about, man?!

Nora:
If you refuse to accept Mr. Blooms proposals, I won't ever control my bladder anymore, James.

Lucia:
I want either singing, dancing roles or death.

Giorgio:
I want opium, Dad!

Bloom:
Well, yes - I can get permanent residence permits for every member of my Civil Circle.
They print the permits in Moldavia, but nobody could tell them apart from the originals.

Joyce:
But I must get to Zurich.
My publisher promised me a flat over there, medical treatment and a monthly allowance.
Who's going to print my new book?

Nora:
You shouldn't be concerned about your book now, James, because nobody cares about it.
You should realize that if you accept Mr. Blooms most generous proposal, we are never going to get evicted again and we can live in our box, like a real family is supposed to live.
We'd get a life.
But only if you write good speeches to Mr. Bloom, so we'd all get some good use of your so called 'talent' once, after all.

Joyce:
Honestly: can you, Nora visualize me sorting used infantry foot clothes in a ragman's box, in Szombathely?

Nora:
Sincerely: can you, James, really see me continue cleaning other people's apartments, just to make ends meet?
Like I did for 11 years in the Mediterrain?
Can you see us getting evicted again, at the 71st time?
Suitcases on the sidewalk, dog barking, kids crying, landlady throwing things at us from the window?

Lucia:
If I don't get a role, I'll kill mom.

Giorgio:
Give me opium, Dad!

Joyce:
Damned English.
Why couldn't I stay in Ireland?
And how on Earth can I buy ink, pens, writing paper here?

Bloom:
We are going to beg on the Main square, on holidays, wearing our pajamas, miners' lamps and surgical masks, so the Austrian tourists can see us.
We'll sing and dance, Gertrude and Alice will walk around with the hat.
I will not ask for a begging permit, it costs too much.
Our experience tells that we always get enough money to buy soap and writing papers, before the police would remove us from the square.

About the young lady's request, it is easy to fulfill.
Gertrude!
Alice!
Schnelle!
Please give a clean set of pajamas to Lucia.
Give her a lamp and a mask too.

(Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas crawl out of their box, switch on their lights and stand behind Lucia.)

Joyce:
Lucia, no!
My daughter in your pajamas?!
Never!
You understand?
Never!

Lucia:
Oh yes, dad.

(Lucia, accompanied by Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas leaves the stage, princess-like.)

11.
Eleventh Scene

 
(Joyce and Bloom walk to the screen and stand at the front of it in the video-light.)

Bloom:
Before you decide on my proposal, Herr Joyce, let me introduce to you the guests of the house, the immortals of our Civil Circle, the actors and actresses of Szombathely's permanent musical theatre.
They reside in comfortable boxes, as you can see.
So they can maintain a certain degree of privacy.
There are some who have no own boxes as yet.
Some doesn't deserve to own a box as momentarily.
Maybe - for some reason - such person was temporarily - how to say? - 'unwrapped" by the Curatorium - well, these kind of people can still rest on the merchandise.

And here stands my magic wall, camera sacra, the time-mirror.
It makes anybody's life-plan visible.
It shows our inner visions.
It locates our place in the order of things.
The wall sees the loneliness and pain of life.
It hears our wailing and complaints.
You are standing at the front of the Leopold Bloom Timewall.
This the wall the Kabbalah is talking about, so does the Sufi, John too, in his Revelations and the Vedas also.
This is Aleph.
God's eye, the single point which contains and shows the Universe, like a hologram.
I built it out of time and light, following the laws of Tetragrammatron.
This wall wasn't built to exclude anything, or anybody, but rather to connect us with ourselves and with each other.
This wall does not close out anything, or anybody, but rather it invites us in, into God's reality.

You are standing at the gate of the New City, Savaria Nova, Herr Joyce.
From this gate I see a wide avenue leading to the Musical Theatre, on the other side of the bridge, over the stream.
I see flowers, green trees and bushes and fountains and Irish enjoying themselves on both side of the avenue.
The Timewall is alive, it is breathing.
If you listen it talks to you.
If you ask the wall it would sing a lullaby.
And it records and archives all the important moments of an immortal's life.

(Flashlight goes off, burning the silhouettes of Joyce and Bloom onto the phosphorescent screen. Joyce and Bloom walk to Ezra Pound's box.)

Nobody knows the secret of number 40, Main square in Savaria.
Nobody could guess, why are we wearing miners' lamps, surgical masks and pajamas.
All they see is bales of used infantry foot clothes arriving from the fronts to my gate, they are bloody and have holes in them and they come by the million.
Then they see as the merchandise is being sent back to the front, nicely laundered, ironed, folded, the holes on them carefully fixed.
About my real life people know nothing.
The real secrets of Main square 40 are the Timewall and the identity of my guests.
Even if the tax man would take away my property, if they'd smear mortar and paint on the Timewall, they couldn't expell the immortal spirit from the premises and the wall would stay alive behind layers of mortar and paint.

Joyce:
It sounded like as if you were talking about my New Dublin, Mr. Bloom.
About the perfect city in my imagination.
The only city I would call my home.
Where life would start with death, society's organization is based on real values and the British Crown has no authority behind the city's walls.
Many details are strikingly similar in our parallel visions: the Timewall, the musical theatre, the theory of metempsychosis, the immortals, the streets teaming with the Irish, the elegant dominance of the color green...

Anyway, you made me curious.
Who are the members of your Civil Circle?
Who are these people in the boxes?
Who would be so desperate as to seek shelter in a tax cheat ragman's besieged house?

Bloom:
They are the immortals.
My house is the home of the Universal Refugee.
Those come to me who are not liked anywhere.
Visionaries, prophets, saints.
Those, who can still differentiate in between good and evil.
The greatest minds and purest souls of humanity.

(The Chorus starts to sing the Slave Chorus, from Verdi's Nabucco.)

The proud owner of this box is Ezra Pound.
Dressed as a flower-child, this giant of poetry moved here in the 1960s.

(Bloom knocks on Pound's box. Pound rises up, through the top of his box. He turns on his lamp and introduces himself.)

Ezra Pound:(recitativo)
Canto 194.
Palazzo Bloom - Rigatoni di Polo

Two million Irish died of starvation during the potato famine.
A similar number of us emigrated to the States after the famine.

I was born in Idaho, amidst endless potato fields, to an Irish immigrant family.
If I looked around I saw only potato fields, stretching from horizon to horizon.
People were interested only about the potato crops.
I was born a poet.
People in Idaho read only poems, which are about potato.
Escaping the potato thoughts of potato people I moved to Italy.
I was attracted by the reborning spirit of ancient Rome there.
The Mediterrain joy of life, the sea, the grappa and the palm trees.
Dynamics and energy and movements, Marinetti and the Futurists.
I sold my Idaho potato farm and rented a villa, in Appia, by the sea.
That's where I wrote most of my cantos.

Il Duce liked my views and appreciated my strong feelings against the Anglo-Saxon hegemony.
He gave me my own radio show.
I called on Britain and America to surrender,
I called on the Irish to revolt against the British Crown.
Il Duce gave me a laurel wreath, fifty pounds of solid gold.
The enemy called me Lord Vau Vau.

Bloom:
After the fall of Mussolini they locked this giant of poetry into a roofless iron cage, on Pisa's main square, for six months.
Then they took him back to the States, where he was put on trial, charged with war-crimes.
The court declared him mentally insane and they confined him to a psychiatric hospital.

Pound:
They gave me tranquilizers.
They put me in a straight-jacket.
They tied me to my bed.
They gave me insulin- and electro shocks weekly, for six years straight.
I've been a poet once.
Now I would like to be an opera singer and a hair stylist.
When they were taking me to shock-treatment I always sung Figaro's aria on the stretcher.
Kind of like this.

(The Chorus stops singing the Rigoletto piece. Pound sings Figaro's aria, as if he is being electroshocked.)

Bloom:
After years of protest by leading American intellectuals, the Maestro was released from the mental institute, on a Presidential pardon.
He left the States immediately.
First he moved back to Italy and from there he came to Szombathely, for a loan, like you came, but he stayed here for good.
He is a guest of mine for over twelve years now.
He is a foreman in my textile warehouse.
He helps me with my taxes.
He also writes speeches for me, he is one of our Curators and a founding member of the Leopold Bloom Civil Circle.
He sings baritone in the Chorus, but he cuts hair too.
He is trying to be useful.
Thank you Ezra.
That was it for today.

(Pound sinks back into his box and turns off his light. The Chorus starts to sing Rigoletto's Slave Chorus again. Bloom walks to the next box.)

You've already met the tenant of this box.
He is Samuel Beckett, the playwright.
As you've probably noticed we have difficulties co-inhabiting with him.
He is a refugee from Ireland, like you are.

(Bloom knocks on Beckett's box. Beckett emerges through the top of the box.)

We have guests, Samuel.

(Beckett  turns on his lamp.)

Beckett: (recitativo)
Because I know my mother tongue too well, I can't express myself on it.
I can't maintain a healthy distance in between me and my own words.
I am not aware of what I am talking about.
That's why I write in French, exclusively.
That's the only language I can't possibly master.
I was starving in Ireland.
I learned how to beg in Paris.

Bloom:
Samuel was attacked by a madman in the subway, in Paris.
Cut Samuel's face with a knife, then he disappeared into the crowd.
That's when Samuel lost his faith in the art of theatre.
Because you can't imitate a real wound.
Ever since he wants to write the last theatre play.
Without succeeding, so far.
Thank you, Sam.

(Beckett turns off his lamp and sinks back into his box..)

He is best in the role of victims.
He writes fierce campaign speeches for me.
Nobody can see the vision of Szombathely's permanent musical theatre cleaner, sharper, more detailed than he does.
Yet, when it comes to sorting and counting used infantry foot clothes, he is useless.
Yet again, he irons and folds textiles as good as a pro.
He takes care of saving my bills, which I tend to just throw into any of the boxes around.
He feeds only on the nitrogen in the air, like the mosses.
He escaped Paris ahead of the success of his plays.

First he moved to Morocco, but the Bedouins chased him out of the country, because he seduced one of their wives.
Sam came to Szombathely upon the advice of Putzi Fliege also, after he was kicked out from the Quaker Mission's guest house, for locking himself in the bathroom for an entire week.
He writes very little, even that he tears up and throws out.
Well, he is one hard cookie, let's just leave him like that.

(Bloom knocks on the next box..)

Here we have Ferdinand.

(Céline stands up in his box.)

Louis Ferdinand Céline.
A very French doctor, writer, immortal, nazi collaborator.
Ferdinand is a flaming genius, his torch burns on both ends.
While Samuel is dry, logical, predictable, holds back his emotions, Ferdinand is temperamental, like an insulted Latin lover.

(Céline switches on his lamp.)

He can't maintain any hidden thoughts.
He is propelled by heartfelt disdain and hatred against humanity as a whole.
His metaphor for life is a dream, which is hiding in a shit-filled purse.
Is that so, Ferdinand?

Céline: (recitativo)
It was sunrise over the African jungle.
It was as if the Sun would get ready to blow itself and the Universe to smithereens.
Then I realized that this lovely promise happens on every single day, for millions of years, never to be fulfilled.

Bloom:
He hated his fellow French with a passion, he escaped to America, because he couldn't stand their company.
Ferdinand arrived to the New World as a galley-slave, chained to the paddle of a Spanish galleon.
He's landed a job at the Ford assembly line.
Somebody fell in love with him, which he couldn't handle.
His Cosmic paranoia chased him back to France, where, finally he was caught.

Daytime he was supporting the German occupiers with his talented writings, while at night he was secretly attending to wounded partisans.
He spent 6 years, in solitary confinement, in a Belgian prison.
There was little life left in him, when he arrived to Szombathely, from Trieste, with the assistance of the good Putzi.

(Céline sinks back into his box and switches off his lamp.)

He writes political pamphlets for me, pokes fun on my political opponents.
He knows everything about everybody in this town.
He is a born spy, a professional observer, with an eye and ear for the smallest details.
Once they tried to drown him in the stream.
He cures his enemies for free.
He is best in counting textiles.
He is good at fixing holes, ironing and folding the merchandise.
He is great in intriguer roles, and he is the best dancer we have.
His expertise in dances opens every door for him in Szombathely.
I don't know where does he get the red wine from, though.
We just hear that he is occasionally singing sanzons in his box.
I must tell you, these French are quite something.
Ferdinand steals cheese at night, from the kitchen.
Molly loves him for his wit, so she doesn't mind the stealing.

(Bloom knocks on the next box.)

Knut lives here.

(Hamsun stands up in his box.)

Knut Hamsun.
The Norwegian writer genius.

Hamsun: (Recitativo.)
Escaping starvation and loneliness I sailed to America and from there back to Norway.
I wrote down my experiences.
For my honesty they gave me a Nobel prize.
Sometimes later I greeted the occupiers with joy, hoping that they will plant the culture of Bach, Brahms, Beethoven in the frozen soil of my country.
They set Thor's hammer free instead, it hit with a blind force and destroyed the little we had.
I was disappointed.
Too late.
Prison and losing all my possessions was waiting for me.

I came to Szombathely from Trieste, in the hope of a petty loan.
I was old, sick, poor and stateless.
Ever since I live here, as a guest of Mr. Bloom.
I sing soprano roles.
I take ballet classes.
I have a secret lover.
He is a politician.
His name is Putzi Fliege.
'The Clean Handed One'.
When he comes to town in secret, Putzy hides in my box, for the length of his stay.
I can hear his heart throbbing.

I am glad that you have found your home, Mr. Joyce.
You'll like your box.
I must go now, Putzi is waiting.
When I have to leave him for extended periods, he cries, like a child.
"Knut! Where are you? I am scared!", he sobs,
Nobody can suffer prettier than Putzi does.
Frau Joyce, lieber Kinder, it's been my pleasure.
Knut must go now.

(Hamsun takes a bow, turns off his lamp and sinks into his box. The Chorus stops singing.)

Bloom:
Knut writes slogans for my mayoral campaign.
What do we want?

Chorus:
A permanent, musical theatre!

Bloom:
When do we want it?

Chorus:
Now!

Bloom:
Leopold Bloom's dream?

Chorus:

A permanent musical theatre, now!

Bloom:
We just couldn't function without Knut.
He steals Milly's lipsticks, though.
Milly doesn't mind it.
Unfortunately we must put the silverware away when Putzi comes to the house.
Well, Putzi is just Putzi.
He'll never change.

Joyce:
I know.
He stole from us too, when we said good-bye in Trieste.
He stole my watch.
My last memory from Ireland.
It was my father's watch.
He's got it from his dad.
He was always looking at that watch, when I came home late from school.
I did not get dinner on such occasions.

(After much searching Bloom pulls a watch out of his pocket.)

Bloom:
Is this the timepiece Putzi stole from you?

Joyce: (Pulls the watch near to his eyes.)
Yes.
I think it is.

Bloom: (Puts the watch back into his pocket.)
Well, you don't need a watch in my house, Herr Joyce.
Here you are always at when you want to be.
If you want, it is a Wednesday morning, but in the next moment you are in a Monday night, in a distant summer.
The immortals of our Civil Circle are free to travel in time.
This much I managed to obtain for them above, by fasting, meditating and by creatively using my connections capital.

I don't know where Milly and Molly are right now.
Maybe on the other side of the wall.
They are both very fond of the 21st century: cell phones, virtual space, fusion energy and the malls, of course.
They just wouldn't come of the Internet,
Probably they are surfing somewhere on the World Wide Web right now.
They are rarely visible, but nothing escapes their attention.
When I become the mayor I'll send an information specialist after them, to get them out of digitally.
I will limit their Internet access and confiscate their cell-phones.
Until their return Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas takes care of me and the household.

(Bloom knocks on the next box. Gertrude and Alice stand up in the box.)

Alice cooks for me, Gertrude cleans the house and talks to me, when I am spent.

Gertrude: (Recitativo, Alice shines her light on her.)
I escaped from New York to Paris, so I can open my art gallery.
I exhibited the first of the modernists, Matisse, Modigliani, Kandinsky, Picasso in my Salon des Fleures, in my own home.
I lived, I loved, I was surrounded by the most interesting people of my age.
Paris is where I met Alice and our relationship is now history.
But then New York came across the Ocean and Paris, the spirit we loved is dead and Dr. Stein's money is all gone too.
After much desperate drifting  we have found the living memory of Paris down here, in Szombathely, when we came here from Trieste, in the vague hope of a loan.

We were given a home, our own box and steady work in Mr. Blooms warehouse.
What more we could hope for.
We fill in for secretaries at Mr. Bloom's campaign office and help out around the house too.
We do our best to replace Milly and Molly.
We even opened an art gallery in our box.
We show contemporary miniatures.
I think we are both happy.
We sing duets usually, I am a mezzo and Alice does one sweet alto.

Alice: (Recitativo, Gertrude shines her light on her.)
I follow Gertrude wherever she goes, because she let's me cook what I want.
I am an artist, cooking is my art.
I was born a cook in San Francisco and escaped America ahead of  hamburgers.
Paris, Gertrude's Salon gave me shelter, a kichen, a stove and many lovely frying pans and cooking pots.
I wrote my cookbook there, on rainy afternoons, after I finished washing the dishes.
My main creation is the vegetarian kidney pie, which I make out of dried Lapland  tinder fungus, pickled in red wine and hashish oil.
I serve it on a bed of seaweed.
Gertrude's love means a world to me.
The considerate Dr. Stein did not stand in between us.
What's more, he doubled Gertrude's monthly allowance, claiming a raise in grocery costs.

Then Paris died, the canals burst, Dr. Stein was sued by an influential patient, because he accidentally had the patients healthy upper teeth pulled.
The Germans moved in and they closed down the Salon, because it was the birthplace of modern art, which they considered degenerate.
The Steins and I couldn't have escaped without the aid of Dr. Céline.
He bandaged us from head to toe in bloody gauze, put us on stretchers and sent us to Trieste, as VIPs,  in a German ambulance car.
Mr. Stein was found by the repo men in Trieste too, so now he's hiding somewhere in Syria.

If they elect Mr. Bloom mayor of Szombathely, I'll cook his inauguration diner.
I'll be the chef of the Leopold Bloom Musical Theatre's gourmand buffet.
I will import lobsters and turtle eggs from South America and peewit birds' heart and skylark's tongue from Italy, by the kilo.
I will cook your potato to the right degree, Monsieur Joyce, Madame, Enfants, you shouldn't worry about it.

(Gertrude and Alice switch off each other's lamps and sink into their box.)

Bloom:
On a foggy winter afternoon, when I was missing Milly and Molly dearly, Alice, Gertrude and I went up to Isis's temple, to cry to the Goddess.
But Isis refused to help and the priests of Osiris demanded cash money too.
The Unspeakable Name sent the tax-commando after me.
I hardly could escape with the bills and ledger.
Fortunately a war broke out, I don't remember which one.
The army put in orders for infantry foot clothes.
They took the tax-people to the fronts and all but forgot about me.
Now I just have to withhold the sales tax, so all that money won't get to waste, but it will be saved up to cover the building costs of the musical theatre, and also it can buy sweets, alcohol and drugs to the immortals.
I am going to resurrect Savaria, a city that's never been.

11.
Eleventh Scene

Joyce:
Interesting.
Main square, number 40, Szombathely - I think I started to gasp the workings of your house, Mr. Bloom.
Could you tell me how did you get your hands on my watch?

Bloom: (He pulls out the watch, toys with it.)
Putzi Fliege, who - so to say - 'stole' your watch, traveled on the same train you took, but he did not get off at Körmend, like you did, but only at the Szombathely railway station, so he's gotten here early yesterday evening.

Joyce:
I beg your pardon, but why on earth did he not tell us to stay on that darn train?

Bloom: (Puts away the watch)
Well, our Putzi is like that.
He is impulsive, chaotic.
A real Savarian he is.

Joyce:
You want to keep my watch, I assume.
I acknowledge that.
I wrote about the sense of being robbed a lot in the past.
I do not intend to analyze such situation ever again.
It's the same old Anglo-Levantine conspiracy.
You and Mr. Fliege work in tandem.
He sends free labor here.
You sell the valuables.
Very cleaver, indeed.
Congratulations.
Now there is only one thing I don't understand: tell me, why are the immortals dressed in pajamas?

Bloom:
Look.
All of my guests are recuperating, gravely ill people.
Regardless of their origins or religion, they were always treated as aliens, wherever they lived.
They were expelled from their own communities - or, sometimes they themselves refused to have anything in common with the people around them.
Most of them came to my house in a state of shock, near death, at the last stage of madness.
Their body and soul was covered with warts and bleeding wounds.
They wore miserable rags.
We nurse them back to health here.
At the beginning I let them wear their own filthy clothes, but then the allied forces mistakenly bombed the tuberculosis hospital at Karlovatz and I managed to obtain a load of hardly used pajamas.
We are having good use of them ever since.
I wear them too, except when I am receiving guests, or have to attend to a campaign event.

I even give speeches in my pajamas sometimes, to target audiences, like retired citizens or dying people in the hospitals.
Our pajamas are made partly of natural fibers.
They are a comfortable, airy wear on hot summer days.

The surgical masks are from the Karlovatz hospital too.
We put them on when we go out and don't want people see us snarl.
Immortals are people too.
Members of a Curatorium, even artists of a musical theatre can get into bad moods sometimes, like everybody do.
They get scared of being uncovered.
They get scared of infections.
Eternal life is not free of troubles either.
I, for instance haven't had fresh calf kidney for the past six thousand years.

Joyce:
And why do you need those miners' lamps here?
You told me you've got the spirit to lit your house, if I remember well.
You are switching the spirit on, by clapping, you said.

Bloom:
Well, it happens occasionally, that the spirit refuses to shine when I clap.
If the Civil Circle wanders off its center, it gets dark in the house, sometimes for days in a row.
That's when we get good use of our miners' lamps, and also, when I don't want to disturb Molly and Milly with the sound of clapping.
These lamps are our religious symbols too, for we are the ones who bring the light of Europe to Szombathely, as we build the city's first, permanent musical theatre.

Joyce:
May I have a clean set of pajamas?
And surgical mask and miners' lamp too?
Mr. Bloom, you did convince me.
I made up my mind.
My family came to a decision too.
We'll stay here, for now.
We have no other choice.
Have we?

Could I still get some cash instead?
Like 300 coronas?
Or 200 even, that would get us to Prague, at least.
I understand.
We have no other choice.
I was one of the sharpest dressers of Europe.
Now I'll be wearing pajamas.
I will write my Ulysses here, in this rag-smelling house.
I will model New Dublin after this God-forsaken town.
Savarians will be my heroes, they'll stand in for the Irish.
But we, Joyces will not eat kidney.
Do not ever attempt to serve us kidney, neither fried, nor steamed or boiled.
We eat only potato, until the fall of the House of Windsor.
We eat three well boiled potatoes per person, per day, peeled, sliced, buttered, salted, served on a plate.

Also, we all need urgent medical attention.
Giorgio and I want our opium, Lucia needs a dog, Nora company.
I am not dealing in used infantry foot cloths, but I can certainly  get you any amount of wool socks on reasonable prices, through my London connections, from the British invasion force's stocks - but only if you make me a silent partner in your textile business, Mr. Bloom.
If you are willing to meet my conditions, me and my family will join your Civil Circle and will support the idea of building a permanent musical theatre in Savaria.
You can  count on us, in your campaign, future Mr. Mayor.

Earlier they knew me as a tenor, back in Ireland.
I even won a county opera competition over there, once.
The Italian opera is my favorite.
When will we have our first company meeting?
What is the theatre's repertoire?

Bloom:
Regarding the English wool socks, I am pleased to have you as a partner in my textile business, Herr Joyce.
Given that those sock are of real wool.
I can offer you the Presidency of the Curatorium as well, and the deputy mayor's seat in City Hall.
You can also get the governorship of Istria and a share in the profit of the paint factories we are going to build, to produce that special Dublin green color, when the Irish start to arrive to Szombathely in droves.

(Bloom walks behind the lace curtain to get pajamas and accessories to Joyce.)

Well, you can get the governorship of Istria only if Putzi does not want to keep it for himself.
He'd rather master Dalmatia, rule Venezia, the Italian seaside, down to the heel of the Italian boot, maybe Sicily...

(They both start to change into pajamas, on the two sides of the stage.)

Joyce:
I think I started to like your town, Mr. Bloom.
It's not green enough yet and too few are the Irish here, but I see plenty of potential for further development.
The future holds something for me in Savaria, if anywhere.
I've always been attracted by the world of theatre.
The spotlights, imitation, velvet curtains.
Nora is capable to sing 2 octaves, with some effort, my daughter can handle three and a half octaves, if she must.

Nora:
If she's allowed to open her mouth at all.
There is even a nice, public toilette facilities, right beneath the Main square here, spotless, very civilized.
And I can also take to those alleys  nearby, if I can't hold it for some reason.

Lucia: (Comes in, dressed in pajamas.)
I think I saw Biki, my dog, in a doorway on Malom street.
He was sitting there, erectm dignified, like a god.
He did not look at me, when I called his name,just kept on sitting there, with his tongue out, he was smiling.
Then he just vanished in the twilight of dusk.

Joyce: (Switches on his miners' lamp.)
Oh my God, I can see now!
Nora!
Lucia!

(Joyce is holding his hand in the light of his lamp.)

My sight is back, I can see again!
We are at home, children!

Giorgio: (Moans.)
I want opium!

Nora:
Later, little one.
Everything has its own, proper time.

(The family gathers around Joyce, they turn on their lamps, they are hugging each other.)

Lucia:
I love you, mom.

(She pulls the hat pin out of her toy dog and sticks it into Nora's hat.)

I forgive you Biki's death.
I don't know when and how, but life has returned into me in this house.
I can picture myself on the stage, singing, dancing, or having a date in the Art Cafe, with a knight from the night.
I don't know what brought this change about.
Maybe the touch of this soft fabric.
Thanks for the nice pajamas, Uncle Poldi!
I am looking forward to those singing, dancing roles in your new theatre.
Your Milly, Lucia Joyce.
I am hungry now.

12.
Thirteenth Scene

(Great commotion starts up on the stage. Members of the Chorus build a long table out of cardboard boxes, at the front of the screen. They cover the table with a lace table cloth. They line up  behind the table, in a formation reminiscent to paintings of the Last Supper. TS Elliot is putting a photo camera on a stand, at the front of the stage. Joyce looks at him with disapproval.)

 
Joyce:
Who's that fellow with the camera?
I don't want him to take my picture!

Bloom:
That's TS Elliot.
Also a writer and a refugee from Ireland.
He also came here via Trieste, on the recommendations of our common friend, Putzi.
He knows everything there is to know about cats.
He became cat-like himself, too.
Look how smooth his movements are.
He can meow and purr and he even arches his back, like a cat sometimes.
Similarly, his poetry gives a gentle, soft, unpredictable aesthetical enjoyment.
He was harassed by drunken sailors in Ireland.
They threw him into the hold of a whaling ship, where he contracted the scabies.
I hired him as a dancing clown, he is a great asset of  my theatre.
He sings a pleasant falsetto.
I have him as the troupe's photographer also, because he can see in the dark.
He did set up a darkroom in his box.
I asked him to take a picture of our company, to be hanged in the foyer of the new theatre later.
Please, Samuel, take a count of the Curatorium!

Beckett:
1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12.
There are 11 Curators and our Founder present.

Bloom:
That's impossible.
That's not enough.
Please, Samuel, take a count of the Curatorium once again!

Beckett:
1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12
There are 11 Curators and our Founder present.

Bloom:
We are still missing a Curator.
We'd need twelve of them for a full Circle.
Many angels of the spirit were chased away from this country too and few of them has ever returned.
One, the world's most famous Hungarian surely never came back, to visit his homeland.
He is more famous than Bartok, Janos Kadar, Miklos Horthy, Albert Szentgyörgyi, Imre Kertesz and Mathias Rakosi together.
He is more famous than Edward Teller, the scientist, who gave us the atom bomb, Nagasaki, Hiroshima.
Ladies and gentlemen, let me call in the most famous Hungarian, the shining star of many Hollywood movies, Bela Lugosi, the only authentic impersonator of Count Dracula on the overnational movie screens.
Come on in, Bela!

(A light comes on behind the lace curtain, showing Lugosi standing there.)

Bela's been hiding in my basement since days, I must confess.
As soon as Putzi sent a telegram about Mr. Joyce and his family's apparent arrival, I immediately called for Bela, who'd be the perfect company for them, because he speaks English.
Nobody on Earth knows that he does.
Bela comes out of the cellar only after midnight, for his lonely walks in the alleys around the Main square.
He needs his fill of blood.

(Lugosi comes out from behind the lace curtain in his pajamas. He is sniffing the boxes and the Curators. He wants to sniff Bloom too, but gets waved away.)

Bela started his career as a Shakespeare-actor, in Hungary.
He became a cultural commissar during the first Communist putsch.
His only crime was to make the use spittoons mandatory in government offices.
To escape retorsions after the fall of the Communists, he moved to the United States, to Hollywood.
Due to his heavy Hungarian accent he became the most popular star of horror movies.
When the Americans got bored of his accent, he stopped getting roles.
He became addicted to drugs, alcohol and pork-paprika, which he mixed with stuffed cabbages, bacon and blood sausages into a thick mass, which he called Pusta Cocktail and consumed in huge quantities.
He had his liver explode several times.
He was treated for acute fat-poisoning, when we managed to locate him in the poor-people's hospital, in LA..
Putzi smuggled him out of the States, by rolling him into Navajo rugs.
It was difficult to bring him back to consciousness.

(Lugosi gets behind the table. He shines his light onto his face, from below.)

Lugosi:
Any blood here?

Finale

(Video projection starts on the screen: stage curtains open up.)

Bloom:
Ladies and Gentlemen.
Let me open the first company meeting of the Leopold Bloom Musical Theatre.

(He holds his ledger up in the light.)

This is my blood.

(The Curators hold up their surgical masks, as if they were drinking cups.)

This here ledger in my hands contain the accurate data of our trafficking in used infantry foot cloths.
There is a life spent dealing with used infantry foot cloths, on the scale of millions of pairs monthly.
And I withheld the sales tax on the traded volumes, moneys used to turn a despised, hated, excluded man's dream into our musical reality.

(Symbolically he pours to the mask-cups, as if his ledger would be the Grail.)

Who are we?

Chorus:
Citizens of words and beauty!

Bloom:
Where did we came from?

Chorus:
From the world of dreams.

Bloom:
What do we want?

Chorus:
Musical theatre!

Bloom:
What kind of musical theatre we want?

Chorus:
A permanent one!

Bloom:
Who is to build it for us?

Chorus:
Leopold Bloom, Mayor of Savaria.

(The Curators symbolically drink from their mask-cups, then put them on. Projection starts on the lace curtain: the audience is arriving to their seats.)

Bloom:
Europe has arrived to Szombathely.
She lives at Main square number 40.
At the edge of the old Jewish ghetto.
She is still hiding, but she will come out to the open soon.
The chicken blood on my door could not stop me.
When they turned off gas and electricity in my house, it did not stop me.
When the Glass Eye took away Milly and Molly, it did not stop me either.
My permanent musical theatre is about to open.
My troupe is all lined up.
Waiting for the program.
What is a city without a permanent musical theatre?

Chorus:
Empty!

Bloom:
Who's gonna give us a permanent musical theatre?

Chorus:
Leopold Bloom, Mayor of Savaria!

Bloom:
What is Leopold Bloom bringing to Szombathely?

Chorus:
Europe!

Bloom:
What is Europe, tell me?

Chorus:
A permanent musical theatre!

Bloom:
We'll start the first season of our new theatre with the musical version of Mr. Joyce's play, the Exiles.
We'll invite the Irish Ambassador to the opening.
He'll tell the Irish that we already have kidney, beer and musical theatre in Szombathely, so they should all come over here.
And Frau Joyce can play Isis, The Well of the Universe.
We did change the title of the play to as of The Exiled Joyce, because it will be about you and your family this time, Herr Joyce.
About you all arriving to Szombathely, to get relaxed, to get cured, to help elect a world citizen mayor for Savaria, to help build the first permanent musical theatre in this town.
Ours is an amazing story, Herr Joyce, it is yours and mine.
It is the story of a lonesome city that has found its real mayor.
It is the story of the founding of a theatre in a forgotten country town, in turbulent Hungary.
You'll be played by Bela Lugosi in the show.

(Lugosi takes a bow.)

Your beautiful wife will be played by Louis Ferdinand Céline.

(Céline takes a bow.)

Your lovely children will play themselves,
They are not interested in anybody else, anyway.
I'll give some opium to Giorgio during the course of every scene.

Giorgio:
Thank you, sir.
I love you, dad.
I love you, Uncle Poldi.
I love you both very much.

Bloom:
We'll catch a stray dog for Lucia.

(Lucia hugs her plush dog tightly.)

We've already started to work on the show.
The Finale is almost complete.
We are going to sing an old Irish sailors' song, your daughter is going to step-dance and I will levitate in the center of our Civil Circle, counting sales, to see if we can afford posters and costumes this year.

(Turns to Ezra Pound.)

Are you ready, Herr Conductor?

(TS Elliot switches the camera to automatic exposition and hurries to behind the table. The video projection stops, the camera's flashlight goes off, burning the troupe's silhouette onto the screen. Pound gives a cue, the Chorus starts to sing 'Home Boys Home', an old Irish sailors song. They form a circle around the step dancing Lucia. The phosphorescent screen opens. The troupe slowly moves back, behind the lace curtain, following Bloom on the corridor, which leads to the back entrance. Bloom starts to read from his ledger, the Chorus echoes the numbers.)

2448 used infantry foot clothes
2795 used infantry foot clothes
3216 used infantry foot clothes
8715 used infantry foot clothes
3228 used infantry foot clothes
5432 used infantry foot clothes
4763 used infantry foot clothes
1974 used infantry foot clothes
6750  used infantry foot clothes
2373  used infantry foot clothes
6721  used infantry foot clothes
1899  used infantry foot clothes
4395  used infantry foot clothes
2211 used infantry foot clothes
1450 used infantry foot clothes
5173 used infantry foot clothes
That makes 63 543 used infantry foot clothes total

(The lights fade out. The phosphorescent screen closes again.
Video-projection starts on it: 'Ende' - 'The End'.
Darkness.)

Szombathely, Hungary, 2002

THE SOUTHERN CROSS
A Dance Cycle In Two Parts

 
Treatment and score was written by:
Sir David O'Clock

Music was performed by
JAM KARET

Soundtrack was recorded  by:
Nautilus
(On the islands of Indonesia and in Home 108, New York City, 1994)

Soundtrack was produced by:
DJ AMBIANCE 21

Project Consultants:
Ibu Ida Rastini, Allan McIntosh, Julia Wallace, Duane Sherwood, I Ketut Lyer

Part One
PRINCIPLES OF HARMONY

Introduction:

The PRINCIPLES OF HARMONY is a dance-suite in seven movements.  The music was written in a modified, five note slendro scale.  Although the piece was inspired by Indonesian music and dances, the composer's goal was not to emulate his sources of inspiration, but to reinterpret them with a one world awareness.  The superstructure of the suite was modeled after a Full Moon Ceremony in Bedulu, Bali.  Each of the seven movements carries the essence of a particular Balinese dance.  The movements are connected by a narrative, which is based on the ancient Javanese legend of Mount Batok, a story of human yearning for freedom and love.

The first movement, 'New Day', is a 'pendet' dance.  It welcomes the gods as they descend from their heavenly playgrounds to partake in the performance.  Gods love variety and everything that is new and different.  It is their taste for 'kerasi baru' - new attractions - that this opening movement celebrates.  It is a 'sunrise dance' which starts in total darkness and unfolds in growing golden light, like the coming of dawn at the temple of Borobudur.  Three dancers appear from three directions, carrying offerings to the Goddess of Science and Knowledge, Sarawati.  The dancer who emerges from centerstage is wearing an eyeless mask.  She is dancing with seven incense sticks, each symbolizing one of the movements of the suite.

The second movement, 'Legend', is a 'legong' dance.  the three original dancers are joined by a black bird (who represents the evil mountain giant, Bromo), and by a clowning monkey, dressed in red, green and gold (who represents Science and Knowledge).  It is an epic court-dance, telling the story of the heroine's sufferings and of her miraculous escape from the incestuous bond of her father, Bromo.

The third movement, 'Offering to Sarawati', is a 'rejang' dance.  It celebrates the princess's new found freedom.  The procession of the three dancers, dressed in white muslin and wearing halo-like golden headresses sprinkled with flowers, is guided by the monkey and slowly winds its way to an enchanted forest.  There, they place their sacred offerings of rice, fruits, incense and flowers before the Goddess.  In a jealous rage, the giant black bird hovers behind the dancers.

The fourth movement, 'Adat' ('Traditions'), is a healing dance, 'sanghyang'.  It contains instructions to the healing powers of traditions, both old and just forming.  Musically, this movement is an interaction of two traditions - American 'swing' (itself a product of cultural fusion), which had a noticable influence over Balinese music in the nineteen thirties, after the cruise ships with their on-board 'big bands' started to arrive, - and 'sanghyang jaran', the 'fire dance'.  The newly freed princess, still wearing her eyeless mask, is purified from the karma of her plight, from the evil effects that her long ordeal has left on her psyche.  The purification ceremony is assisted by her two loving attendants, with the monkey performing the role of the brahman.  Overhead, the black bird is circling counter-clockwise, blocking the sun and casting long shadows upon his daughter.  Once the purification is complete, however, this evil spirit is driven away quickly by all the dancers.

The fifth movement, 'Neo Slendro', is a 'topeng', a mask dance, one of the oldest dances in Bali and one of the most challenging.  The healed princess is gently persuaded by her attendants to take off her mask, show her face, and open her eyes to the world.  She is enchanted by nature and people.

The sixth movement, 'Kembang Manis' ('Sweet Flower'), is a 'pendet' dance again.  On an afternoon walk by the rice fields, the princess meets a handsome young prince, the son of her father's rival and falls in love with him.  Their dance is an offering of their love to heaven.  They dance on the edge of Mount Bromo's crater.  The princess threatens to jump into the fiery depths, unless her father gives her permission to marry her prince.

The seventh movement, 'Tanah Air Kitah' ('Our Land And Sea'), is a 'gong kebyar', a flash-dance, built on a recorded sample of Balinese cremation-ceremony cymbals.  There are three climaxes in the movement, representing the great drama of the fateful night that the prince set out to win the hand of his love: Bromo decreed that he must turn a rocky valley into a sea of sand, using only a scoop.  Sadly, as the prince nears the end of this incredible feat, his bride's evil father tricks him, hence the two lovers turn to stone at daybreak.

Part Two
AGAMA TIRTAL
(Science Of The Holy Water)

Introduction:

Balinese call their religion 'Agama Tirtal' - 'Science of the Holy Water'.  The six dances of the second part of 'The Southern Cross' cycle were inspired by the waters of Bali, as well as the island's culture, history, religion, and the grace of it's people.  It is an impressionistic collage of independent pieces, which are connected only by the logic of dreams.

The Balinese religion divides most concepts into polarities.  The dynamic interaction of contrasting pairs creates harmony, runs the Universe and ultimately determines one's fate.  Balinese make use of only two directions, 'Kaya' (Upward) and 'Kelod' (Downward).  They believe that everything capable of defying gravity, everything high such as mountains, is good for them, powerfully magic, healing, and rejuvinating.  While the ocean below is sinister and filled with mortal danger.  Therefore 'Kaya', the direction which leads up to the peak of the island's highest volcano, Gunung Agung, is always preferable to them, as opposed to 'Kelod', the direction which leads down to the sea.

'Kaya', the opening sequence of the 'AGAMA TIRTAL' suite has it's origins in 'janger', a contemporary Balinese dance.  The piece starts in the green and grey light of a rainy season morning.  Three dancers perform a delicate balancing exercise, dancing on the same plain, in two dimensions, moving only upward and sideways as if they were characters from animated Wayang-style paintings.  The one on the left, dressed in black, represents the downward direction 'Kelod'. The one on the right, dressed in white, represents the upward direction, 'Kaya'.  The dancer in the middle, dressed in red (seemingly suspended by invisible strings between the other two, like a fly in the spider's web), represents a contemplation of which direction to take after the collapse of a lifeplan.  Both directions have a pull on her, equally strong.  She couldn't possibly choose between the two without the aid of a gentle stream at her feet.  By the power of meditation she makes the stream slow down just enough to provide a mirror.  Its reflection shows her the changes she is going through as she is pulled in either direction.  She can see now that whenever she obeys 'Kelod' on the left, she ages in proportion to how near she gets to the sea.  She can also see with her own eyes how fast she regains her youth and beauty when she loses her fear and approaches the heights of 'Agung'.

The second dance, 'Square One', is rooted in 'baris', a stately, un-Javanized Balinese war-dance: a preparation for suffering and unimaginable losses to come, and also a preparation for the burden of new responsibilities which surely will follow victory.  It is a basic male dance which guides through all the emotions: passion, pleasure, envy, jealousy, sadness, anger, rage, tenderness, love...  This sequence was imagined to be performed by twelve pre-adolescent girls, impersonating their male relatives; one dancer for every hour of tropical daylight.  They are to dance in groups of four, - 'Morning, 'Midday', and 'Evening' - wearing triangular head-dresses of flowers.

   The third dance, 'No End', is a jazz-infused contribution to the popular Balinese 'Joged' style.  Two girls, half fish, half birds (daughters of the Goddess of the South Seas), emerge from the ocean to flirt with Sanghyang Widi Wasa - 'The Shrine Of The Three Forces' - the Supreme God.  The deity is troubled by the treason and subsequent loss to madness of his beloved wife and partner in creation, Durga.  He needs someone to talk to, but there is nobody above him, and what he sees below his feet appears to him only as a product of his own omnipotent imagination.  Nothing can be counted on when the creator is lonesome.  He is just too depressed at first to even notice the two mischievous sea-spirits, but when they come close enough to touch his lips with their tender breasts, he cracks what accounts for a smile on the smoky heights of Gunung Agung.  He makes love to both of them amidst thunder and fire, starting the long line of kings of the great Majapahit Empire.

The fourth dance, 'Homage to Walter Spies', is built on soundscapes recorded by T.C.T.C. in Bali: 'kecak' (monkey) dancers rehearsing in a templeyard; sounds of the sea; thunder; wind; rain.  In addition to traditional Balinese instruments, a set of three organs was also used during the recording of the piece.

The German artist, Walter Spies, was a comitted resident of Bali between the two world wars. He made great contributions in helping Balinese art convert to an interconnected world.  It was Walter Spies who created the 'kecak' - dance, by incorporating elements of 'kuntao' (a secret Chinese fighting art) with 'kebiar' (an interpretive dance of man's many moods - somewhat similar to 'baris', but performed in lotus position), and with the choral element of the trance-dance 'sanghyang dedari'.  The narrative is an episode from the Ramayana. The monkey armies of Hanuman and Sugriwa are fighting the forces of the evil witch Rangda, to free Sita, Rama's wife.

Just down the hill from Ubud, past the cliffs of wines and ferns, and over a bridge where two rivers meet is Campuhan, which means convergence.  Walter Spies built his home here.  Our homage to this great lover of Bali is a reconstruction of a dream the composer had during a siesta on the veranda of Walter Spies house, which is now a hotel.

May 11, 1995.  After falling asleep to the songs of the villagers, the composer finds himself to be Walter Spies, on the afternoon of February 6, 1942.  He has no time to analyze his situation because he quickly falls asleep again on the rattan sofa, as the dream in a dream overcomes him.  In this dream, Walter Spies turns into a winged blue monkey, and joins the army of Hanuman on a flight over Bali, following the distant cries of Rama's kidnapped wife Sita.  He sees shiny kingdoms below, palaces, temples, houses, and gardens, separated by deep ravines.  He sees the emerald of the ricefields and the dark green of the jungle.  He flies over mountains and processions of villagers carrying offerings on narrow paths.  Flying along the silvery ribbon of a river, as it winds down toward the Ocean, he arrives just in time to see the Japanese forces landing on the beaches of Sanur.  Clouds darken around him, thunder and wind announce the afternoon rain.  He sees Sita, far in the distance, in the clutches of a leather-winged, eyless demon disappear in the storm.  He gives a long chase, but loses his strength over Flores and is forced to return without his mission accomplished.

He flies low over Bali, on his way back to Campuhan.  He sees destruction everywhere: palaces, temples, houses burning; people being herded and slaughtered, as if they were animals.  He sees no planting nor harvests on the ricefields.  He sees forests burning or mowed down. He sees soldiers building fortifications out of the stones of sacred monuments.  He sees age-old ceremonies being banned, soldiers burning hills of ancient bamboo-leaf books.  He sees the orgy of Rangda's unleashed demons, as they waste what was once the real garden of Eden.

Upon returning to the veranda in Campuhan, the sad and tired monkey falls asleep on the rattan sofa, waking up a moment later as Walter Spies, opening his eyes to the gentle presence of Made, his servant, who came to report that his master's uniform is ironed, his boots are polished, the luggage is packed, and the car is waiting to take him to the airport, where he could board the first flight to Berlin, as planned.

The dancers are to be assisted by projected images of Bali, taken from the air, before and after the war.

The fifth dance, 'Suttee', is a derivate of 'sanghyang dedari', a shamanistic trance-dance, which was briefly mentioned within the context of the previous sequence.  This ritual is held only in times of disaster, with the sole purpose of trying to re-establish contact with the gods.  If a disaster results in death, blood-sacrafice is needed to prevent the forming of a chain of bad luck - for the wrath of gods follows one until joyful submission.

Two auto-hypnotized female dancers (prepared by seven weeks of fasting on a diet of water and flower-petals, and by sleep and sensory deprivation) stand on the heads of male dancers, who form an eleven tiered tower over the burning statue of a gold and red winged bull.  The bull holds the silk-wrapped, bejeweled corpse of the departed king.  The male dancers are dressed in black, wearing red headbands and a red flower above their right ear.  The female dancers are in white, with head-dresses of frangipani and earplugs of gold.  They sway softly along with the tower.  They keep their eyes closed, yet their movements coincide perfectly.  They lift their golden eyelids only once, just to glance at each other, as if to convince themselves that they are both prepared.  It is not a glance of fear, but of impatience.  Then they close their eyes again and make three 'sembas' (reverences), by joining their fingers above their heads.  Then they take a graceful leap and disappear in the flames of the funeral pire, to reunite with their lover.  At the precise moment of their leap, a priest sets two white doves free.  There is no cry in leaping, no cry from the fire.  The other dancers freeze in a joyful gesture, as the breeze blows the flames high.

The idea of the sixth dance, 'Puputan', came from the experience of participating in an exorcism-ceremony, involving the 'barong'-dance, in Pura Bedulu, in Bali.  'Barong' is the most violent of the Balinese dances.  Its therapeutic powers are possibly the strongest among trance-dances.  The closing piece of 'Agama Tirtal' is held together by a narrative, based on the events of one sunny morning in 1908, in Denpasar, Bali.

As the Dutch military surrounded the palace, the gates were thrown open and out poured the nobility, the wives, concubines and children of the raja, dressed in ceremonial sarongs of unimaginable beauty, wearing jewelry of gold and precious stones.  Led by priests, they were all waving priceless kris at the invaders, moving gracefully to the sounds of bronze and bamboo instruments, wailing flutes and syncopating drums.  Then the high priest stabbed the raja through the heart: the signal for other nobles to kill each other and their families, or throw themselves upon Dutch guns.  This mass suicide ('puputan') resulted in the destruction of the entire Balinese royal lineage, and with it thousands of years of genetically accumulated knowledge of proper human conduct.

In our reconstruction of the original events, everything happens in slow motion.  At the end, performers are revived by holy water, sprinkled on them by chanting and rhythmically moving, white clothed attendants.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This play was commissioned by the Rastini Foundation (London, England), which promotes the cultures of South-East Asia, and nature conservation within the Indonesian Archipelago; in particular the conservation of the endangered sea turtle.

 The play was created to be part of the celebrations, commemorating the 50th anniversary of the liberation of Indonesia.

Additional sponsors: The Garruda Airlines (Indonesia); The Grand Mirage Hotel (Bali, Indonesia); the Amanwana Resort (Sumbawa, Indonesia), and the Wallace Family Trust, Canada

This project was blessed twice by the balean of Ubud (Bali, Indonesia), Mr. I Ketut Lyer.

Traveling College of Time Consciousness
Presents:

THE GONG
Treatment of a  dance theatre piece

This piece was conceived in Copenhagen, during TCTC's stay in Hotel Pro Forma. It was inspired by memories of an afternoon in Yogyakarta, Central Java. My traveling companions left to visit a friend I took a walk instead in the hustling ancient city, in search of sounds for 'The Southern Cross' project.

Soon I found myself lost in the maze of the streets. I had no map on me and spoke no Indonesian. Nobody I asked for direction spoke any English, neither the name of my hotel sounded familiar to anyone.

A crowd of beggars and street urchins gathered around me, and also a great number of dogs, the skinny yellow kind which is common throughout South East Asia. I felt hands feeling for my pockets so I thought I better run. I pushed aside the crowd and took off toward the direction I suspected I came from. The kids and the dogs followed me for a while but I managed to escape them by jumping over a fence and taking shelter in a temple yard.

It was an abandoned Hindu temple, still a sacred grounds for both my human chasers and the dogs. None of them would step through the gate. They just stood outside for a while, waiting if I would come out. I wouldn't, so at one point they all left, with the exception of one particular dog, which decided to take a nap instead in the shade of the temple gate.

It was hot and humid, the air was reeking of motorcycle exhaust and the smoke of tens of thousands of charcoal fueled fires. I sat on a stairs which led nowhere and tried to figure out what to do. I could be miles from my hotel by now and I don't even know at what direction the hotel is.

Suddenly I felt somebody's presence. Maybe it was some tiny sound, maybe it was something I saw for a fraction of a second from the corner of my eye, warning me that I am not alone in the temple. I stood up and looked around. The dog, which was sleeping by the gate a moment ago was gone. I looked at the other direction.There was a young man, rather a boy hiding behind the ruins of a water fountain. He looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. "Good afternoon" - he said in softly accented English and smiled again.

I walked down the stairs and to the fountain, behind which the boy was squatting. As I approached him he kept on smiling and slowly stood up. I asked him if he speaks English. He said yes. I asked him if he knows where my hotel is. He said yes. I asked him if he would give me directions to the hotel. He said no and smiled again, flashing a perfect set of teeth. I took ten rupees out of my pocket and gave it to him. He took the money and put it in the fold of his sarong. Then he just stood there, smiling. I smiled back and lighted up a cigarette. I asked him if he wants one. He said yes and took three cigarettes out of the box. He looked at me, smiled, then put the cigarettes in the fold of his sarong and changed position. Now he was standing on his right foot, holding the other one in his hand. He was about fifteen years old in my estimation.

I asked him where is he from. He gave me the name of a village South of Yogyakarta. I asked him why is he in the city. He said his village sent him here to buy a gong, but he was robbed on his first night in town and lost all the money the village elders gave him to pay with for the gong. Now he is afraid to go back. He looked awfully thin and fragile, as if he hasn't eaten for a long time.

I told him that I would give him another ten rupees if he would tell me which way my hotel is. He said OK and held out his hand. I put ten rupees in it, which he carefully wrapped in the fold of the sarong. He told me to turn left after leaving the temple, then turn right at the market, walk up by the mosque, turn right again at the police station and after a few hundred yards I'll be at my hotel. I gave him two more cigarettes and turned to walk toward the gate.

As I turned I heard a strange noise from behind me. I looked back and saw the boy leaping through the air with a kris in his hand aimed at me. I jumped to the side but he was coming at me again. I started to run, crossing the temple yard. He almost caught up with me, but a tree branch helped me to get over a stone fence and into the next building's backyard, just before he could stick his blade in my back.

After running a few more yards I realized that the kid is not following me. I looked around. I was in my hotel's garden. People were eating ice-cream on the terrace nearby.

I took a seat on the terrace and ordered a tea. I told what has just happened to me to the waiter. When I got to the part about the gong, he started to laugh. "The gong" - he said - "that's what they all say Sir". Then he told me about the gong and its function in traditional Javanese society.

*  *  *

Part I.

There is a Javanese legend which tells the story of a young man, who was sent  out by his village to find and bring home a new gong, for the old one has lost its soul and with it the village's spirit as well. Because the gong could not be used anymore, there was nothing to keep time with.

For centuries the old gong signaled the time to plant or harvest the rice, the beginning and end the seasons, the break of dawn and the end of the work day, the start of temple festivals and cremation ceremonies, the forthcoming eruption of the volcano which was looming over the village, the time to get married, the birth of children, someone's passing to next life, the arrival of a messenger from the Raja, and so on.

The old gong had a powerful sound, traveling far across the valley and reverberating from the mountain sides. It had the power to heal the sick and cast out demons. It had a magical design: the twelve spiked Wheel of Time in the center, and the word 'NOW', written in the letters of the Old Language was repeated twelve times - punctuated by svastis, - along its rim. The old gong was said to be a creation of a master gong smith eons ago, after a design provided to him by the Time God.

Ever since the old gong was buried deep beneath the temple yard the days were spent in fear, confusion and disarray. No rice was planted for many seasons and the villagers were left to gather food in the jungle around, which was advancing fast towards the village from all sides. Many - young and old alike, - lost their minds, wandering the valley naked day and night. People were dying every day, and the corpses were left to rot wherever they have happened to fall. Having no functioning temple any more in the village, people worshipped the first thing they became aware of in the morning. Some resorted to cannibalism.

Part II.

The young man's name was taken away by the Time Keeper of the village, before he was sent on his mission. He will get a new name - fit for an Immortal, - only if he returns with a new gong, he was told. The new gong must bear the same design, it must come from the same cast of bronze as the old one was made from. It most reverberate in the pitch the Time Keeper saved from the old gong and now the young man kept under his tongue. He was not allowed neither to eat, nor drink, nor speak so he would not disturb the sleeping pitch. He must keep his mouth shut all the time, even in his sleep, breath only through his nostrils. He should breath very carefully, so he would not ever sneeze or cough, until he returns with the new gong.

He was far away from his family compound, alone in unfriendly land, nameless. He carried only a kreesh, a traditional Javanese dagger, which was given to him by the Time Keeper before his departure. The kreesh was made out of the finest steel Java was famous for. It had a design on its bronze handle, similar to the one on the old gong: the word 'NOW' - inscribed with the letters of the Old Language, in between two svastis, and the twelve spiked Wheel of Time engraved on its flame shaped blade.

Part III.

He traveled all over the kingdoms of Java, to places he kept in his memory, and to others he preferred to forget as soon as he left them. He was carving spoons as he was walking, leaving a trail of wood chips along his path. Rain followed him wherever he went and the wood chips grew into trees by the next morning, so they say.

He has inspected many gongs along the way. Most of them did not look or sound right. A few of the gongs had design and sound (pitch and body) very similar to the Old Gong. Sometimes he stayed for a long time in a place, listening to the sound of a particular gong on sale, until he invariably found a small, but very significant element missing from either its sound or its design.

Part IV.

Once he stayed in a village in North Java for eleven years, married to a blind and deaf princess. They loved each other very much but their marriage produced no children. He couldn't bear the responsibility to raise a child, until he accomplished his mission. His wife had her own reasons for not wanting children, so there was no disagreement on this matter in between them.

Years were passing by. The man spent his days visiting the markets and workshops of gong smiths. He brought home gongs to try them out, just to take them back after they could not match his expectations. In his spare time he was carving spoons for sale, to support his wife and pay for the deposit on the borrowed gongs.

She kept herself busy by creating elaborate offerings to the Gods out of flowers and palm leaves. She carefully placed the offerings in those parts of the house where she felt a presence. She could tell the color of the flowers by simply touching them with her slender fingers. The man enjoyed watching her practicing her art, as they were sitting in their garden after morning prayers. She reminded him of a very delicate flower. She had heart shaped lips, golden skin and her eyes were always closed. She was a graceful dancer, even though she could not hear sounds or see other people dancing. How did she do it, it was her secret. The music she hears is inside her, she often signaled to him, by touching his navel with her forefinger and kissing his ear at the same time.

The husband and wife communicated by touching each other gently on the face or on the hands. Sometimes she used words too, but with the passing of time she spoke less and less. Then, by the eleventh year together she started to avoid his touch, even though she still touched him sometimes, if she wanted something from him.

Part V.

Year after year came to conclusion. The youngster who left his village to find the gong long time ago, became an old man . His arms and legs were giving out. His kris was still sharp, but his holding on the handle became weaker every day. He couldn't carve anymore, he had no strength and lost most of his eyesight. He was living in a hut, on the outskirts of a village in Northern Java. At last he has found a gong which looked and sounded like the old one.

He knew it is the gong he was looking for all through his adult life. He spent years examining its look and sound. He carefully measured each detail of the design and compared them to the overall proportions of the instrument. He came to numbers which were exactly the same as the numbers of the old gong were, which the Time Keeper at home had him memorize. Then he played the gong in different times and locations, always finding that the sound the gong produced is in perfect harmony with the time and space in which the gong was used.

Then came months of bargaining with the gong smith, using a sign language he has developed along the way. The craftsman who made the gong wanted no more than a reasonable price for it, but he had no money, and could not carve more spoons for sale. So, - after much thinking (because he remembered the advice of the Time Keeper never to sell his only tool), - he offered his kreesh, in exchange for the gong. The craftsman gladly accepted the offer, because the kreesh - he had eyes to see, - was worth much more than the gong. It had the soul of a whole kingdom in it, as it was given by the first Raja of the whole of Java to the village, where the man on the gong finding mission came from.

Part VI.

Following his own trail of wood chips, which grew into shady trees, the man with the gong was going home now. He did not have to pay tolls and fees, because he was carrying a village gong on his head, respected by all the guards in every village and kingdom. He felt hungry and thirsty and had an almost overpowering desire to talk now, as he was getting closer to his village.

One morning, just after daybreak finally he has arrived to the river he knew so well and looked to the other side for the village. There was only jungle there. Green, tall, impassable jungle, dripping of water, snakes hanging from the branches of the trees, monkeys playing in the canopy, tigers roaming in the underbrush.

Using the gong as a boat he let the current carry him across the river. There was not a living soul on the other side. Everybody was dead long ago, his family, friends, the Time Keeper, even the village dogs. He knew he was late and there is nothing he can do about it. Instinctively he reached for his kreesh to end his now worthless life, but the kreesh was not there where he used to keep it before he has found the new gong.

Then in anger and desperation he threw the new gong against a tree and when it fell on the ground, from under his tongue he spat the sound of the old one at it, screaming: "God Is Unjust!". As the brilliant ball of the old gong's essence hit the center of the engraved Wheel of Time, the new gong gave out a powerful sound, which filled the valley and reverberated from the cliffs of the mountain side. Snakes and tigers first froze motionless, in dread of the gong's sound, then hastily retreated deep in the dark of the jungle. "God Is Unjust!", screamed the now old man again, then fell to the ground and cried.

Part VII.

Upon hearing the truth 'God Is Unjust' the Time God lifted the course over the village and brought it back from death. There were children dancing by the waterfall again, people working the rice fields, dogs running around, groups of women carrying offerings on their heads to the temple. Everything was as if nothing has happened.

The old Time Keeper greeted the returned man and his precious cargo. The new gong was placed on a richly carved wooden stand over the spot where the old one was buried in the temple yard. Then an eleven day long ceremony took place to celebrate the gong's return. This ceremony is repeated in every fifty fourth year ever since, even now, when there are no more kingdoms in Java. The ceremony always ends at the close of the eleventh day as the brahman spits a gold plated mustard seed at the village gong, as the chorus of newly wed brides is singing in sweet, airy unison: "God Is Unjust" over and over. The Time God is watching them from above. He enjoys the sound which the gong makes when it is hit by the tiny, golden ball and he is always pleased to hear the truth about his own nature. Gods are not there to be trusted, but rather to watch over us and do as they please.

Part VIII.

The name given to the man who brought home the new gong was Jam Karet (Rubber Time), for he returned to his village like a suddenly released string of rubber (Karet) returns to its original position, and because he brought them Time (Jam) home.

Part IX.

He survived many generations motionless, in control of only his eyebrows. He lived in a shrine built for him by the villagers. He lived alone, attended by young boys. At nights, after everybody was gone Jam Karet was left laying fully awaken on his bed. He has lost his ability to sleep on the night his wife left him and even now he could not think about anything, but her. The picture of her as she was preparing offerings in their old garden is the only image his inner eye could see. Strings of sad thoughts and the vision of her in that long gone morning light filled his eyes with tears night after night, years after years. Yet, when the new day broke and his attendants opened his door they have never seen him crying. To them he always looked to be the same: a tiny old man laid out on a white sheeted bed. They always brought him flowers.

They came every morning at sunrise, washed his body in freshly scented spring water, replaced his bed sheets and sarong, then tenderly put him back on his bed, in a sitting position. After that they were just squatting around, chattering like a group monkees, but one of them always kept an eye on Jam Karet's eyebrows.

Part X.

On an emerald morning after a moonless night, in the dry season the boys came like usual, just to find the bed empty, Jam Karet's gone. On the bed there was a graceful offering, rare flowers and butterfly wings arranged around fruits and rice cakes on a tray woven from bamboo leaves. Two of the rice cakes and two pieces of fruit - placed on the opposite ends of the oval shaped tray - looked as if they have been tasted by someone. Judging from the size and shape of the bites the food must have been tasted by a couple, a man and a woman.

In a small gold case which was engraved with the design of the gong (and was also graced by the insignia of a faraway principality up North), there was a small wooden spoon, like a child, laying in the cup of a hibiscus flower. Twelve hairs from Jam Karet's eyebrows were laid out in the spoon, in the shape of the Wheel of Time. On a palm leaf, which has been left on the bed sheet by the tray was the word "NOW", written in the letters of the Old Language, with a woman's lipstick and by a woman's hand. Under it, written with the same lipstick, but in the letters of the New Language and writtenby a man's hand was a message: 'Time Is Just"

Saturday, October 12, 1996, Copenhagen, 1:08 AM

Traveling College of Time Consciousness
Presents:

JOHNNY NOGUN
Treatment of a dance theatre piece
Dedicated to Soren Kirkegaard

Bagatelle 1.
Johnny Nogun

 
The sun goes down early in this time of the year in Denmark. Johnny Nogun finds himself on the deserted Rådhuspladsen, the main square in the center of Copenhagen, as the bells of the city start to peel his first hour in town.

He looks up to the sky. There are no stars on it to guide him, just low flying clouds, illuminated to a grayish mauve color by the city lights. "There is no hope for you Johnny", they seem to say before sneaking away to invade Norway.

A couple of drunks cross the plaza diagonally. Then a police car cruises by , driven by a wholesome blonde, smoking what appears to Johnny as a huge joint. Her partner - who could be her mirror image - is nursing a bottle of Smirnoff vodka. When the car nears Johnny, the lady police with the bottle rolls down her window and signals him to get to the car.

The car stops. Johnny walks up to it, not knowing what to expect. When he gets to the car the officer offers him a drink and a toke. Johnny thankfully accepts the bottle, but politely refuses the spliff for it would remind him of his lost lover and New York. They chat for a while about the weather, before an emergency call comes in, calling the officers to Frederiksberg. The ladies give him their cards, telling him to call any time. They also give him the address of a place where he could stay at the price he can afford. "Nice ass", - says the officer who is driving to the other, as she turns on the siren and takes off with the car in a style she must have learned from the television series Magnum PI.

First a fog rolls in from the sea covering the plaza like a blanket, then the fog turns into a fine, steady rain to wash off Johnny's tears. Then the rain stops and the fog disappears as fast as it came. Johnny dries his face with a monogrammed handkerchief, given to him by his love.

He looks at his hands and sees a dog's paws. He looks at the pavement behind him and sees the scales of a rat's long tail. He looks at his face it the mirror of his saxophone and he sees the sad face of a sick, old dog. He looks at the puddle of water by his feet and sees the face of a vengeful rat reflected in it, with fiery, evil eyes and a set of prominent front teeth. He knows that the disease he picked up years ago from the nice Canadian lady on the island of Java is playing tricks on him again. To chase away his demon he turns to his saxophone and improvises a short fugue to the sounds of the bells.

Bagatelle 2.
The Room

 
Oriental bordello in the Amager section of the city, which is considered to be the worst neighborhood in Copenhagen. Madame No shows Johnny his room, a nondescript cubicle right under her bed. Johnny gives her a gold watch, which she takes with a dose of suspicion then she climbs up on the creaky ladder to her bed to engage in a noisy sex with her wooden dildo.

Johnny walks around his room with the candle Madame No has given him. He sees what he thinks is an Oriental male sleeping on a cot in a corner, but the bundle turns out to be just a rug.

Then he sees a fist  in the air, but it is just a showerhead sticking out of the wall, by the window. He turns it on, but the shower does not work.

There is a dirty matress for bed and by it, a telephone. He tries to make a phonecall, to his boyfriend in New York, but the phone does not work.

There is a  desk, covered with boxes of old Chinese food and a three legged chair leaning against it. Using his snakeskin suitcase as the fourth leg of the chair, Johnny sits down on it and  plays the blues on his saxophone, to the rhythm of the Madame's affair with the dildo upstairs.

On his first night in the room Johnny dreams of a motorcycle, for no reason at all. It is a Harley Davidson motorcycle, with black animal horns as its handlebars and a bare breasted woman in pearls and leather standing on the back seat, swinging a Celtic battle ax. The rider himself appears to be the skeleton of Johnny, dressed in a naval uniform.

Bagatelle 3.
Sisters Grossberg

 
Sisters Grossberg, Mjolk and Sukker, are secretary types on their lunch break. They are having a quickie with a full grown labrador and a nervous white rat in a cafeteria's bathroom, near their offices in Copenhagen harbor. They both manage to come fast, but not as quick as they wanted to, so they call the animal shelter and give their pets to their care. The pets cry, as they are being taken away. The girls hear their cries, which makes them giggle and say: "Who cares. So what."

There is still some time left from their lunch break, so they decide to take a stroll in the harbor. That's where they meet Johnny Nogun, who is in the midst of another viral attack. He is trying to get into the gutter as if he were a rat, and he is barking at people's feet. The sisters are enchanted by him and after he repeats a Southern riff on his saxophone eleven times they decide to call it a day and take him home.

The girls are uninhibited and very attractive, to say the least, but sex is the last thing on Johnny Nogun's mind. He feels himself older than the mummies of Egypt are. He is in desperate need to talk with someone before he dies. He wants to talk about his disease, about his life, about his voyages to the South Pacific and to the Far East, his experiences as a male prostitute in New York, about the loss of his family and friends, the break up of his band, the loss of his home and, most of all, he wants to talk about the treason of his lover. He also wants to recite poetry, possibly sing a song - maybe - and he would love if the girls would tell him about their lives, all those things they consider important.

In the middle of telling them the story of a magic night in a hidden valley in Central Java, he suddenly realizes that nobody is listening to him. The sisters Mjolk and Sukker are too busy with playing with his fly, soon both to be naked and in the magenta colored bed with him.

Johnny is a poor, sick, lonely devil indeed but still a good sport. He has never been a spoiler of other people's fun. He is a bit disappointed for being treated again as an object, but he thinks maybe he will eventually gain more respect as time passes by and the girls get to know him. As his hallucinations are gone for now, he takes on any role the girls want him to play. He nibbles on their clits with his front teeth, as if he would be a rat, then penetrates them first in missionary position, then from behind, doggy style. In return they throw leftover food on the floor and watch him lap it up. They also let him use their magenta colored telephone. He calls his boyfriend Augustin in New York, because he misses him badly. Nobody picks up the phone at the other end of the line. It makes Johnny sad.

Bagatelle 4.
Dead Time Walks

 
Johnny is interviewing for jobs. First he applies for enployment in a slaughterhouse - even though he is a vegetarian, - thinking that dealing with dead flesh and blood is the closest thing to what he was doing for a living for years in New York City. Yet his application for the position of "junior butcher" is refused on the grounds that even though his arms are strong, his wrists are not thick enough, and also he is too slow with both chainsaw and knife.

The next job he applies for is as of a nature preservationist in the Assistens Kirkegård cemetery. His responsibilities would be to feed the resident woodchuck and count the leaves as they fall to the ground with the approaching of winter. The woodchuck likes him and the way he serves meals, but he fails to notice a great number of leaves falling, as hallucinations overcome him, triggered by the smell of kebab from the nearby Turkish grill.

The third interview is at a travel agency. His former occupation as a male prostitute in New York took him around the world many times over. His knowledge of the rules and regulations of even such exotic airports as of the temporary ones in Patagonia and Irian Jaya leaves a lasting impression on Kamel Kemal, the owner of the Crescent Moon travel agency. He tells Johnny to leave his CV with him and call next day for a definitive answer. Johnny walks back to his room in rosy clouds.

Bagatelle 5.
Learn to hate

 
The fun loving sisters Grossberg visit him at odd hours of the day. Sometimes they come together, sometimes they come alone: they are identical, so he usually has no idea whose clitoris he is rubbing, licking or biting at the moment, or whose anus is pulsating at the touch of his penis. He wishes the two could be one. He sees no point in entering consecutively two identical assholes in short succession. Yet he is a professional, capable of maintaining an erection for long periods - even when tied to a table and his nipples are burned with cigarettes -just to please someone.

The girls find Johnny's room too barren and damp, so  they make him come over to their place in Norrebro, where they have a costume designed dungeon installed under their house. They play Jerry Mulligan in the background as they rape Johnny.

Sometimes, when they stop copulating for a moment or two he asks them what is on their minds, what are they thinking about. If the girls bother to answer at all, they answer in unison: "Credit history. Credit Rating. Vanilla ice-cream with chocolate fudge!".

What he does not know is that the  sisters are two, thousands of years old Nordic witches, straight from the bed of Thor, and they are up for no good. They don't like his kind at all. They see him for what he really is: a dog, a rat and most of all: a closeted Christian -in spite of his high Hassidic bloodline and spiritual origins, - with a mind poisoned by the illusion of the possibility of forgiveness. A desirable victim, they fight over him like cats. They both want him to hate them more than he hates the other sister. Every day they take pride in coming back with a more refined method of humiliation and torture. They want him exclusively for themselves, each wants him as her own slave. The fight is a mean one over the ownership of Johnny. It involves mostly metaphysical means. They demand more and more extreme sex from Johnny, including games involving pain and bondage, to be endured by all participants. Johnny is worn out.

All he wants from life now is a straight job, a quiet room in a pleasant neighborhood, and a telephone, so he could call New York from the privacy of his own space.

At the end of their last and fatal session - which happens to happen in Johnny's own, barren room again, - sister Sukker is giving a fisty to sister Mjolk, yelling "Ride 'em cowboy!" at the very instant when Johnny is supposed to ejaculate - in the role of a rat, - inside her uterus. Upon hearing the familiar phrase and intonation - identical to that of his former clients from New York's infamous Garment District in moments of faked sexual ecstasy, - Johnny faints.

While he is out cold the sisters gag him and tie him up with the telephone chord, before setting his alarm clock to the time of his next day appointment with Kamel Kemal at the Crescent Moon travel agency. Then Mjolk signs her name - Mjolk - on his chest with a blade. And Sukker tattoos her name - Sukker - on his penis with her nails. The girls also give him a golden shower, defecate on his face, burn a crucial page from his Torah on his navel and spit seven times each at each of the seven corners of his room.

The smell of urine and excrement, and the growing pain of his wounds wake Johnny up. He hears the girls giggling, as they dress up and leave. Then he hears the Madame turn over in her bed above and start to snore.

Bagatelle 6.
Scent Of Time

Johnny is laying in a fetal position in a puddle of urine, covered with drying fecal matter. The stench of it, mixed with the smell of his own burned flesh makes him want to throw up. But he can not throw up without choking to death, because of the duct tape on his mouth. He is unsuccessful in his repeated attempts to free himself of his bounds. He succumbs to his situation and applies a techinque known to players of wind instruments as circular breathing, to calm his nerves. To his own disgusted and revolting intellect he quotes Goethe: "Uns bleibt ein Erdenrest, zu tragen peinlich" that is, a little earthiness always remains behind, awkward to bear.

Bagatelle 7:
Old Baby Blues

 
While Johnny is laying all tied up, a new day begins in Copenhagen. Armies of stern faced single mothers appear on bicycles to take their babies to the quarantine, before deportation to their homeland beneath.

Male Danes emerge from the pubs and roll on to work, thanking their fate for the good whipping they have received last night from their lovers or wives. They are dying for more."Ubi spiritus, ibi libertas" they keep on repeating their mantra with  a sarcastic grin on their faces, over and over, as they are pedaling toward their offices. That is from St. Paul, who said: "Where the spirit of the Lord is there is freedom." (2 Cor. 3:17)

Slowly a crucifix rises up on the horizon as if projected onto the clouds. Nailed to the cross is the corpse of a baby. There are four grim figures at the feet of the cross. Each seem to be taller then the Himalayas. Each represent a geographical direction and a main religion. They are the Avengers. They have come to restore balance after what has been done to Johnny Nogun.

Bagatelle 8.
Clock Stroke One

 
Laying in a position he can not change, Johnny Nogun manages to achieve the  state which comes right after a person's death. That is: by the power of circular breathing he leaves his body and enters the tunnel leading to either nothing or back to hell. There he takes a break, in the dim of white light.

From the other side of the Atlantic a sweet melody makes his way to Johnny's inner ears. It is his only love singing in his smooth falsetto, as he always used to sing while preparing couscus for supper, on nights when they stayed in to play.

"The light of your light will flow into my light; it will be like a mixture of wine and water and I will stop my flow and afterwards I will be enclosed in your blackness like ink and then I shall coagulate."

In his mind Johnny gets drunk on the driest chardonnay New York has to offer, so he can fully appreciate the seemingly drunkard poetry of El Hafis, or El Roumi, the Sufi poet his lost lover taught him to love.

"The light of your light will flow into my light; it will be like a mixture of wine and water and I will stop my flow...my flow...my flow"

He vaguely hears the alarm clock signaling the time of his missed appointment with Kamel Kemal, but he blissfully does not see the timepiece anymore. What he sees is four ghosts on motorcycles, approaching him from four directions.

First comes the Ghost of the North, on a  silver Harley. He is pale like the pale of the Arctic dawn. This ghost is blind. His gift is a sheet of ice. Hand painted on it is the Map of Time. He places the icesheet on Johnny's tongue, where it dissolves in an instant, leaving the sweet taste of a Jamaican mango fruit on his tongue.

Secondly the wet Ghost of the West rolls his black hog up to Johnny, dripping black rain. This Ghost is deaf. He asks Johnny for his name, but can not hear the answer. So he gives him a new one, as of the date of the Eternal's death. He also gives him a compass, its needle sharp as knife, designed by the God of Morality, Ghosh. This compass was last used by Dinghies Khan.

From the East  comes a  Ghost on a white bike. This Ghost is mute. He is carrying the New Psalm on the palm of his outstretched hand. He cuts a hole on Johnny's side and places the song in his heart. The Psalm's rhythm syncopates with the beat of Absolute Time, repeating in every fourteen minutes and twenty four seconds: "What's happened to the laws of Moses?".

The Ghost of the South rides a red bike and gives Johnny a watch. It is made out of gold, and on its face twenty four diamonds  and thirty precious stones tell what time really means in any given moment. He touches Johnny's forehead with his finger, killing the virus inside his skull. It hurts Johnny a bit. Then he opens his black robe and shows Johnny a commando of ten black, red eyed rats with mirror-like scales on their tails and spark in their eyes. The Ghost unleashes the rats, tells them to go with Johnny and obey to him from now on. 'On you go Son', he says to Johnny, 'kill them all".

Filled with power, emitting metallic light Johnny returns from the Bardo and easily sets himself free from his bonds. He climbs up on the ladder and kills the still snoring Madame No in her bed, by beating her into a pulp with the shadow of her own old, wooden Danish dildo. 

Bagatelle 9.
New Dog

In the dead of the night, followed by the silent commando of the ten rats Johnny jogs down to the old harbor and looks at his reflection in the mirror of the sea. Looking back at him there is a black dog, with bright white teeth and eyes of the coldest blue. The new watch and compass are fastened to his black leather collar, which is inscribed with his number. The rats are waiting in silence behind him, their eyes are glowing red in the damp darkness. At their feet is Johnny's saxophone. Johnny picks up the saxophone with his teeth and throws it into the sea. Then he looks up to the moon and howls. A foghorn answers from a distance.

Leading his troops Johnny disappears into the night, running toward Norrebro, toward the Grossberg sisters' house, beneath which is the magenta colored dungeon he knows so well. The bells of Copenhagen peel again, in a somewhat more subdued manner than they usually do.

Over the waters of the Atlantic the voice of Johnny's lost lover is still singing:

"My light will fade and my beauty will be extinguised and they will take from the minerals of my pure body and from the fatness of the purified lead in harmony of their weight, and without goat's blood, and a difference can be made what is true and what is false...."

Bagatelle 10.
Done

The mutilated bodies of the sisters Grossberg are found some days later, after Mjolk and Sukker do not show up at work. The sisters are found tied to the bed with dog leash. The bodies have been punctuated thousands of times by what the experts report as rat teeth. The marks come from ten different animals, definitively not from the same litter. The blood has been drained out of the bodies. The throats have been thorn open by the teeth of a dog of Southern origin, according to the experts. The same extremely powerful jaws have severed the heads, which were then exchanged in between the bodies, so that Mjolk's head was placed on Sukker's neck and vice versa.

The corpses show signs of multiple rape. Laboratory tests find dog and rat semen in the body cavities and smeared over the breasts, faces and in between the toes. Cut into the skin by razor-sharp teeth, just below the nipple of both girls' left breast, is a number, implicating the time of their deaths. To top it all, the police specialists find parts of an old fashioned alarm clock stuffed inside the girls' mouth, along with torn pieces of a job application form which has never been filled out.

The police call the deaths a crime of passion and look for a recently shacked lover among the city's immigrant population. The press treats the case as a crime of mystery, predicting that the real killer(s) will never be found. There is an unnamed amount of cash and jewelry missing from the safe, which is also in the cellar of the house.

On the morning following the double homicide there are eleven last minute bookings on business class of the first plane bound for New York. The tickets are issued to an Arabian prince, named Jayan Rono and his ten attendants, Orden, Glaube, Disziplin, Gehorsam, Beziehung, Tapferkeit, Sauberkeit, Ehrlichkeit, Aufrichtigkeit and Hass.

The eleven passengers - wearing flowing black robes and hiding their eyes behind dark shades take their seats just minutes before the plane takes off. They spend the time in flight reciting an age old desert prayer, said to come from the time of the first Crusade.

The stewardess does not understand the words of the chant, but soon falls under the spell of the hypnotic rhythm and serpentine melody. Without feeling any inhibition she first orally satisfies the prince, then engages in  group sex with the ten chanting bodyguards. There is no orifice of her that's left unpenetrated during the long flight. She is repeatedly flogged with leather belts and ends up hogtied, with the wrong end of a champagne bottle sticking out of her rear, in the bathroom. Written on the mirror with her lipstick - in Arabic letters, but in German, - is a quote from the Danish thinker, Soren Kirkegaard: "Gogol's wife was a rubber doll. Servants blew air into her before parties, and - after inserting a small whistle in between her rubber lips, - they let her deflate during the most important diplomatic exchanges in between the Ambassadors of Lithuania and Spain".

The prince watches them for the time being, then dials for a Jerry Mulligan recording and listens to it, while leafing through a motorcycle magazine and thinking of New York. Does it ever rain on Fifth Avenue?  Is the Risotto A La Bamba  still as bland as it was last year at Oznot's? Whatever.

He picks up the telephone and makes a phonecall to the city. This time Augustin answers the call. His voice is hoarse, as if he had been out celebrating something the night before. The prince smiles, showing his gleaming white teeth. He wets his lips with his long, red tongue, then without saying a word, he puts down the telephone. He looks at his watch. There are still four hours left until landing at Kennedy airport. He turns off his reading light and proceeds to take a nap. It is going to be a busy day tomorrow.

le trident est screpte du monde

TCTC ["Nobilis In Mobili"],- where life ever so graciously intermingles with fantasy and no extremes of human feelings have ever been censored, - owes no thanks nor apologies to anyone  neither in the United States of America, nor in Canada, nor in the Kingdoms of Denmark and Sweden for this Treatment.

Traveling College of Time Consciousness
‘Festina Lente’
Presents:

THE CITY OF THE LAME 
One Mean Industrial Dance Theater Piece For The Morally Challenged

- A Tribute to Antonin Artaud and Rabbi Yehuda Loew -

 
Music and Treatment by:
Sir  David  O'Clock

 Choreography by
Miriam Rother

  Cast:
Neil Clark as Mr. Jones
Stuart Carr as  Monsieur d’Foyer
Miss Diamond as Intermezzo

and also  trained volunteers from
The Danubean David Bowie Fan Club and Travel Agency:
Zsuzsanna Batta as Enigma
Hajnalka Berkes as Nurse Hermione
Kinga Bress as Nurse Aqua Marina
Katalin Rita as Rosemarie
with
Sir David O’Clock as Dr. Bardo

 Directed by:
1:08 AM

A Miriam Rother/Laszlo Najmanyi Co-Production

April 17, 1999, 10 PM
MERLIN International Theater
Address: 1052 Budapest, Gerlóczy u. 4
Phone: 317 9338 / 318 9844 
Fax: 266 0904
E-mail: merlin@C3.hu

TCTC
Curriculum ‘99

“And they went down to Asana, and a blind man at the entrance to the city raised his hand and spoke”

Paul Bowles: Points in Time

Empty stage, with a projection screen as the background. Microphone stand with microphone on left stage front. Patches of fog float in, illuminated by pale, gray, dispersed light. Three gongs sound. The light fades out. Darkness for a few seconds, then the Narration starts up and with it projection of an empty street fades in on the backdrop.

Narration: (voiceover)
Not long ago, in a distant country in the Far East, there was an unkempt, ancient city in a hidden valley. It was surrounded by an unbroken chain of smoking mountains. It was accessible only by a boat, which braved an underground river, once a year. The city was a quiet place, nothing ever moved on the deserted streets, except once a day, in the early hours, when graceful young women appeared at every door to the sound of three gongs, emanating from the Temple. They were pushing wheelchairs, as they were walking quietly towards the center of town. Paralyzed people were sitting motionless in the wheelchairs, either sleeping or unconscious, seemingly completely unaware to their surroundings and what was happening to them.

Two graceful, young women, one after the other, both dressed in nurses’ white walk across the projection screen.  They are pushing wheelchairs, a paralyzed patient is seated in each.  They are walking mirrored by their video images, from right to left and vice versa, in and out.

This was The City of the Lame, Benteng Bershi Desa, as she was called beyond the smoking mountains on the horizon. This was the place, where the lame - who were considered guilty for having a disease, - were exiled by the Raja’s will, to be cured by the great Magi Balean I Ketut Shushilla, also called Dr. Bardo. Every morning, just after the break of dawn the lame were taken out of their beds, washed down by ice cold spring water, dressed up, fed rice and fish oil, seated in wheelchairs and their nurses rolled them to the Balean’s compounds, in a cave, below the Temple on the hill, at the center of the city. There they were waiting in line, in dark and damp underground corridors, until they were ready to be let into the inner sanctuary, to be treated by hypnosis and fire, in groups or individually, by the Magi and his fierce, masked assistants, the Twelve Hours. After receiving treatment the lame are taken to the sun, to air them out. Some get cured by the first treatment and let go. Others stay in the city for many years, until they regain their bodies or until they die, still paralyzed. Sometimes the magi would sit with them in the sun, in disguise, to further their treatment unnoticed.

Two nurses take position with their patients in their wheelchairs, on the two sides of the projected city-scape. Mr. Jones, under the care of Hermione, is positioned on stage left. Monsieur d’Foyer, wheeled by Aqua Marina, is stationed on stage right. Slides of their side-views are projected to the screen behind them. Dr. Bardo, the great healer himself, disguised as one of the patients, in pajamas and dark shades, is being wheeled in on video-projection by the very aware and restlessly intense elf, Enigma, a manifestation of the great Magi, Balean I Ketut Shushilla.  They take position center-screen, facing the audience. Enigma leaves the screen and appears live, on stage, where she is going to play teasing games on the expense of the patients, tantalizing them with cigarettes. The Monologues come from speakers, mixed in with the music. The dancer, who’s voice is on the speakers at any given time are illuminated by a colored spotlight.

Mr. Jones: (Englishman, football hooligan type)
I was just bored out of my mind. Me job, the old lady. Going ga-ga. I hardly could wait for the weekend, to go to the football game. I like football. One day, probably it was a Wednesday or something, my mate gave me this pill. It was blue, the size of an eyeball and tasted like sperm. I took it and it worked. I mean it paralyzed me from kopf to toe, can’t walk, can’t talk, can’t move at all. You know what I mean. Kaputzky. But I enjoy it, being paralyzed and that’s the main thing. You bet. Without the pill I would not enjoy a minute of this, believe me, that’s right. I mean, I cannot move! Fuck... Thanks, mate. But I like it. I can see, I can hear, better than new. I can smell. I can smell them from a mile. I mean: let me go.

They are so gorgeous. They wear white, you know. They are nice to me. They bathe me and give me new underwear. I still have some of me teeth. They brush them twice a day. They feed me and they are very gentle with the tubes. They are pushing me around town. They take me outside, to enjoy the sun. And I am enjoying it, to the fullest extent, believe me. I just wish I could light up a fag. But I cannot and that’s the problem. I mean I got the fag - and the fag holder - they are all safe. But I haven’t  got the fucking lighter and I cannot move. That one in the other chair has the lighter. And he is a Frenchman too. I can smell a frog a mile away. A frog with a lighter. Frogie! Frogie! Frogie! But he hasn’t got the cigarette, haha! Lame too. Still, it’s a problem. I mean I can’t light one up!

It ain’t fair. But that’s okay. I enjoy it. I mean up until a certain level like. If I get angry enough I just pass out. When they see me passed out, they roll me back to the shade. They think I’ve got too much sun. Lovely broads, indeed. Mine is called Hermione, I believe. She is flirting with me, I cannot believe it! I want to fist her, real fucking hard. For all that flirting. Hermione, you can’t do this to a paralyzed man. She keeps on showing me her boobs in the morning and just before bedtime. Nice boobs, mate. Politically correct. They give me a mental hard on, which she’d grab, mentally. Then she watches me come. Wet me fucking bed. Then she would roll me in my own cum. Too much, mate.  She can’t do this to me. 

All I want is a football and a bottle of beer. I mean the bottle would be enough. I’d show it to Hermione, you know what I mean. But right now I just want a fag. The one in my pocket. I want my fag holder too. And the lighter from that Frenchman. That’s all there is to it. I mean I am going ape. I am going out of my fucking mind. I am not going to take it nomore.  I am going to get that frog with the lighter. Then I will take care of Hermione. Trust me, mate.

Monsieur d’Foyer: (Frenchman, diplomat)
It happened on a dinner party, thrown by Monsieur the Minister of Agriculture in honor to the Ambassador of Peru. Beautiful table, set with exotic flowers and candles. Just as I was deciding which cheese would go with the black current jam. It was probably the mushrooms in the salad, or un of those charming pickles. It felt like a very delicate sort of orgasm. Almost. Then I just could not move anymore. I was paralyzed in an instant. I fell on the table. Un of the candles set my hair on fire, but I could not move a finger anymore.

I did not lose consciousness for un second. I could see and hear perfectly, maybe even a tiny bit better, or differently than before, but I lost the power of speech, I can’t talk. It’s as simple and brutal as that. Once I was an extrovert. Now I am totally turned inward. I don’t like to be like this, but enjoy, I must. If I would not be enjoying being a lame I would go crazy. I am afraid of that. I’d rather suffer and enjoy the pain than would risk of going out of my mind and not finding my way back anymore. I want to understand what is my situation about and why did it happened to me. I don’t want to lose my intellect. I want to save the eloquence of my thinking.

I want to see a system in all this - or the total lack of system, which is the same. Then, but only then I want to draw a conclusion. My conclusion. If I can come to absolute understanding of the merde I am in, that would be like a slap in the face of fate. A final, unarguable conclusion would give sense to my life, retrospective and onward. Then, but only then, after I reached the  conclusion I could afford and accept madness - then, but only then would I take madness in its full glory. Until then I keep on analyzing what there is for me in this motionless universe of mine. A challenging task.

Meanwhile I have fallen in love with my nurse, who is constantly playing games on me, even when she is giving me my enema. As a matter of fact the only time I feel she is reciprocating my feeling towards her slender being is when she is giving me my enema, twice a day. Her name is Aqua Marina. She loves to torture me and I am privileged to be tortured by her. When I think of her I want to smoke un cigarette.  Just like right now. Mon Dieu, I need un cigarette. I haven’t got any cigarettes. Aqua Marina took them away, on the first occasion when she came to change my pampers.  Fortunately, she could not find my lighter, which I keep in my mouth, ever since I’ve been paralyzed. That was my last voluntary body movement, as I picked the lighter up with my mouth and hid it behind my teeth. Then I got jaw-locked. If I could just get the lighter out from under my stiff tongue and get a cigarette, I would be saved. No more thinking. If I could just light up un cigarette, I could take care of Aqua Marina too, with the cigarette holder, which the Monsieur on the other wheelchair have held in his anus ever since he crushed that diner party, in honor of the Ambassador to Peru.

I saw him. He is an Englishman. As I was falling face down on the dinner table, I saw him falling backwards, right into the cigarette holder, which he was balancing on throughout the party, making crude jokes on each course. I saw the cigarette holder slipping deep into his ass and he has kept on holding to it tight ever since. I have no idea of how did he get through the security, for he was already drunk as a skunk upon arrival. He was obnoxious, sort of insufferable at first sight. Very bad tailoring. He is either from Oxford, or Yorkshire. A beef and potato man, as they call them. All blood and bowels. Very materialistic. I saw the look on his face, as the cigarette holder settled in his colon. “I got it and now I am gonna keep it”, - that was the last expression on his face. Tight upper lips. Money socked away in stocks, trust fund from daddy. I believe he has un cigarette, too, hidden somewhere in a fold of his many pockets. I can smell it. The perfume of it. The scent of it. The karma it contains. And I want nothing more in life than to light up that cigarette. I would gladly give my sanity for having un toke. I must focus all my mental powers on breaking the chain of physical paralysis and get out of this wheelchair at once. 

FIRST INTERMEZZO

Intermezzo swings in, on a swing, lip-synching to a Marlene Dietrich song,

Hermione: (Mr. Jones’s Brooklynite nurse)
They can’t move, but they pretend to be deaf-mutes too. Lord, I hate them. This one smells like a pig. A swine he is. He is from Yorkshire. He keeps a cigarette holder up in his ass and he thinks he is really something. He’s got a cigarette too, in his pocket. He thinks I don’t know about it. And, I also know how badly he wants to smoke that thing. Too bad. I don’t smoke. Nobody in my family, none of my friends smoke. He is not going to smoke, either, in my presence, even if they put him on artificial respiration, which I highly recommend. He is a heavy breather. That’s all he knows.

He has a dick, the shape, size and agility of kidney beans. Useless. All he wants is to play head games with you. Dirty little thing. We take them out to the sun every afternoon. They don’t seem to get better. When you pay attention to them you hear: all they want is a cigarette. That one, poor Aqua Marina’s problem, got a lighter. He does not look much fun to me either. Sort of Frogie. This one, poor me, got the cigarette. And he sits on the cigarette holder, too. All we need is the two of them getting together. They’d smoke up a storm. I mean I can’t stand smoke and I know that Aqua Marina can’t stand smoke either. Either. Either we put them on artificial respiration or they win and start to fume. And who wants that?

Aqua Marina: (Monsieur d’Foyer’s Californian nurse)
This one is an Englishman, too. He just plays the French. He is fun to watch. I love Frenchmen. They are so sensuous. It is hard to imitate how sensuous they are. The way they find the right spot. Just like South Americans. Once I had a lover, Horacio di Benedetto. He was from Brazil, but once he was a leftist revolutionary. He was like Che, he has never bathed or cut his hair or anything. The same khaki uniform all year around. No socks, no underwear.  Now he sells garments in the Far East. Hongkong, Shanghai, Singapore. But that’s okay. He is still a revolutionary. A revolutionary of what he is doing. Opening up new markets and stuff. Mind-blowing.

This one here seem to enjoy five fingers up and his weenie sometimes feels warmer than usual. It’s my job anyway, to make them feel right. I know that Hermione wants to put them all on artificial respiration, but I am so used to this one that I won’t send him off. She hates me for that. But I don’t hate her. Hermione makes me wet sometimes. It is a fatal attraction, because I like Horacio di Benedetto, too, from Brazil, presently deep in Red China. And I love Englishmen who play Frenchmen, even if they happen to be paralyzed, like this thing here, Jean Claude. Often I think he is giggling, when I give him his enema. That makes my day.

I am a simple girl, I came from a simple place, from simple people, who lead simple lives and I don’t want any trouble. All I want is simple pleasures. Like this maggot, this wormboy, if he’d come alive, if only to light up a cigarette. Maybe he would, one day. I know, that he has a lighter, tricky devil. He keeps it in his mouth. Under his tongue. They  found it on the x-rays, Doctor Arnold has told me. They just don’t have the time to take it out. It is okay just right where it is. Tricky devil, I know that he knows that Hermione’s patient has a cigarette and a cigarette holder too, up in his popo . Yikes! I know he wants both and God help me I’ll aid him in any way I can, at the moment he gets that lighter out of his mouth and the cigarette holder out of that Yorkshire pig’s popo and inside mine.

SECOND INTERMEZZO

Intermezzo swings in to lip-synch an Edit Piaf song. As she disappears at the end of the song Dr. Bardo makes a gesture and starts to talk. His lips do not move. His voice is carried by the speakers.

Dr. Bardo: (voiceover)
Let us start the great experiment. Would the blessed smoke of the Weed of Solomon work miracles on these sad, stubborn cases. I am transmitting an order to the elf Enigma to set the patients temporarily free.

Enigma leaps to both patients, dances around them, then she touches the forehead of each. Released from the bounds of paralysis  Monsieur d’Foyer spits out his lighter from under his tongue. Mr. Jones  finds his cigarette and his cigarette holder. He takes of his jacket, vest, tie and shirt and turns to the Frenchman.

Mr. Jones:
I smell a frog. I can smell a frog from a mile. And I can smell a frog with a lighter from ten miles...

A fight starts up between Mr. Jones and Monsieur d’Foyer. They fight over the cigarette and the lighter.  And also over their respective nationalities.  Mr. Jones puts the cigarette in the cigarette holder and puts the cigarette holder in his mouth. Monsieur d’Foyer lights up the cigarette for him. Mr. Jones inhales deeply than gives the cigarette to Monsieur d’Foyer, who also takes a  long toke. Everything calms down, as the spliff is going back and forth between the two. At the end Monsieur d’Foyer keeps the cigarette holder and Mr. Jones the lighter. They turn around, offer their arms to their nurses and leave the stage, followed by the jumping, leaping Enigma.

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