Matvei Yankelevich
IN THE
LANGUAGE OF THE THEATER (AN EXPERIMENT)
THE
LANGUAGE OF THE THEATER (NOIR BLANC)
[So
Boris stopped what he was doing and began to live alone.]
IN THE LANGUAGE OF THE
THEATER (AN EXPERIMENT)
PART I
BORIS
(form of woman):
I
walk on stage. I become a duckling.
I
wrap myself in a toga. I am a child speaking.
Enter Boris (form of woman). Boris makes a
chair out of her knee for Boris to sit on.
BORIS
(form of woman):
I
sit alone on stage. ItÕs empty. Darkness. Utter.
Where
are those butterflies that in my stomach flew and fluttered
with
their wings making me nauseous,
and
the nervous state in the audience...
Boris ceases talking about himself —
he is suddenly overcome by a feeling, as if a weight had been lifted off him,
as when death comes in your sleep or as though he had gone away to the sea.
At this time all the other Borises in the
form of women gather around the first ones, coming slowly out of the darkness.
They move smoothly, like ocean waves, like the tide and the sand and the
pebbles, smooth.
PART II
BORIS: We must not forget how to speak.
THE LANGUAGE OF THE THEATER
(NOIR BLANC)
There was a radio in the room. Under BorisÕs
weight stood a chair. The chair held Boris up. But for the chair, the room was
empty.
Boris sat in the chair listening to the radio.
The world came in over the radio.
He turned off the chair and sat the radio on
top of it. Boris himself stood in the corner and let the world in. Of all those
who came over there was one who stayed. She spread her skirt wide with her legs
and sat on top of the radio which in turn stood on the chair. She had a gun in
her hands but she did not shoot. Now there was nothing else in the room except
for the woman. The radio and the chair disappeared under her skirt. Boris stood
in the corner and watched. The woman pointed the gun into the corner and turned
away in the opposite direction. Boris fell in love with her. But he did not
leave his corner. There was nothing in the room, not even a radio to listen to.
Boris sat down on the floor. The room was completely white.
The room was all white. But the gun in the womanÕs
white hands was black. Boris asked the woman to put down the gun. He was not
afraid of the black death that the gun held inside. He wanted her to put it
down, but just because. The woman explained that there was no way she could do
that. She was still watching the opposite corner. Boris didnÕt get it. As it
happens the gun had in it, she made clear to him, not black death but white
milk, fresh white milk. And if she were to put down the gun, surely the milk
would spill.
There was a white room. There was nothing in
it. Nothing at all. Save for a puddle of milk on the white floor. No one wanted
to go in. The room was empty.
Equation of a kitten:
Boris did nothing because it was wicked.
He hardly thought — that might get him
in trouble with Woman.
The fine laundry on display shone brightly in
the sun. She washed it and she dried it. She was water and warmth. Was that
what Woman was.
That was not what Woman was to Boris. To Boris
she was neither rain nor shine. She was fake as wooden sheep, false as
snowflakes, fraudulent as kitten sneezes.
Woman was white. All white. Pearly smooth, to
wit.
[So Boris stopped
what he was doing and began to live alone.]
So Boris stopped what he was doing and began to
live alone. He kicked everyone out. And he said ÒThis is worse for me, but
better for everyone.Ó And he was scorned.
Boris was not always this way. Before he was
like everybody else, and he could say:
ÒWhat
should I do.Ó
and
ÒShould
I do.Ó
and
also
ÒI
do.Ó
These three got him into trouble with Woman.
But not only that. Other things too.