(이 희곡은 미국에 살고 있는 의사 동생이 1996년도, The University of Iowa 의과 대학 본과 1년 재학 시절, 의과대학생을 대상으로 실시한 문예 창작 경연 대회에서 2등으로 입상한 작품입니다. 같은 해에 응모했던 단편 소설은 1등이었구요.....)
심사평: Witty, sustained, surprising. A drama with fine twists and turns. Literarily sophisticated. Always engaging.
Scenes from Marriages
(Light fades in. Zoe and Frank, sitting a few inches apart on a sofa, obliquely facing the audience, are answering questions presumably from a marriage therapist. The therapist is not on stage –his presence is “acted” by Zoe and Frank. Zoe and Frank suddenly look in the direction of the therapist and/or abruptly stop in the middle of their sentences, conveying to the audience that the therapist has just asked questions, much the same way as in a phone conversation. Both Zoe and Frank speak with distinctly academic inflections.)
Zoe: (Visibly emotional) No, in fact, I do believe in perfect marriage, and I was certain ours would be one…that is why I married at all. I mean I was certain I found a right person…
We were so much alike in so many ways –our intellectual outlooks, our sensibilities…our tastes and distastes. We could talk for hours on end without having to stop to explain what we meant…(Looking at the therapist) Do you know what I mean?
We laughed at the same jokes…we idolized the same writers, the same composers, the same filmmakers…(Reminiscing) once we watched a film titled “Too Beautiful for You.” It was right before we got married, and the film was so beautifully made, really, just like its title, Frank and I just looked at each other, and held our hands tightly, and, without exchanging a word, we waited for the next showing and watched it together again… We were so “connected” then…
(The therapist: “When did you first notice you were having difficulties?”) I can’t pinpoint when, but it was approximately a year and a half ago, when Frank withdrew from graduate school to take pre-medical science courses, that Frank began to seem…detached from me…gradually but…unmistakably.
Frank: (“Frank, did you find the science courses difficult?”) No, they weren’t at all difficult, but they were…challenging…in a profound way… In fact, I only found them fascinating –so fascinating I regretted not having learned these subjects earlier…
Zoe: Forgive me for interrupting, but I think it’s very much relative for you to know that Frank has since asked me to take those science courses at a community college. (“He’s asked you to take the science courses?”) Yes, (incredulous) he’s been telling me those science courses would awaken me from my “slumber”…transform my “worldview” and “enlighten” me (“Enlighten you?”) yes, “enlighten” me… (Vindictive) I mean I hold a Ph.D. in art history from Berkeley and my dissertation was on Kandinsky and the Blue Rider, arguably the most important period in art history humanity has known!
Frank: (Wearing a silly smile) She even suggested we name our child Wassily…after Wassily Kandinsky, and, if it’s a girl, Wassila. So I told her, in either case, our child would have a traumatic childhood, especially if it’s a girl… I mean, Wassila, (chuckling) it rhymes with Godzilla, and I can easily picture neighborhood kids…
Zoe: (Interrupting) Frank, are you attempting to change the subject? (“Were there other incidents I should know of?”) Other incidents you should know of… Yes, a month and a half ago, I even remember the date because (her face briefly lights up) it was Freud’s birthday, who, in my opinion, was a great boon to humanity. Frank and I even made love to celebrate his birthday (a little bashful)… I mean what better way to celebrate Freud’s 140th birthday than sex? Frank dissected that day, and so (interrupted: “What did he dissect?”) a human cadaver, for his Gross Human Anatomy class…and so he was a bit tired, but I really wanted to…
And as I was lying beside Frank, so warm and cozy, I had this big déjà vu, which was so real –I felt, no, I knew that a long time ago, perhaps in my previous life, I had lain beside Frank just like this, so warm and cozy, his hands smelling like formaldehyde… So I woke him up and told him about the déjà vu and how I felt we were meant to be together… (Incredulous) And you know what he said… Half-asleep, he said, “Zoe, déjà vu is nothing but a transient electrical activity in the brain, a small seizure if you will…” And he asked me if I was having trouble falling asleep, and if I was, take some melatonin, and two seconds later, literally, two seconds later, he went back to sleep! I mean I wanted to share this incredibly romantic experience with him, and the next thing I was an epileptic also suffering from insomnia! (Almost tearful) It was far and away the most humiliating moment of my entire life!
(Calming herself) And about two weeks ago, right after Frank’s Gross Human Anatomy final, two of my best friends who are also good friends with Frank, visited us from San Francisco. So we picked them up from the airport and on the way to the Holiday Inn, we all decided to stop by a café in downtown I’d been telling them about. It’s an old decrepit café, but I go there frequently if for not other reasons, than it somehow reminds me of Berkeley. So it was especially (searching for right words) “special” that all four of us got together again in that café, just like the “good old days” in Berkeley, when we were still graduate students yet to be infected with cynicism.
Then I noticed on the wooden table at which we’re sitting a hand carved inscription –of a phrase, not even of a sentence, which read, “The stuff that dreams are made of.” Of course, I’d heard that phrase before, probably from a TV commercial, but regardless, it was just perfect that four of us got together again for the first time in how many years and we happened to sit at the table with that phrase carved on it…
I mean, really, what sustained us through graduate school, despite under-national-poverty-line living conditions we’d had to endure for how many years, were hopes and dreams –yes, most of them unfulfilled and some mercilessly shattered right before our eyes –but those dreams we cherished then, that our intellectual contribution would make a difference, however small, somewhere in this world someday, and that we were training to become both guardians and purveyors of human knowledge, though only in our respective field, which is what collectively bestows upon us the name humanity…those dreams were what kept us moving forward…
So…back at the coffee shop, I took off on this poetic spree, (self-conscious) as I just did, and asked everyone to tell one another what they thought were the stuff that dreams were made of. Well, it was Frank’s turn, and yes, I was being nervous he might say something that would thoroughly upset me again, but I couldn’t simply ask him not to say anything. And, true, he was tired from having taken the anatomy final earlier that day, but (interrupted: “What did he say”) he said, matter-of-factly, “What dreams are made of are the neurons. And the neurons are myelinated with sphingolipids –that is, wrapped around many times over with a certain type of fat. It’s disillusioning but, really, our dreams are made of the stuff that are surrounded in multiple layers of yellowish fat.”
At that point, (containing her emotion) I knew that he would, I mean we would need some therapy together… My friends at work had told me about you, and so the following morning, I got your number and (interrupted: “Well, you made the right decision.”) I think so, too. But, really, Frank wasn’t at all like this before…
(A short pause. The therapist asks Frank a question.)
Frank: (Nervous) Yes, it is true that I said all that to Zoe… I mean, first of all, with respect to those science courses, yes, I found them so fascinating that I might very well have been overzealous about them… I mean it’s always a good idea to broaden one’s horizon, as the cliché goes, (chuckling) Warren Beatty’s finger tips, (conscious of Zoe) as Woody Allen wished, not me… Well, I just wish I wouldn’t come back as something like a toilet plunger… Which makes me wonder who our toilet plunger might have been in its previous life…
(Turning to Zoe) But, Zoe, don’t you think it’s a little odd that it’s invariably you who gets those déjà vu experiences and never I? I mean…let’s suppose we really lived in previous lives, and at one point in our previous lives, you and I really lay beside each other and my hands, for whatever reason, smelled of formaldehyde… Then, why can’t I remember that? Was I also sleeping then in my previous life as I was a couple of months ago in this life? Or could you possibly have lain beside some other guy named Frank, who was very likely a mortician? Oh, this is pathetic…(Frank gets up from the sofa, walks toward the audience, stops and wears a sheepish smile. Light fades out where Zoe is sitting.)
I’m going to have to resort to a soliloquy…because I don’t want Zoe to know what I really have in mind –she’d be devastated… I really don’t want to hurt her; in some ways I still care about her as deeply as I ever before did…
Please don’t get me wrong –never for a moment have I thought Zoe is intellectually inferior to me, or for that matter, anybody is… If anybody is looking down on anybody else, it would have to be that therapist, who keeps interrupting Zoe… Look at him there, sitting there in the dark, with his arms and legs crossed… I mean his arms are crossed separately from this legs, and not intermembrally…although on second thought it’d be quite entertaining if he were to sit like that and ask profound questions, much like a yogi –then I wouldn’t feel 35 dollars an hour is a sheer waste.
(A pause) Did I love Zoe? Yes…with my life. I could easily have given my life for her. She was why I was living…
Zoe: (Overtaken with emotions, walking toward Frank) Then what happened, Frank?
Frank: (Startled) Jesus, what are you doing, Zoe?
Zoe: (Painfully vindictive) I rightfully demand an answer from you, Frank. You once loved me with your life –then what happened?
Frank: This is my soliloquy! Jesus, you’re not even supposed to be listening to me, must less interfering with…
Zoe: Here, I kept all the notes you used to leave in my mailbox at the department office. (Barely containing her emotions) Here, remember this one –it reads, “Zoe, with you, everything seems right.”
Frank: Zoe, please!
Zoe: (Tearful; reading from the notes) “Everything is here for a purpose; everything was destined to be here from the time immemorial, just as our…(swallowing a lump in her throat) just as our love was… And, most of all, Zoe, my love for you makes me most conscious of being alive…” (A long pause. Zoe stares blankly at the notes; suddenly) Frank, did you plagiarize this from somewhere? I didn’t realize it before, but I am sure a song from a Stephen Sondheim musical…
Frank: Okay, Zoe, okay…
Zoe: (In disbelief) You did plagiarize…
Frank: Zoe, stop being silly… (A pause) You’re right, Zoe… I am “detached” from you, but really, I am not detached from you, per se. It’d be more accurate to say that I am…detached from myself, or myself from me…whichever…
Zoe: You are detached from yourself? Then…who have I been sleeping with –you or yourself? Or do you take turns? When one of you makes love to me, is the other one jealously watching, or is he actively engaged in some kind of perver-…?
Frank: (Shouting) Okay, Zoe, okay! I’ll tell you! Frankly! (A pause) I am…disenchanted with our marriage. (A pause) And I’m no longer certain…that I love you.
(A pause.)
Zoe: Will I have to abandon my pride and ask you, or are you going to tell me…why?
Frank: I am…disillusioned of you.
Zoe: Of me?
Frank: You’re living in a la-la land far far away from reality… (Pause) This la-la land –I’ve desperately wanted you to realize, Zoe –is inhabited by illusions, nothing but illusions! Yes, those illusions –good, truth, beauty, love –they were once as vivid and palpable to me as a surgically removed gallbladder is to me now…but…
Zoe: (Interrupting; contemptuous) I’m living in a la-la land far far away from reality… Me? So? (To herself) How many notes did that cover? (Tears the notes in her hand viciously; suddenly stops) No, no…I have to burn these! (Zoe exits)
Frank: (Heaves a sigh; suddenly) No, Zoe, wait…the environment… Recycle them!
(Frank lets out another sigh. A pause. Zoe returns to the stage, but her gait and mannerism are distinctly crude now. Zoe stops near Frank and stares at him.)
Frank: (A little taken aback) Zoe…
Zoe/Christine: I ain’t that Zoe gal and thank God for that. Yeah, yeah, you’re confused. I’m the actress who plays Zoe. Well, I just couldn’t stand playing that pathetic Zoe character no more, so I said, forget it. I quit, ciao, adios, sayonara. Then I thought to myself, hey, that Frank character is still on, maybe I oughtta come out and tell him what a pathetic character I think he also is (laughs aloud).
(Incredulous, Frank shakes his head.)
Christine: But it ain’t your fault, Frank. I mean you’re just a fictional character, aren’t ya? You got no say how you’re written. If anybody’s to blame, it’s gotta be that writer guy… But the fact still remains, Frank; you’re a pathetic…a “poignantly” pathetic character (laughs). But if people ask you why you’re so pathetic, you can just tell’em “I was just written that way” (laughs).
(Feeling genuinely sorry for Frank) All right, I’ll let you in on some of the things going on out here… That writer guy, you know, the guy who wrote this play, couple weeks ago he dumped his lover. The reason? He wanted to “streamline” his life to “focus” on medical school…
Did that writer guy feel guilty? Yeah! So what did he do about it? He wrote this stinking play (laughs aloud)! (Affecting histrionic inflections for the quoted words) He “sublimated” his messy ugly real-life into an “art” form, yeah an “art” form, writing into characters just enough “symbolic ambiguities” for people to read this play and go, “Wow, so freaking profound!” So, Frank, your job is to redeem your creator, while being a symbolic character for science, rationality, logic, reductionism, cynicism, objectivity, reality, yeah, the non-Kantian one, pragmatism, utilitarianism, and all that crap!
Frank: Redeem my creator? This is so perplexing!
Christine: (Derisive) Yeah, yeah, yeah, “perplexing”…Perplex this! Just finish your damn soliloquy and end this stinking play, will ya? We gotta go!
Frank: Where do I have to go?
Christine: Not you, you idi-…but the actor who’s playing you! I married that loser.
Frank: The actor who’s playing me is a loser?
Christine: That loser dropped out of medical school and became an actor! How else can you be a certified loser? I still can’t freaking believe it! And now, he wants us to play these Zoe and Frank characters, in order for me to “realize” how “bad” things might have been! Like I can forget even for a Goddamn minute how “good” things might have been if he would’ve stayed in medical school and became a doctor! At least, we wouldn’t have to play these crappy characters no more to eke out a living! (Gesturing) And I’d be driving a freaking Lexus…
Frank/John: (Angry but only in a comical way) Stop it, Christine, stop it… (Histrionically) You’re repulsive…you’re downright repulsive.
Christine: (Startled, but quickly collects herself; becomes a little docile, but maintains her “gusto”) If I’m so damn “repulsive,” like you’ve been telling me so many freaking times, why the hell did you marry me in the first place? Don’t you forget, John, I ain’t the one who knelt down on the knees and go, (mocking John’s histrionic style) “Christine, I love you with my life…”
John: I had to have been transiently deaf, dumb and blind!
Christine: You still are when it comes to money, John!
John: (His anger turning into despair) Money, money, money…Is that all you ever think about, Christine? What happened to our arts? And (beseechingly) what happened to you?
Christine: Reality caught up with me! No, I caught up with reality! Either way, we met!
John: Oh, that “reality” again! (Histrionic; almost Shakespearean) Reality, you’re my nemesis…
Christine: Reality ain’t got no damn ears, John!
John: Oh, just shut up and leave!
Christine: I will if you give me the stupid car keys!
(Barely controlling his anger, John takes the keys out of his pocket and hands them to Christine. Christine snatches the keys.)
Christine: (Exiting the stage, mutters under her breath) You’re one crazy son of a bit-…
(John smoothes his hair and straightens his attire, signaling that he’s about to resume Frank; sheepishly and self-consciously chuckles to the audience)
Christine: (Only her voice from where she exited) Hey, you!
John: (Abruptly turning back into John) What now!
Christine: Which one of these damn keys is for the door?
John: I told you dozens of times already –the round one is for the door and ignitions, and the square one is for the truck! How long have we had the car!
Christine: We got that piece of junk last week! That FBI auction thing was last Monday! Besides, you’re the one driving it all the freaking time!
John: Nevertheless, it’s been more than a week since we purchased the car, and it’s such a simple thing to memorize! It took me less than a minute!
Christine: All right, Einstein, you get me a freaking Lexus and I’ll even memorize its vehicle ID number! (Muttering to herself) Crazy son of a bit-…
(A long pause. John heaves a long sigh.)
John/Frank: (Resuming Frank’s inflections and mannerism) I’m a bit tired now… Although I’m only a fictional character, I’m still a medical student, which means I’m constantly sleep-deprived…even in my dreams…yes, my dreams are also made of that myelinated stuff (self-consciously laughs), and I’m always pressed for time, so please forgive me for ending this play rather abruptly…
But, really, did I love…my wife? Yes…with my life. (A long pause) It occurred to me just now…it would’ve been perfectly befitting if Mr. Spooner had played my character –he would’ve done poetic justice to that line: “Did I love my wife? Yes, with my life” (laughs).
(His face distorted with guilt; conscious of the audience, forces a smile onto his face; slowly taking on John’s histrionic style) The theater is a temple, and we atone for our sins by offering our plays to the gods of comedy and tragedy… Now the playwright feels cleansed and our service is over, playgoers, I bid you farewell…
(Light fades out.)