Meat Party (Bữa tiệc thịt)

DUONG LE QUY first arrived to study in Australia in 1994. He graduated with a Bachelor of Arts (Distinction) in Theatre Criticisms from Vietnam’s National University of Theatre and Cinema in 1990 and with a Graduate Diploma of Dramatic Art in Directing from Australia’s National Institute of Dramatic Art (NIDA) in 1998. He also graduated from Film Directing at the Los Angeles Film School in Hollywood, CA, USA 2003-2004. During the last twenty years, Duong has made a vital contribution to the development of international arts and cultural exchange, especially between Australia, Vietnam, UK, France and the US through his organisation VACEP in Australia, Lequyduong Pty. Ltd and My Phat Pty. Ltd in Vietnam.

Among his awards are 3rd Prize at the Hartley-Merrill
International Screenwriting Competition – 2003 Cannes Film Festival, in 2003 Los Angeles Film School’s Paul Verhoeven Award, a 2002 Ian Potter Cultural Grant Award, a 2002 Fulbright Scholarship Award in Filmmaking and a 2001 Churchill Fellowship Award in Performing Arts.

Duong’s play Market of Lives won Gold Medal at the Vietnam National Theatre Festival in 1990, which was introduced in Australia by Interplay Festival and Currency Press in 1994. It was produced by Wollongong University with a season at Theatre Sound and Belvoir Street Theatre (Upstairs) in 1998. His play Meat Party won 1st Prize at the 1999 Australia-Asialink Playwriting Competition and also won the 2001 Australian Queensland Premier’s Literary Award for Best Drama: Stage.

 

KỊCH BẢN

Meat Party

Duong Le Quy

Translated by Lien Yeomans
Translation edited by Rachel Hennessy

Currency Press • Sydney
CurrenCy Press
First published in 2000 by Currency Press Pty Ltd,
PO Box 2287, Strawberry Hills, NSW, 2012, Australia enquiries@currency.com.au; www.currency.com.au Copyright © Duong Le Quy, 2000.
CoPying for eduCational PurPoses
The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10% of this book, whichever is the greater, to be copied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that that educational institution (or the body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. For details of the CAL licence for educational institutions contact CAL, Level 15, 233 Castlereagh Street, Sydney, NSW, 2000; tel: within Australia 1800 066 844 toll free; outside Australia +61 2 9394 7600; fax: +61 2 9394 7601; email: info@ copyright.com.au
CoPying for other PurPoses
Except as permitted under the Act, for example a fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. All enquiries should be made to the publisher at the above address. Any performance or public reading of Meat Party is forbidden unless a licence has been received from the author or the author’s agent. The purchase of this book in no way gives the purchaser the right to perform the play in public, whether by means of a staged production or a reading. All applications for public performance should be addressed to the playwright c/- Currency Press. national library of australia CiP data
Duong Le Quy, 1968-.
Meat Party.
ISBN …
I. Title
A822.3
Printed by Fineline Print & Copy Service, St Peters, NSW.
Cover design by Tony Yap
Publication of this title was assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
Contents

meat Party
Act One 1
Act Two 24

Dedication
This play is dedicated to the souls
of those who died in all the wars on this earth with the hope that they will be reborn into a peaceful world.
* * *
The characters and events of this play are fictional and created with the hope that they will contribute to the elimination of all wars.
Author’s Note

I wrote Meat Party in a small flat in Potts Point, Sydney, Australia, one summer. As I sat in front of my computer, with the title Meat Party on the screen, somehow I didn’t feel alone. There seemed to be many people standing around me. They were unseen but I could feel them there, around me, channelling an energy into my fingers as they moved over the keyboard. They were the dead souls who seemed to be coming into my flat from so many different corners of our world, commanding me to write about them. My heart beat faster, their stories brought tears to my eyes.
The first draft of Meat Party was completed in only two months, from mid–November 1997 to mid–January 1998. As I completed the last page of the play, I felt relieved, and happy—a happiness in which we feel we live our lives not only for the present, but also for the past and the future as well. The past might be full of war and sorrow, the present might be full of confusion and problems, but we can fill the future with love and hope. Meat Party is a silent prayer for the souls of all those who died in all the wars on this earth. I long for the day when they will be reborn into a world at peace and, so, will meet with a better fate.
Like all playwrights, I hope that my play will have many directors who will take many different approaches. Although these productions will all be different, I trust that this published text will continue to tell the story in my original voice—as a work that has come from my heart.
I cannot thank May–Brit Akerholt and the Australian National Playwrights’ Centre enough for providing me with the wonderful opportunity to workshop and introduce the play to my colleagues at the ANPC Conference in 1998. Without such support, Meat Party may well have remained hidden within my heart. I would also like to extend my deep gratitude to translator Lien Yeomans; director Yaron Lifschitz; dramaturgs Rachel Hennessy and Jane FitzGerald; composer
Jim Cotter; and actors Anni Davey, Ursula Yovich, Miki Oikawa,
viii MEAT PARTY
Justin Cheek, Bradley Byquar, David Branson and Arne Sjostedt from the Conference workshop. My special thanks also go to Bruce Keller and Jane Spicer, who gave me such encouragement when I first started to write the play.
I also cannot thank Aubrey Mellor, Jill Smith and everyone at Playbox enough for allowing Meat Party to be a part of the Playbox 2000 season. I consider myself privileged to have my work presented by such a dynamic and creative company and must express my utmost admiration and thanks for their time and invaluable support, together with that of director Michael Kantor and his team who first brought the play to the stage.
I would also like very much to acknowledge Katharine
Brisbane, Victoria Chance and all the staff at Currency Press for their time, energy and highly professional support of Meat Party and its publication.
Please also allow me to thank all of my colleagues—Australian arts organisations and individuals—who have always given me and my work such great support.
Finally, may I also take this opportunity to thank all the souls who came and supported me. Their energy fuelled every beat of my heart as I wrote Meat Party. My wish is that they will be happy with the result, and that my humble work will go some way towards creating a world in which we human beings will live together in peace and happiness.
Sydney, Australia
September 2000
My sincere thanks go to the New South Wales Ministry of the Arts for their generous support in enabling me to realise the writing of this play. I would also like to thank the Australian National Playwrights’ Centre for providing a great opportunity for this play to be workshopped at the 25 th Australian National Playwrights’ Conference.
Meat Party won the 1997 New South Wales Writers’ Fellowship and the 1999 Playbox Asialink Asian/Australian Playwriting Competition.
Meat Party, based on the Vietnamese–English translation by Lien Yeomans, had a first workshop at the Australian National Playwrights’ Conference, Canberra, in April 1998 with the following cast:
MAI Anni Davey
MARY Ursula Yovich
THE CRONE Miki Oikawa
LAM Justin Cheek
QUAN, PHI Bradley Byquar
AN David Branson
GABRIEL Arne Sjostedt
Director, Yaron Lifschitz
Dramaturgy, Rachel Hennessy and Jane FitzGerald
Music by Jim Cotter
Vietnamese to English translation, Lien Yeomans
Meat Party was first produced by Playbox Theatre at The C.U.B.
Malthouse, Melbourne, on 11 October 2000 with the following cast:
GABRIEL Matthew Crosby
MARY Alice Garner
QUAN / PHI Huong Nguyen
LAM Tam Phan
MAI Trang Nguyen
CRONE Yumi Umiumare
AN Tony Yap
Director, Michael Kantor
Designer, Dorotka Sapinska
Lighting Designers, Andrew Livingston & Ben Cobham (bluebottle p/l)
Composer, Darrin Verhagen
Choreographer, Tony Yap
Dramaturg, Tom Wright
CHARACTERS
MARY, flautist. Speaks fluently the local language of the White Sand Desert. Daughter of Gabriel Wallis. Aged 30.
CRONE, a lonely old woman who lives in the White Sand Desert where many bloody battles occurred during the war. Aged 78.
LAM, retired army officer. One half of his face is badly scarred from burns. War hero. Old comrade-in-arms with An. Aged 68.
GABRIEL WALLIS, flautist. Australian solider who participated in the war and was killed in the White Sand Desert at the age of 33.
MAI, nurse. Attached to the Special Intelligence Battalion. Killed in the White Sand Desert at the age of 29.
AN, returned soldier. Old comrade-in-arms with Lam. Aged 68.
QUAN, Chairman of the People’s Council of the White Sand Desert. Son of Lam. Aged 44.
PHI, soldier in the Special Intelligence Battalion. Fought in the White Sand Desert. Aged 30.
SETTING
The action of the play takes place in the White Sand Desert where many fierce battles were fought.
ACT ONE

SCENE ONE
THE WITCH OF THE WHITE SAND DESERT
A vast white sand desert spreads out to the horizon. Barbwire fences surrounding the old military compound, left over from the war, stand out as spiky black lines against the glaring white sand, under the scorching sun. Pointing to the military compound is an old, bleached, wooden board in the shape of an arrow. On it is written: ‘Danger! Keep Out! Landmines!’ The sign is nailed on the trunk of a large tree whose exposed roots resemble giant Komodo dragons sun baking. Near the tree lies an old burnt–out tank whose gun points straight to the sky. The sinister squawking sound of crows can be heard. The shadows of two figures in white shrouds appear and disappear near the tree.
QUAN and MARY are sitting in the shade of the tree, studying geographical names on a map spread out in front of them.
QUAN: [looking up, his eyes following the flight of the crows] The war ended decades ago and still the smell of death hangs in the air. [Pointing to the burnt–out tank] That tank. It was destroyed by my father. Shot and burned. A few years ago, he would bring the children here and tell them stories of his heroic deeds. But now he’s an old sick man. And children these days find games more interesting than war stories. But also they are scared to come.
MARY: Scared?
QUAN: They are scared of the Crone.
MARY: The woman everyone avoids?
QUAN: Yes. People call her the ‘Witch of the White Sand Desert’, and use her to frighten children into being good. She lives here.
MARY: In that tank?
QUAN: Apparently she calls it the ‘Castle of the Dead Souls’. The boys who spy on her say she avoids talking to anyone real. It’s as if she is afraid of the living.

MARY: I understand why the children are scared.
QUAN: Unfortunately she is the only person who knows this desert. She’s walked every path, seen every corner. The only way to get through it is with her. If she’ll take you. [Pause] Are you sure this is where your father died?
MARY: His friend gave me this map. It shows where he was killed.
QUAN: [examining the map carefully] According to this… here’s the fence, that’s the fort… that barbwire area over there is where the battle took place. I’m afraid the movement of the sand over the years has covered everything.
MARY: What’s that spot where the crows are landing?
QUAN: It used to be one of the most important postings during the war. Many people died there.
MARY: That’s where I’ll start looking.
QUAN: Impossible! The compound is full of landmines.
MARY: Can I get a mine detector?
QUAN: It’s pointless. We’ve tried to clear it many times before. But it’s too dangerous without modern equipment and we’re just too poor.
Feeding hungry people is more important.
MARY: Is there any other way? I can pay.
QUAN: A few years ago, an American family came here wanting to recover the remains of their relatives. They offered a huge sum of money and our people are very poor. But no one would accept the offer. That’s how dangerous it is.
MARY: So no one dares go inside?
QUAN: Perhaps only the crows. And the Crone. The locals say she goes in there. Digging for bones.
MARY: Has she found anything?
QUAN: No one knows. Every now and then we hear a mine go off and we think the Crone’s been killed. But then, after a few days, people see her again, wandering the sand dunes. It seems she’s protected by the souls of the dead.
MARY: Is this tree also protected by the dead? It seems to be the only living thing around here.
QUAN: I don’t know. It’s been here since the war.
MARY: Were you here then?
QUAN: No, I was studying in the Soviet Union. When I came back, the war was over. And here in the middle of the desert was this tree. No one knows who planted it. The superstitious locals believe God granted them the tree because they had suffered such a harsh life. The tree gives them hope.
MARY: This place has so many stories.
QUAN: My father knows them all. He was honoured as a hero, awarded many medals. I told him you were coming and he urged me to help you. He also said to invite you to a traditional ceremony we’re having. It’s the anniversary of my grandparents’ death. We cook a special meal and offer some to the gods.
MARY: That’s wonderful. I’d love to come.
QUAN: He’ll be pleased to meet you. I should tell you his face was badly burned during the war. [Looking at his watch] It’s time we got back.
MARY: I think… maybe… I should stay. QUAN: The Crone is not exactly normal.
MARY: I need to meet her. I will stay.
QUAN: [offering her his mobile phone] Please take this phone, so we can keep in contact. If you have any problems please call me.
MARY: [taking the phone from QUAN] Thank you. You’ve been a great help.
QUAN: Good luck! Be careful. MARY: I will.
QUAN exits quickly. MARY is alone. Time passes. The CRONE enters. She is an old decrepit woman in rags, her scraggy hair falling over her dark, haggy eyes which look like two deep, dark holes in her wrinkled face. On her bent back she carries an old, rusty hoe and a heavy, dirty, tattered bag. She drags her bare feet slowly across the hot sand. She stops at the tree and puts her load down. She sits wearily against the tree trunk. She wipes the sweat from her face with the front of her shirt.
CRONE: Nothing here worth taking. The sand will bury you tonight.
MARY: Good afternoon. I want… may I ask you a question?
CRONE: I don’t know how to answer.
MARY: Please. Don’t run away! I have to talk to you. Please, Crone… CRONE: How come you know what I’m called?
MARY: I’ve heard about this place. I was hoping you’d show me the safe way to cross the desert.
CRONE: If the sand lets you live, you’ll live.
She pours out the contents of her bag—skulls, an assortment of old bones—then calmly, using the front of her shirt, lovingly polishes each bone.
MARY: Did you find these bones in there?
CRONE: Would you be knowing someone among them?
MARY: My father died here… during the war.
CRONE: Why come again?
MARY: I want to find his remains.
CRONE: Once upon a time, there were long–legged creatures who came and dropped fire on short–legged creatures. [Singing] La… la… la… Find the short or the long bones? MARY: Bones… bones… CRONE: Long bones !
MARY: How do you know?
CRONE: The dead souls tell me. [Caressing the bones] Go away now! I have to feed my babies!
MARY: Please let me stay. I’ll help you polish the bones.
CRONE: [throwing a leg bone over to MARY] Hey, long–legged whitey. People call these human bones. But I don’t. What do you call them?
MARY slowly picks up the bones, then uses the front of her shirt to polish the bone as the CRONE does.
MARY: What else could we call them? They’re human bones.
CRONE: No one can see anything.
MARY: What do you call them then?
CRONE: Human bones.
MARY: What are you going to do with them?
CRONE: I use them to beat up those who killed my children. The sand is free to dance with the wind but they were not free to enjoy their lives.
The CRONE threatens MARY with a bone.
MARY: Please. I didn’t kill them.
The CRONE walks away.
CRONE: Come here.
MARY: You won’t hit me?
CRONE: The Crone does not make any promises. [Pause] This is the head of my eldest son. Such an intelligent boy. [Throwing the skull] You ungrateful son!
She sings.
I am the autumn leaves,
You are the spring leaves!
Why did you fall from the branch earlier than me!
MARY and the CRONE are alone in the desert. Time passes. AN runs in, a bottle of water and a bag of food in his hand.
AN: Hi, Crone! Here’s some food and water! Sorry I’m late, the wind’s coming up fast.
CRONE: I told that long–legged whitey to go, otherwise she’ll be buried.
AN: Who are you? Why are you here?
MARY: I’m—
AN: Listen. The Crone is right. A big sandstorm is coming. You’d better go now.
MARY: The local radio station didn’t say anything about a storm.
AN: Don’t believe the radio here. Just take a look at the horizon. In a few minutes the whole desert will be buried.
CRONE: [singing]
I throw the sand to the sky
to create a screen protecting my children from burning in the sun…!
MARY: [while the CRONE sings] What is the Crone singing? I don’t understand!
The CRONE continues to sing under the conversation which follows.
CRONE: [singing]
…blow up the wind to create a storm to break the wings of the crows
stopping them picking at the bones of my children!
Hey, nasty crows!
Watch out! you can’t eat my children La… la… la…!
The wind carries the sand far away!
I am calling the souls of my children back to dinner!
AN: She is calling her children back for dinner. Don’t worry. The song doesn’t mean anything to a tourist.
MARY: I’m not a tourist.
AN: How come you can speak the local language so well?
MARY: I studied. I’ve come to look for my father’s remains.
AN: Have you found them?
MARY: Not yet! I only started today. I think he may have died in the compound. The Chairman of the local council told me there were battles in there.
AN: That’s right. I fought in those battles. [Pause] The name of the person who told you is Mr Quan. Is that right?
MARY: You know him?
AN: Every now and then Mr Quan organises meetings to inform us of new decisions of the Communist Party. So we all know him.
MARY: His father is a war hero.
AN: [laughing] Yes. A war hero. We were close friends. We were children.
MARY: Why are you laughing? Is there something funny?
CRONE: My children are not like this. They are flesh and blood.
AN: I find the Crone kicking a skull funny.
MARY: I need to look inside the compound.
AN: No…
MARY: Would you help me? AN: …it’s too dangerous— MARY: Please. I can pay.
AN: [laughing] I am afraid of having lots of money. I am used to living in poverty. I couldn’t bear the happiness that money is supposed to bring!
MARY: Are you a friend of the Crone?
AN: People avoid her because they are scared of her madness! I try to stay close to her because I have nothing left to lose! A crazy friend
is better than none.
MARY: I need her to help me through the desert.
AN: There’s no way. The only roads are made when people walk on the sand. But the wind and the sand cover the footprints immediately.
MARY: You fought in there. Did you see any white soldiers die?
AN: Many. I picked up a few things that belonged to them. I could show you. They’re at my home. It’s not far from here.
MARY: Great. Can we go now?
AN: No… the storm. The sand will bury alive anything that steps into it. I was born here, I have seen many people buried.
MARY: Is there a safe place near by?
CRONE: Is there a safe place anywhere?
AN: Let me ask the Crone’s permission for us to stay inside the tank.
CRONE: [standing in MARY’s way] Hey, long–legged whitey! You are not to enter the Castle of the Dead Souls.
The sky turns dark. The wind hisses. The mobile phone placed next to MARY’s backpack rings loudly. MARY runs towards it, but the CRONE is faster and she snatches it. She pushes a button on the phone and sings loudly into it. MARY tries to catch her but she keeps on running, dancing around and singing.
La… la… la…
I throw the sand to the sky
to create a screen to protect my children from burning in the sun! I blow up the wind to create a storm to break the wings of the crows stopping them from picking at the bones of my children! Hey, nasty crows! Watch out!
The CRONE throws the phone into the sand.
You can’t eat my children!
La… la… la…!
The wind carries the sand far away!
I am calling the souls of my children back for dinner!
MARY: [over the singing] Please give me back the phone. Please tell her to give me my phone back.
AN: [running to hold MARY back] You see the big sand dunes collapsing? It’s gone! Don’t risk your life looking for it!
MARY: [angrily] The phone’s not mine. The Chairman lent it to me. [Jumping into the sand hole and calling out] Jesus! It is so dark in here. I can’t see a thing.
CRONE: The more you look, the harder it is to find !
AN: Stop looking! Come back up! No one can tell which sand dune will collapse next.
MARY: Did you see which direction she threw the phone?
CRONE: I threw it in the direction of the caller !
AN: Be careful! The sand dune behind is collapsing! Get out now! The sand is falling in! Get out!
It looks as if the sand is pouring into the hole where MARY is looking. MARY’s call for help can be heard. AN, desperate, takes the hoe and jumps in to save MARY.
[Yelling from below] Crone! Come and help me get her out !
CRONE: I am not helping the people who killed my children.
AN: [yelling again] Come and help me pull her up !
CRONE: [not moving] I am not helping people who killed my children.
AN: [screaming from below] Please hurry up! The sand’s up to our knees already.
CRONE: I am not helping people who killed my children !
AN: [screaming desperately] If she dies it is because of you, Crone! You will be blamed for your cruelty.
CRONE: [walking towards the hole] I am not cruel !
AN: Please! Hold my hand. We will both pull her out.
CRONE: [stretching out her hand] I can’t reach! I can’t stretch my arm any further! Throw me the hoe.
AN: [more desperate] It’s under the sand.
The CRONE looks around, finds a leg bone and holds it out to AN.
CRONE: Hold on to the bone !
AN: [yelling loudly] Pull now !
The CRONE pulls hard, then suddenly lets go of the bone.
[Yelling] Why did you let go?
CRONE: You climb up yourself. Leave the whitey! When my children were bombed, no one helped them.
AN: [screaming louder] If you don’t, I’ll stay down here and die with her. [Throwing the bone back up] No one will come to see you! You will be completely alone.
The CRONE hesitates for a moment, then picks up the bone and holds it down to AN again.
CRONE: Hold the bone, I will pull you out. There, hold the bone. I will let the Whitey stay in my children’s castle. Hold the bone tight, I’ll pull.
She pulls with all her might. AN holds the bone with one hand and with the other he tries to pull MARY. Slowly he crawls out of the hole pulling MARY up. MARY lies unconscious on the roots of the tree. The wind blows furiously, spreading sand everywhere. AN pours some water on MARY’s face to revive her. Further away, the CRONE stands on the tank with a burning torch in one hand, throwing sand in the air, singing.
[Singing] La… la… la… I throw the sand to the sky to create a sun screen
protecting my children from burning in the sun!
I blow up the wind to create a storm to break the wings of the crows stopping them from picking at the bones of my children!
Hey, nasty crows! Watch out!
You can’t eat my children La… la… la…!
The wind carries the sand far away!
I am calling the souls of my children back for dinner!
The shadows of the two figures in white shrouds move in time with the CRONE’s singing, blending into the howling wind.
SCENE TWO

THE CASTLE OF THE DEAD SOULS
Night. The desert. The storm rages. Inside the narrow driver’s compartment of the burnt–out tank, MARY lies unconscious. AN squeezes the last drop of water into her mouth. The CRONE lights up a kerosene lamp and crawls into a corner of the compartment, quickly praying, rhythmically beating two bones together. The shadows of the two figures in white shrouds move gently around the tree. The bones collected by the CRONE are hung all around the tank compartment. They sway to and fro. The voices of the dead souls in different tones blend with the sound of the howling wind and the rhythmic tapping of the CRONE. MARY wakes up, puzzled. She looks at the bones.
MARY: Where am I?
AN: You are in the ‘Castle of the Dead Souls’.
MARY: Whose bones are they? They look at me with their red eyes… as if from hell.
AN: [reaching up to gently touch the bones] They are the Crone’s. Every bone she finds she brings back here, cleans it up and then hangs it up. Don’t be afraid. They were once living souls like us. MARY: I can only see bones.
Voices of the dead souls can be heard.
I can hear somebody calling my name [Listening carefully] My father. It’s his voice. He’s around here somewhere.
AN: It’s only the wind.
MARY: No. It’s my father calling. For me. Hear that. It is very, very near. He is floating just above us. Or is it under the sand? [Calling out] Dad! Dad! I’m here. Can you hear me? Where are you? I thought I saw your shadow just then! AN: You are haunted by him.
Pause.
MARY: Did I faint?
AN: You had a long sleep.
MARY: It’s so dark! Where’s the sun?
AN: I’m afraid the sun was hopelessly drunk and was carried away by the storm.
MARY: What time is it?
AN: The castle has no time. Only an old, crazy mother who sits every night next to the bones of her children.
MARY: Did the war happen right here?
AN: Yes, right here. Such a long time since we had a violent storm like this. A sandstorm in a time of peace.
MARY: Why is the Crone making those sounds?
AN: Saying prayers.
MARY: Does she pray all night?
AN: No, she sleeps and the prayers are her lullaby.
MARY: Who does she pray for?
AN: For the dead as well as for the living.
MARY: When will she wake up?
AN: You’ll know, she will be singing or crying.
MARY: I’m very thirsty, could I have a drink?
AN: I gave you the last drop. Just wait till the storm calms down, I’ll fetch you some water.
MARY: Doesn’t the Crone have any?
AN: Perhaps she drinks her own tears.
MARY: Such a storm and no rain. AN: Here it rains only sand.
A long silence. MARY sits up. AN smiles at her.
MARY: You have such a sad smile.
AN: A lot of people smile but it doesn’t mean they’re happy.
Silence, except for the diminishing voices of the dead souls and the regular sound of the tapping of bones by the CRONE. The storm abates. Outside the tank, QUAN with a torch, bare– headed, is searching and calling for MARY. He climbs on top of the tank for a better view. Overhearing the voices inside the tank, he crouches down, putting his ear against the tank and listening carefully to the conversation.
MARY: I hope Mr Quan isn’t worried about me. Are you still friends with his father?
AN: There were three of us. Every day we played together in the sand dunes. Our hopes soared as high as the kites we flew. The War Hero used to make beautiful kites. I would play my bamboo flute while the girl sang. Her singing was as beautiful as she was. All the men said she was such a rare pearl in this harsh land.
MARY: Who was she?
AN: It’s a dream that’s over. [Pause] I wanted to be a poet, he wanted to be a famous hero and she wanted to be a singer.
She hears a traditional song.
[Looking happier] Listen, do you hear it? She’s singing a song about eternal love.
MARY: You look much happier when you remember her singing.
AN: [cheering up] We used to ask her if she sang for a special person? Her answer was: ‘None of your business! You don’t need to know for whom I sing!’ I teased her: ‘If there is a singer then there must be a listener’. She replied cheekily: ‘Whoever wants to listen can hear my songs’. The War Hero said: ‘But everyone loves your singing’. She smiled: ‘Even so, I only sing for one person’. We both asked her: ‘Who is this lucky person?’ and she answered shyly: ‘The person I love’.
MARY: Who was it?
AN: One day, my friend the Hero was flying his kite. He said: ‘Whoever she loves is a happy man!’ My reply was: ‘It’s you. Who else could it be? Whenever she sings, she’s always glancing at you!’ But he told me: ‘You’re more suitable. You accompany her with your bamboo flute. I’ve met her several times down by the river and all she talked about was you.’ I said: ‘No. Your family has land, buffaloes and orchards. I am very poor, I don’t think she’s interested in me.’ He gave me a big thump on my back, laughing: ‘I will donate my wealth to support your love. Love is not for me! All I want is to be a hero!’ He dragged me to see her to find out if she loved me. She nodded her head as her answer, and then ran into the sand dunes far into the horizon, leaving behind her a beautiful red glow of the afternoon.
MARY: Where is she now?
AN: Maybe she is somewhere around here.
Long silence.
The hanging bones swing to and fro according to the different
tones of the voices of the dead souls.
MARY: [in a soft voice] Did you love her very much?
AN: [trying to be cheerful] We promised to be faithful to each other forever, just like the words in her song. But then, in 1954, the Land Reform Movement began here, in the White Sand Desert—where there’s not much land to reform, but plenty of sand. Oh God! People are so cruel! I cursed that Land Reform Movement. It turned my friend from a kite–maker into a cruel monster. The locals are only interested in talking about their victorious war. They have forgotten that behind the medals of the War Hero lie countless sufferings.
MARY: Mr Quan told me you haven’t seen his father since the war. What happened?
AN: How can I tell you? He caused so much pain.
The warm voice of a girl singing can be heard.
Do you hear the singing? She is singing! She sings about eternal love! The song is still here but the singer was… the War Hero… MARY: What happened to them?
AN: My friend the Hero denounced his father in front of the Land Reform Committee. He claimed his father was a mean landowner who ripped off the peasants and that he owned a buffalo, a couple acres of land and a silver tea set. So the peasant revolutionaries dragged his father out to the field, tied him up and left him there to die under the hot sun. The son was rewarded for being an example of the Land Reform Movement and a hero of the class struggle! His wife hanged herself that night—in the same field where her son was declared a hero! The War Hero with the half–burnt face. The model citizen of the White Sand Desert.
QUAN bursts into the compartment. The CRONE wakes up frightened. She holds on to the clanking bone.
QUAN: What right have you to dishonour my father in front of a stranger?
MARY: Mr Quan !
QUAN: My father told me my grandparents sacrificed themselves for the most bitter class struggle. My father himself fought heroically in the war, his name was associated with many victories. Everyone respects and admires him. You’re lying.
AN: And what if what I said is true?
QUAN: Then I will have to force my father to go before the People of the White Sand Desert and tell them what he really did.
AN: [bursting out laughing] Confessions of a war hero?
QUAN: [seriously] We are struggling for a fair and just society here in the White Sand Desert. I swear to bring into the open any person who committed any crime, even if that person happens to be my father!
AN: [laughing shockingly] You sound exactly like your father—you weren’t even born then. So there, my dear young Communist! Do you want people to drag your father out and leave him to die under the hot sun, just like your grandfather before him? Don’t believe me. It’s only the story of a crazed old man, confused in a furious night’s sandstorm.
MARY: In my country, on April Fool’s Day, everyone is allowed to play whatever tricks they like. Perhaps, Mr Quan, we could consider tonight as a Fools’ night.
QUAN: [to AN] I will personally check with my father about your story !
AN: Don’t ! QUAN: Why?
AN: Everyone in the White Sand Desert puts their faith in your father! Here, in this sandy place, there are people who were born and died for such a faith. What will happen to them if they lose it? The meat party of the war is over, only white bones remain. Sooner or later the sorrow caused by the party will be buried in memories. [Listening] The storm’s finishing. Listen to the gentle wind on the dunes. Let’s leave children to grow and fly kites and sing and believe in heroes.
QUAN goes to leave.
MARY: Mr Quan! Wait for me! Let me go with you !
QUAN quickly climbs up to get out of the tank. MARY follows him out. AN stands motionless like a statue. The CRONE caresses the bones and starts singing. Her warm and tender voice blends harmoniously with the sound of the wind and the voices of the dead souls.
CRONE: [singing]
The storm is over!
Please come and eat, my children!
The rice is from the dried fields of this desert, the fish is from the dried–out rivers of this region!
My love for you is as vast as the sunshine over the sand dunes! Eat my children, please eat, my children…!
The shadows of the two figures in white shrouds move around each other while the CRONE sings.
SCENE THREE

THE HERO WHO WANTS TO GO TO HELL
Lam’s house, prepared for the anniversary celebration of Quan’s grandparents’ death. In the middle of the room is a table groaning with sumptuous food. A large, framed portrait of Lenin hangs on the wall. Below it, a portrait of Quan’s grandparents in traditional head dress and costumes. A doorway under the two portraits leads to the back room of the house. The shadows of the two figures in white shrouds walk around the room invisible to both QUAN and LAM. A small radio sits in a corner of the room playing an international Communist song. MARY and QUAN sit impatiently in silence waiting for LAM at the table. After a while, QUAN walks over to turn down the volume of the radio then stops at the doorway, where he calls out to his father.
QUAN: Excuse me, Father! Our guest is here, why don’t you come and join us.
LAM: [from the back room] Please tell the visitor I am coming.
QUAN: [to MARY] Whenever we have foreign visitors he plans every last detail. [Joyfully] So… what are your impressions of the White Sand Desert?
MARY: It is as I imagined, a typical desert with…
LAM in a carefully pressed suit, wearing rows of medals, appears at the doorway. Half of his face is scarred from burns and he carries a beautiful red paper kite.
LAM: [quickly completing MARY’s sentence] …with a tradition of famous heroic and revolutionary deeds. I have the honour of representing all the revolutionaries of the White Sand Desert in welcoming you.
MARY: I am honoured to meet you !
LAM: [proffering the kite to MARY] This red kite is the symbol of the victorious Revolution of the White Sand Desert—red symbolises both the blood sacrificed by so many for freedom and the triumphant history of the proletarian Revolution.
MARY: It’s a beautiful kite! Thank you so much.
LAM: My pleasure! Should you have any wishes, this kite will carry them up to the sky and they will be granted.
MARY: My only wish is to find my father’s remains.
LAM: Searching for the soul is much more difficult than finding bones. [To QUAN, quickly] I told you to put some chilli sauce in the beef stir–fry—did you?
QUAN: I did exactly as you instructed me.
LAM: Good! [Looking over the other dishes] The preparation for today’s anniversary of your grandparents passing is excellent. [To MARY] This is the same everyday food—vegetables and meat—but it is the art in the cooking which gives it the spiritual flavour of the Revolution. Please, have some chicken and mushroom. [He turns to QUAN] Was this chicken given to me by the Returned Soldiers League?
QUAN: No, we ate that last week. This chicken was given to us by the White Sand Desert Collective Group of the Red Flag Youth.
MARY: Really?
LAM: They raise them for the family of the revolutionaries—especially.
MARY: Yummy !
LAM: [to MARY] The fact that the youth know how to raise chickens to feed old soldiers reflects the spirit and tradition of the proletarian Revolution in the White Sand Desert. Do you find the chicken better here than in Australia?
MARY: Australian chickens are not raised in the spirit of revolution so maybe their taste isn’t as good!
QUAN: Please, Father! Mary is a very famous musician in Australia.
LAM: [clapping his hands noisily] I knew it! The way you speak so melodically. Do you come from a family of musicians?
MARY: Both my grandfather and father were musicians. Unfortunately, my father’s musical career was cut short.
LAM: Perhaps you will continue it. [Pointing to QUAN] I am very proud that my son has inherited our spirit of revolutionary tradition.
QUAN: Please, Father, try a glass of Mary’s wine. She brought it from Australia.
MARY: I hope you like it.
LAM takes the glass, examines it carefully then returns it to QUAN.
LAM: I must make it clear to you before I drink, that wine and revolutionary ideal do not mix! The Party and the People would never forgive anyone who lets wine weaken the determination and the will to build a truly successful Socialist society. Do you understand?
QUAN: Yes, Father. I understood everything you have taught me.
LAM: Good! Excellent! The more you understand the better you will be! [Turning to MARY] I’ve always trained my son not to neglect his duties by bowing to mere pleasures.
MARY: You can be proud of your son! [Looking at LAM’s medals] You have been awarded so many medals. Does each of these represent a victory?
LAM: [chewing his food gluttonously, looking down at this chest] Yes, and there are lots more. There isn’t enough room on my whole body to wear all my medals. Today, I wear only the highest. I have a drawer full of medals and commendations! Let me show you!
QUAN: Please, Father. The beef and chilli and lemon grass stir–fry is getting cold.
LAM: [putting some beef in MARY’s bowl] You’re right. Please have a taste of this. It’s a speciality of this region.
QUAN: Medals and commendations don’t get cold, but beef with chilli and lemon grass is tasteless when it is cold.
LAM: I don’t like it when you compare my medals with food !
QUAN: I am sorry, Father! I spoke without thinking. Please forgive me. MARY: [tasting some beef] This is really delicious.
LAM picks up a piece of beef and shows it to QUAN.
LAM: [in seriousness] As you are the Chairman of the People’s Council of the White Sand Desert, I’d like to hear your comments on this piece of meat.
MARY: I think it is very tasty.
QUAN: Yes, Father. I didn’t find anything wrong with it.
LAM: A true Communist will never stop training and tuning his five senses to even the smallest details he experiences in daily life. Details to which others would be oblivious. He then can easily identify the important and complex problems in his revolutionary missions.
QUAN: Yes, Father. I am ready for your instruction.
LAM: Just look at this piece of meat, you can see that the cattle are not well fed! You would do well to remind the directors of the cattle co–operative to take more care of their herd.
QUAN: Yes, Father, tomorrow I will convene a meeting to address the matter. The subject will be ‘the future of our cattle’.
LAM: I approve your concern and practical response to my suggestion ! MARY: You are amazing !
LAM: You need a keen sense of awareness and perception to be able to carry out three revolutions at once: there is the Revolution of Production…
QUAN: Excuse me, Father !
LAM: How many times have I told you not to interrupt when I am speaking?! We struggle hard for a free democratic society. I always encourage you to formulate well–founded opinions but they must be expressed with discipline and within the approved framework of the ideology. [To MARY] Where was I?
MARY: You were talking about the Revolution of Production.
LAM: Quite right! And there is the Revolution of Science and there is the Revolution of Thought. [To QUAN] I have said my piece, now you may speak.
QUAN: Please, Father. I only wish to offer you a toothpick, there is a piece of chicken stuck in between your teeth.
LAM: [quickly covering his mouth and picking his teeth] This is a meat party. Everyone at a meat party will get scraps stuck in their teeth. It’s inevitable.
A long silence.
MARY: [looking up at the photograph of QUAN’s grandparents] Your parents look very gentle.
LAM: Yes, they both were martyrs of the White Sand Desert.
QUAN: [to MARY] See. I told that crazy old man. [To LAM] He said my grandfather was left to die under the hot sun and my grandmother hanged herself. I told him it wasn’t true.
A long silence.
LAM: Haven’t I told you time and time again that everyone has the right to say what they think?! Society is like a chicken coop. Not every hen lays its eggs at our will! A true Communist must always remember that our duty is to serve the People! Our diplomatic approach is a useful instrument in assuring those who say we are their enemy that, in fact, we are not. Your hot headedness is of no use.
QUAN: Yes, Father. I understand what you say. But how can I remain calm when that crazy old man dishonoured you in front of such a famous musician as Mary here? And I can’t imagine he was ever a friend of yours.
LAM: A true Communist can befriend anyone. [Pause] Where does he live now?
MARY: In a tent, near the desert.
LAM: How could you let your people live in such squalor?
QUAN: Please, Father. I have to face thousands of problems. How to stop my people from starving. How to improve our communication network. How to prevent sandstorms from destroying our rice fields. Defeating illiteracy. Provisions for health services. Eradicating social ills. I carry on my shoulder the responsibilities for a better future of the entire population in this region. I have no time to concern myself with one crazy old man. I just don’t understand him.
LAM: How can you care for the entire population when you can’t even understand just one person?
QUAN: Please, Father.
LAM: Don’t talk back. You are shaming me in front of our foreign friend with your so–called leadership! A true Communist should know how to look after his people as he would look after the pupil of his own eye! You’d better grant the old man a housing permit, first thing tomorrow.
QUAN: Providing a house for a person who dishonoured you? In my opinion Socialism has no room for such a person!
LAM: Your duty is to help people like him to change—spiritually and physically—even if it costs you your life. [Pause] Let me ask you this: if you are to die for the Revolution in this desert, would you like to go to heaven or to hell?
QUAN: Dear Father, my spirit would go wherever the Revolution guides me!
LAM nods approvingly.
MARY: Which would you choose, Mr Lam? Heaven or hell?
LAM: Hell.
MARY: Why?
LAM: If I didn’t go to hell there would be no one to enlighten those people who accused me of doing despicable deeds!
MARY: We foreigners really need to understand you better.
QUAN: [to LAM] Some foreign antique dealers are in town. They said they’re interested in buying your old war uniforms, the portrait of Lenin and all your war medals.
LAM: Why didn’t you spit in their faces for my sake?! [He stands up quickly and walks over to the portrait of Lenin] Dear Lenin! You are the guiding light in the heart of every Communist in the world! How dare those small insects dare to consider your portrait as a commercial commodity? [Suddenly turning to MARY] Have you read the complete works of Lenin?
MARY: I’ve been busy with my music, I haven’t had time to read Lenin’s work. I also confess I’m not much good at politics, I prefer the arts.
LAM: Politics is an art! You should read Lenin on Socialism. His books are excellent! I remember his quote ‘Socialism manifests through the government of the soviets and the total electrification of a nation’.
The room plunges into darkness due to the shortage of electricity. MARY laughs.
QUAN: [in the darkness] Problems with the generators again! My apologies to you, Mary. Please bear with me for a moment while I light the kerosene lamp.
MARY: It doesn’t matter. We can still talk in the dark !
LAM: [speaking loudly in the darkness] We have achieved the most important part: we already are governed by the soviets! [To QUAN] Where did you hide the lamp? Why does it take you so long to find it? Electricity shortage is just a temporary problem. Soon, Lenin’s word will be completely realised in the White Sand Desert!
MARY: The Russians have demolished all the statues of Lenin?
QUAN: Please, Mary! Don’t talk about it.
LAM: Why not? I believe it is done by the hands of the international reactionaries and their cohorts. Have the true Russian Communists rebuilt them yet?
MARY: Don’t you know? It was the members of the Russian Communist Party themselves who demolished the statues.
QUAN: Excuse me, Mary! I have asked you not to mention that news here.
Pause.
MARY: I am sorry. But I thought the whole world already knew about it!
LAM: Quan! Is it true what she just said?
QUAN: Yes, father, it is the truth !
LAM: Why did you hide it from me?
QUAN: I was afraid the news would upset you.
A long silence.
LAM: [yelling out] Where is the lamp? Why does it take you so long to find it?
Suddenly voices of the dead souls can be heard. Then skeletons, with candles inside their rib cages, float down into the room. The skeletons land and walk around the room as if they are shadows of people with hearts exposed and beating. LAM stands, shaking with terror.
[Looking at the skeletons] Who are you? Please leave my house !
MARY: Are you all right, Mr Lam?
QUAN: Excuse me, Father! Are you talking to someone?
LAM: Can’t you see? The skeletons are walking around in the room! There, you see, they are walking. There—
MARY: Sorry, I can’t see a thing !
LAM: [yelling] There, you see over there, the skeletons are coming towards me! Tell them to go away! Their red eyes are staring! Go away! What do you want? Quan! Where is the lamp? Light the lamp quickly!
LAM is terrified. He covers his head with his hands and slumps down. The skeletons disappear quickly. QUAN lights the large lamp. The room is inundated with bright light.
QUAN: [going to his father] Father! Who were you talking to?
LAM: The skeletons. Where have they gone?
QUAN: I’m sorry, Father! I didn’t see anything.
A very long silence.
LAM: Are the Communists still in power in Russia?
QUAN: Please, Father! Don’t bother about that old history. You are tired. Let Mary play us a piece of music. It will help you relax.
MARY: [taking out the flute from her backpack] This piece of music was written by my grandfather when he was young. I learned it from my father when I was a child. It’s my only inheritance. Now it is my turn to teach my own children to play it.
LAM: Do you also play the flute?
MARY: Every member of my family plays it. QUAN: Please play.
MARY raises the flute to her lips. Music emits from the flute suddenly—a beautiful and sad tune. QUAN listens to the flute attentively. LAM looks at MARY dazed, acting as if he has just seen something frightening come out of the sound of the flute. All of a sudden the space is glowing in a bright red colour, with voices of people screaming and the sounds of bombs and gunfire. All blend together with MARY’s flute playing. LAM stands up slowly, his head in his hands, and staggers towards the other back room. QUAN runs to him, trying to catch him as he falls down. MARY stops playing.
[Anxiously] Father! Father! What’s happened?
LAM: Tell that woman to leave immediately! I want her out of the White Sand Desert now.
QUAN: [bewildered] Please, Father! What’s wrong?
LAM: I want her to leave! Do you hear me?
QUAN: Yes, Father! But it was you who agreed to help. You said it was all right for me to help her.
MARY: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.
LAM: Now is not the right time for you to look for your father’s remains. Perhaps some other time, in the future, we will be in a better position to offer you assistance.
MARY: Please! The image of my father is part of me. I’ve worked very hard for this trip. I have been dreaming about it for so many years. To come here. To find his remains. To find that part of myself. Please, Mr Quan, please let me stay.
QUAN: I am sorry, but I can’t go against my father’s orders.
MARY: Why? I haven’t done anything. At least give me a reason. All I’ve done is play a piece of music.
LAM: There are simply too many landmines in the desert. We don’t want you getting hurt.
MARY: Mr Quan! Please help me to change your father’s mind, please?
LAM angrily pushes the table over, the plates of food are scattered all over the floor.
LAM: I have spoken. No is no!
They all stand motionless in an intense silence. The shadows of the two figures in white shrouds appear then disappear in the middle of the room.
END OF ACT ONE

ACT TWO

SCENE ONE
TREASURE CHEST OF THE DEPARTED SOLDIERS
AN’s dilapidated hut. The roof is made of an old tarpaulin used by the Americans during the war. There is hardly any furniture except for an old bamboo bed, a used ammunition box for a table and two old cannon shells placed upside down for seats.
Late afternoon. The last glow of sunlight gives the sand dunes far into the distance a bright red hue. A bowl with incense is burning on the ammunition box, the smoke floating in front of a small photograph framed carefully under glass. It is the picture of a beautiful young girl. In the right corner, a few bamboo flutes and some half–made straw hats sit on a small shelf. The shadows of the two figures in white shrouds appear and disappear outside. MARY, puzzled, looks at the simple abode. AN carries one of the cannon shells and places it in front of MARY. AN drinks throughout the scene.
MARY: I’ve come to say goodbye. And to thank you.
AN: You’re leaving?
MARY: Tomorrow night.
AN: Why?
MARY: They said it’s because of the landmines, but I think there must be other reasons. If it was only the mines, they wouldn’t have agreed to my coming in the first place. But what can I do? [Pause] They told me they’re giving you a new house.
AN: Yes. I said no. [Pause] Would you like some rice brandy?
MARY: No thanks. Are you going to stay in this… hut… forever?
AN: I’d like to live in a proper house. But I have a fear. Living in the White Sand Desert has taught me about fear. In this life nothing is free. [Pause] Will you come back again?
MARY: I don’t think I’ll get another chance. This is it. You said you picked up a few things from the dead white soldiers. Could we look
at them? Maybe I’ll find something there and my trip won’t have been wasted.
AN: I keep them in this ammunition box. We will wait for the incense to finish burning. Then we’ll look.
MARY: The smell of the incense is beautiful and strange. Like it’s part of some separate world.
AN: Every time I want to look at the belongings of the dead white soldiers, I have to ask their permission by offering them incense. Excuse me. [Pointing to the cannon shell] Please sit down! Don’t be afraid, the war is over. It is only an empty shell!
MARY: Do you use them as chairs?
AN: [smiling gently] Yes, I sit on them and think to myself during the war, one single shell can kill a lot of people, and in the time of peace, it can only sit one person!
MARY: Wow! This is the first time I’ve sat on one of these.
AN: How does it feel?
MARY: Cold. I imagine they all do. [Pause] Do you really live here on your own?
AN: [pointing to the photo of the young girl] I have her picture, two empty cannon shells, a large ammunition box full of old things, my bamboo flute, I weave straw hats for a living, and the Crone is my good friend. That’s all a person needs to live in this desert.
MARY: I keep thinking about the Crone and the dead soldiers’ bones. AN: Today she found the skeletons of a mother and two children !
A long silence.
MARY: May I have some of that brandy now? AN: Certainly.
AN pours.
MARY: Perhaps you are right. The war was just a meat party. A meaningless meat party which left nothing for the next generation. Except bleached bones.
Pause.
AN: The brandy is full of sorrows.
MARY: [looking at the photo] Is that the girl you told me about?
AN: Yes.
MARY: She’s very beautiful.
AN: Please forget that story! The incense has finished burning. Now, let me show you what’s in the box.
He carefully opens up the box and pulls out some sheets of paper.
MARY: Are they your poems?
AN: ‘The battle splits the moon in half.’ Poems written by soldiers are to be placed at the top of the gun barrel. My poems are of no use for the proletarian Revolution of the White Sand Desert!
MARY: I don’t quite understand.
AN: [gesturing with his hands] Don’t try to. To understand is to remember! To remember is to think! And to think is to want to change what has been understood. That’s why I don’t want to understand anything anymore. My heart is empty. For the desert wind to fill. [He takes out the contents from the box one by one] Have a look at these, you could be lucky, you might recognise something which belonged to your father.
He hands MARY a twisted old helmet.
This belonged to a white soldier who died right under my feet. [He shows MARY one of his hands] This is the hand that closed those eyes. I was reprimanded in front of my whole unit for closing the eyes of a dead enemy. But once he was dead he could no longer be an enemy of anybody. [Pause] Sometimes I don’t know if I should laugh or cry for those days!
He brings out a handful of lighters, necklaces, fountain pens, sunglasses, handkerchiefs, name tags, rings.
Here, have a look at these. They all belonged to white soldiers!
MARY: [examining everything] How did you collect all this in the middle of a war?
AN: I picked them up during the quiet moments.
MARY: Some of these are very valuable.
AN: The antique dealers come here often, trying to get me to sell. I’ll never agree to it. [Drinking his wine] They tell me that these things are very valuable, that trading will build a bridge from the desert to the outside world. Idiots! Who’d build international friendships on the belongings of dead soldiers?
He hands MARY a singed uniform.
Here, this uniform belonged to a red–haired soldier. He didn’t run fast enough.
MARY: [holding up a pen, examining it carefully] This pen looks exactly like my father’s.
AN: Really?
MARY: But the name isn’t his. [Sighing] Is that all?
AN: That’s it. You didn’t recognise anything?
MARY: [shaking her head] No. Nothing here could be his. He was a musician, he lived simply. A flautist.
A very long silence.
AN: [avoiding MARY’s eyes] A flautist?
MARY: Why are you suddenly quiet?
AN: [avoidingly] No… I just wanted to know—are there many flautists in your country?
MARY: Quite a few. You’ve knocked your cup over. Are you all right?
AN: Yes, I’m all right! Just a bit clumsy. You know old age.
MARY: Are you thinking of someone?
AN: A soldier. In war every soldier is the same. A gun, a country and an interrupted dream. [Pause] Did your father play a flute very beautifully? The sound of that flute… sad as the afternoon wind on the sand dunes…
MARY: [amazingly] Did you meet my father? Why are you crying?
AN: [looking out at the distant sand dunes] No, I am not crying. I have no more tears to cry. [Takes up his wine cup, shaking] The rice brandy is crying! The rice brandy is angry a flautist went to war.
MARY: My mother encouraged him to go and defend Australia against the Communists. I was too young to understand what a ‘Communist’ was. I only knew that I missed my father and his music. My mother was very proud.
AN: The women who are left behind can only cry on one another’s shoulders for their lost. [Suddenly standing up] That’s it! Please go. There is nothing of your father’s here.
MARY: I’m not sure I understand.
AN: You have seen everything I have. Please go now. You said there are many flautists in Australia.
MARY: What haven’t you shown me?
AN: Nothing! I looked at you and felt sorry for you, the harsh desert has ruined your white skin.
He offers MARY a straw hat.
Please take this. It will remind you of this desert. Please go now. There is nothing left for you to see.
MARY: You aren’t telling me the truth.
AN: [calmly] Truth or lie. It doesn’t matter anymore. Everything is over. [Suddenly breaking the wine cup] Go! Go now! Get out of this White Sand Desert.
MARY: [fearfully looking at the broken cup] All right! I’ll go… Goodbye…
She starts to leave.
AN: [slowly turning his head up, looking after MARY] Excuse me !
MARY: [stopping walking] Are you calling me?
AN: Wait…
MARY: Why? You haven’t got anything else to show me.
AN: [slowly pulling a cotton first–aid bag out of the box] I have one more thing. I do want to do the right thing by the dead souls.
MARY turns back slowly and walks towards AN. He shakily pulls a twisted, singed flute from the bag.
Please be careful, hold it gently, I don’t want to lose anything of it, not even a grain of sand. There is an inscription next to the valves. Take a look, then give it back to me.
MARY, stunned, takes the flute from AN.
Give it back. It isn’t your father’s. You can go now—there’s nothing else!
A very long silence.
MARY: [shocked] Our family will be grateful to you always ! AN: Please. Don’t. I haven’t done anything for you.
MARY gently holds the flute, then slowly sits down next to AN.
MARY: This is his. This line of writing is his name. [Showing the valves on the flute] This line of writing is my father’s name—the flautist who died in this desert!
AN snatches the flute back from MARY, then stands up and goes towards the window.
AN: Don’t play games with this old man! Pretending to be a relative of a dead soldier. Getting their belongings. So you can sell them. It’s an old trick. Let the dead rest in peace. Get out.
MARY: I promise you that the flute belonged to my father.
AN: Don’t make promises. A promise does not know if it can keep its own word… Solid rock can be worn down by water, so how can one expect words from the tips of people’s tongues to be kept? This mouth made promises that clotted in my throat. Only silence came out. [As if waking up from a dream, he looks around suspiciously] Why drink so much, you old fool? I have told myself so many times not to get so drunk. MARY: Are you crying?
AN: They put a gun to my mouth and said they would shoot if I didn’t stop crying. [Slapping his mouth] I swear I will never get as drunk as today! [Slapping his mouth noisily] Promises again! One promise caused enough miseries for a lifetime, and still more promises.
MARY takes a photograph from of her wallet and walks towards AN.
MARY: Look here. This is the photograph of my father with his signature. It’s the same as the one on the flute. My father’s flute. I do not want to deceive you. How did you find this flute?
AN looks carefully at the photo, then holds the flute close to his heart.
Please tell me. How did you find my father’s flute?
AN: [sounding hopelessly sad] Another sandstorm is starting.
MARY: [walking to the door to look out] How do you know?
AN: The whispering wind stirring up my memories.
MARY: ‘The whispering wind stirring up my memories.’ Is it from one of your poems?
AN: The memories are gone, only words are left. Are you really the daughter of this soldier?
MARY: Of course I am. See, I look like him.
AN: Yes, like the two grains of sand from the same desert. Each grain of sand is a heart. Each heart is a broken life. [Sadly] For so many decades, I’ve been waiting for someone to come to claim this flute.
MARY: If no one came?
AN: Then I’d take this bag and the flute with me and return them to the sand. People are like grains of sand being thrown about by the wind. Chance brings them together, then they are separated, forever. Buddha said: ‘I see the whole vast world in a grain of sand’. Does the Earth still turn on its own axis?
MARY: One day it will stop. It will be tired of bearing all these wars.
AN: [looking into the distance] Wars. Yes, wars. All three of us joined the army on the same day. She was a nurse in the Special Intelligence Battalion with us. The War Hero and I, together with another soldier, were selected as the three best scouts. That night, we were ordered to enter the enemy’s military compound to uncover their strategic troop movements. We were planning an attack for the next day. [Looking at the photo] That night the three of us crawled right up behind the sandbag barrier of the compound and this soldier didn’t even see us…
The shadows of the two figures in white shrouds can be seen clearly floating into the hut in the world of the dead souls.
SCENE TWO

A MOMENT OF SILENCE IN THE WAR
Night time in the military compound during the war. The moon is partly hidden by a black cloud, casting a pale light over the sandbag barrier around the compound. In a corner, LAM, AN and PHI, in uniform, carrying guns, snake along the sandbag barrier. Search lights sweep the compound. The air is full of the sound of insects. Suddenly the sound of a flute breaks the silence. LAM, AN and PHI crane their necks towards the sound.
LAM: Damn you! You come here with your guns and bombs to kill innocent people, then have the fucking hide to play music to entertain yourselves at night. [Cocking his gun] Let me give that flute–playing fucker a shot in his throat.
AN: [pushing LAM’s gun barrel down] Don’t do it, Lam. If you shoot, you’ll give us away. Our orders are to protect the secrecy of tomorrow’s attack at all costs.
PHI: [craning his neck towards the source of the music] Look at those self–contented, fat bastards smoking cigarettes. The smell is out of this world.
AN: I wonder what those bastards eat to make their skin so white? Shit, this compound is built like a fortress, our unit will need heavy cover fire.
LAM: Just look at that fucking bearded bastard, bolting his food and yapping. Isn’t he disgustingly ugly? Human beings are strange. All built the same—with a mouth, a tongue and teeth—but all speak so fucking differently. But everywhere lion’s roars are the same. AN: Ssh…! Lie down! Here comes the patrol !
They lie down. The flute plays.
PHI: [lifting his head up] We are safe. Fuck them. My heart’s pounding so bloody hard. Hey. You two. Are you afraid of death?
AN: Isn’t everyone?
LAM: Not this Lam. I never worry about death.
PHI: If you had one last word, what would it be?
LAM: Kill !
AN: No! Mine would be ‘live’. I want to live. This war has made me long to be alive even more. Listen to that flute. It sounds so sad.
PHI: [in serious voice] Comrade An! Don’t let the music of the enemy distract you from your fighting spirit.
LAM: Fucking fool. Talking about music and poetry in the battlefields as if you’re on the fucking moon. If all our soldiers were like you, romantic shit, we would have lost this fucking land a long time ago.
AN: It is almost time for the attack. I have to contact base for cover fire. Follow me now and keep down.
LAM: [looking to the direction of the flute play] Fuck you! Go on playing your flute. Go on laughing your head off! Tomorrow I’ll show you who the fuck I am.
LAM, AN and PHI, holding their guns, snake away silently. The flute continues with the same insistent melancholy. The light changes. A long silence. Then suddenly the earth rumbles with noises from heavy artillery and the battle cries of soldiers. Clouds of dirt and sand erupt. The painful cries of wounded soldiers lost in the gunfire can be heard. The sound of approaching aircraft becomes increasingly loud. LAM, AN and PHI can be seen in three different positions, gritting their teeth and firing away.
[Roaring angrily] Fuck you! I won’t let even one single fucker return home alive.
PHI: [calling out to LAM] Lam! Be careful! Their planes are coming to their aid.
AN: [yelling out with great fear] Watch out! Lam! Run fast! Fire! Fire! The planes are dropping napalm bombs! Run! Lam! Run!
The light changes. The battlefield is suddenly covered by fire. LAM’s face is caught by the fire. His gun drops and he falls face down. AN and PHI quickly run over the help him. Only the desperate, painful cries of the soldiers caught by the fire can be heard.
LAM: [clutching his face] An! Phi! My face is burned! Too hot! Too fucking hot!
AN: [shaking and calling LAM] Lam! Lam! It is me, it’s An ! LAM: [roaring with pain] Where are our comrades?
PHI: [his throat choking with smoke] All gone. With the fire.
LAM: I am burning hot! Too fucking hot! No, I can’t die now, Lam will have to avenge this bloody face! Blood has to pay for blood.
PHI: [carrying LAM over his shoulder] Stop yelling! Of course you’ll live! The Nation and the People are with you! [To AN] I’ll take comrade Lam to the river. You go and look for the Unit’s nurse. Go and find Mai. Run quickly.
PHI takes LAM and runs in one direction, AN, with his gun, runs in another direction. The gunfire slowly abates. The light changes to reveal a bloody and quiet battlefield. Smoke rises from the burning bodies scattered on the white sand. The air is thick with the smell of gunfire. From the smoke the figures in the white shrouds emerge as if souls of the dead are returning to the living world.
The first figure takes off its shroud revealing himself as a foreign soldier. It is GABRIEL in his uniform, writhing with pain. His leg has been badly wounded in the battle. He is trying to crawl away from the charred bodies.
The second figure takes off its shroud, revealing itself as a female nurse. It is MAI, a beautiful girl carrying her first–aid bag with the sign of the Red Cross, pistol on her hip. She walks briskly among the bodies checking to see if any of her comrades are still alive. She suddenly spots GABRIEL’s movement. She runs to him, quickly pulling out her pistol and pointing it at his head.
GABRIEL: [raising both his arms up, trembling] Please don’t shoot !
MAI does not understand. She pushes her pistol closer against his head.
[Bursting out crying] Please don’t kill me! Please let me live! My wife and my little girl are waiting for me.
MAI still does not understand a word. She stares at GABRIEL with an intense hatred, her pistol firmly pushed against his head.
[Shaking with fear at the prospect of being killed] Please let me play for the last time—then you can shoot me. Do you understand?
GABRIEL pulls out his flute and gently brings it to his mouth. A moment of silence, then music emits from the flute—melodically and softly to the rhythm of his painful breathing. MAI looks at GABRIEL, bewildered, while listening to his playing. Suddenly the playing becomes intermittent and weaker. MAI, confused, looks at the cocked pistol in her hand and into GABRIEL’s eyes which gaze at hers fixedly. GABRIEL puts his finger to his head as if to indicate that he is ready to die. In the deepest, silent moment of war, the pistol slips off MAI’s hand. She opens her water bottle and gently drips water into his mouth, then quickly pulls the first aid kid from her bag and begins to fix up his leg wound. GABRIEL is close to death.
Dust settles slowly over the dead bodies. The light changes. The sun finally sets in the distance, the desert becoming a vast darkness. MAI takes out a piece of parachute cloth and places it over GABRIEL. The darkness becomes total. MAI makes a fire. In the flickering light of the fire, GABRIEL slowly regains consciousness.
[Pointing his finger to his temple] Why didn’t you shoot me?
MAI does not understand what he is saying. She gently shakes her head. GABRIEL takes off his watch, his pendant and ring, giving them to MAI.
Thank you for not killing me, I’ll be grateful to you for the rest of my life. Please take them, I want you to have them.
MAI looks at them and shakes her head.
[Surprised] What is your name?
MAI doesn’t understand his words. She takes his flute, looking at it in silence, before handing it back to him.
GABRIEL takes the flute from her.
MAI looks at him, smiling.
The sound of the flute breaks the silence of the night. MAI is lost in the music, which gradually fades away. MAI looks at GABRIEL and starts singing a familiar song. GABRIEL listens to her attentively, then begins to accompany her on the flute.
Suddenly two torchlight beams appear from the opposite direction, cutting short the music and singing. LAM and PHI, with guns in their hands, come out from the dark. LAM’s head is bandaged with a piece of cloth torn from his uniform, showing only half of his face. LAM and PHI stare coldly at MAI and GABRIEL. MAI fearfully looks at the guns pointing at her.
MAI: I looked for you everywhere. I thought you were all dead! [Choking with tears] A lot of our comrades have been burned to death. I don’t know who survived and who didn’t. I came across this injured soldier who was waiting to die and I helped him.
PHI furiously steps forward, pointing his cocked gun at GABRIEL’s head. MAI knocks PHI’s gun upwards and it discharges into the air.
No! Please don’t kill him. [She shows them the flute] He is a musician. He plays beautifully.
She hands the flute to GABRIEL.
Please listen, I have never heard such beautiful music!
GABRIEL takes the flute back, looking at LAM and PHI in fear. Then slowly he brings the flute to his lips. PHI suddenly strikes the flute from GABRIEL’s hands. GABRIEL is trembling like a leaf.
[Stunned] Why? Why won’t you listen to the flute?
LAM: [his cold voice cutting like a knife] We heard it last night !
MAI: [frightened, stepping back to avoid PHI’s hateful stare] Why do you look at me with such hatred?
PHI: [spitting at her face] You traitor! The Party and the People will never believe that you could spare the life of an enemy who brought death and destruction to this desert and then sing to entertain him.
MAI: [tearfully] Please, Lam, I never thought of betraying our country.
LAM: [coldly] Never speak my name again.
MAI: [pleading] Let me explain. He’s badly injured and close to death. I could not bring myself to kill him. His flute sounded like a plea for life. Out of habit I began to sing to myself—not to the enemy. Please believe me. I did not sing for him, I am not a traitor.
LAM: [without any feeling] You have the right to sing to anybody, you have the right to save anybody. No one in this poor desert dare to reproach you. [His voice hardens and he points to the bodies of the soldiers] Just take a good look. Who cares about the souls of over three hundred and sixty dead soldiers of our Special Intelligence Battalion? All gone.
MAI: No one else? Even An, was he also killed?
PHI: [spitting in her face] He survived. Now he’ll never agree to marry you, you traitor.
LAM: [with no feeling] Stop reproaching her. She has been a source of joy and she has fought bravely with our battalion. It is pointless to reproach her. [Pointing again to the dead soldier] We’ll use the uniforms of the dead solders to tie her up with the enemy she saved and burn them alive as a sacrifice to the souls. The souls of young soldiers who died without being loved. Young soldiers who never had the chance to hear her sweet singing.
PHI eagerly goes off to strip the uniforms from the dead soldiers and uses them to tie up MAI and GABRIEL.
PHI: You deserve this. Bastard, invader, and you, you traitor.
MAI: [on her knees, begging] Please, I beg you. Please don’t. [Choking with tears, pleading and begging] Please, Lam! Let me live! I beg you! Please, I beg you. I am not a traitor! I am your friend. Please, for the sake of our friendship, forgive me. Let me live!
LAM: Friendship has been destroyed by fire. And fire is repaid with fire! Blood is repaid with blood. Death with death. My heart now beats for victory. Burn them.
PHI starts the fire. MAI and GABRIEL are burned alive. The painful cries of the victims burst out as flames leap into the air. Slowly the fire dies out. Only smoke rises up from the charred skeletons. PHI and LAM stand in silence looking at the remains. After a while AN, with his gun slung from his shoulder, comes in, his face blackened. He carries a bag laden with things he has collected from the dead solders. Exhausted, he falls on his knees.
AN: I can’t recognise anybody! Fire has turned our entire battalion into charred meat. Only the three of us survived. I heard the gunfire and saw the fire burning. I guessed it must be you! Did you find Mai?
LAM coldly points to the rising curls of the smoke. AN rushes to the ash and the skeletal remains. He picks up the first aid bag.
Even Mai?
Without any emotion, LAM stares at the pile of ash and nods his head. PHI clicks his heels and stands to attention.
PHI: [seriously declaring] We burned alive the traitor and the invader as a sacrifice for our dead comrades.
AN: [stupefied] Burned alive? Traitor? What? What are you saying?
PHI clicks his heels again, standing to attention.
PHI: [seriously declaring loudly] I said: We burned alive the traitor and the invader as a sacrifice for our dead comrades! AN: Who burned her?
Coldly and without emotion, LAM points to himself.
Why?
PHI: She was caught helping an enemy and singing to entertain him as well!
AN runs over to LAM and shakes his shoulders.
AN: Is that true? Did you burn her alive?
LAM coldly nods his head.
Did you know I loved her?
LAM coldly nods his head again
PHI: [clicking his heels, in a loud voice] The Party and the People will find you another wife. The Party and the People would never allow you to marry a traitor! Be strong in trying times! We will win! The enemy will have to lose. Have faith in our ideal which we are pursuing. The Party and the People will never leave you without a wife!
AN: [shocked] Singing doesn’t make her a traitor !
PHI: [clicking his heels, in all seriousness] Singing to enemies in any way means having intentions to betray the great revolutionary achievements of the People.
AN: [furiously angry] Have you forgotten?! The order is to not maltreat any prisoners of war! Even if she was really guilty of betrayal, she would have had to be tried by the military court! Why did you burn them alive? Who gave you that right?
LAM: [roaring like a wounded beast, pointing to his bandaged half– face] This is the military court! This half–burned military court gave that order!
AN swiftly points his gun at LAM. PHI, as swiftly, points his gun at AN. They stare at each other for a time and in silence. LAM signals to PHI to put his gun down. He walks slowly, opening his shirt to expose his chest to AN.
[In a low and slow voice] Shoot me! Go on, shoot me! [Suddenly he roars like a wounded lion] Go on, shoot me! You think I am afraid of death! Go on, shoot me!
AN, trembling, drops his gun. He takes short, slow steps toward the smouldering ash, before slumping slowly to the ground, holding his head and crying uncontrollably.
[Following AN, his voice again becoming without emotion] Why are you crying? Never cry.
He puts the gun barrel in AN’s mouth.
[Yelling] I forbid you! Tears cannot save the White Sand Desert. Sit up! Compose a poem, so the next generation can remember that here lay over three hundred and sixty young, loveless soldiers, all burned to death on the same day!
LAM exits quickly and firmly.
PHI: [clicking his heels, standing to attention, repeating LAM’s words in a dry voice] Tears cannot save the White Sand Desert. Comrade An! Be strong in these trying times. The Party and the People believe in you. Sit up! Compose a poem!
PHI exits quickly. Under the pale and soft light of the half–hidden moon, AN crawls around the smouldering ash. He spots the damaged flute, picks it up and puts it in the first aid bag. In silence, AN looks up to the moon. The VOICE of someone reciting a poem comes from somewhere in the distance of the desert at night.
VOICE: The meat party is over only one faithful lover is left sitting here
amongst white bones and charred bodies chanting for the souls of the dead to return the young girl has gone never to sing again oh war…!
why did you rob and take away young men and girls of my homeland
of the mothers over there, across the ocean, who cry silently under the heavy afternoon sky with shadows of flying crows the meat party is over one is still sitting here
waiting for the other to reappear out of the white sand dunes out of the moon in the lover’s heart!
The shadows of the two figures in white shrouds move gently in
the distance.
SCENE THREE

THE LAST LANDMINE EXPLOSION IN THE WHITE SAND DESERT
The scene is the same as for Act One Scene One. LAM is still in his well–pressed suit, bedecked with medals. He is standing in silence next to the tank. His face is haggard and more aged. He slowly feels the sand–covered caterpillar–track of the tank with his hand. The eerie cries of crows are heard in the distance. QUAN runs in, worried.
QUAN: Father. Why are you here?
LAM: I am paying a visit to the past.
QUAN: Yes, Father. If it pleases you, I will tell the workers to build a wall around this tank and have your name inscribed to remind the People of your glorious achievements!
LAM: I hope people remember my deeds. They shouldn’t need an inscription.
QUAN: Excuse me, Father. What is bothering you? I heard you toss and turn all night.
LAM: I think you should get yourself a career !
QUAN: [surprised] But, Father, I’m the Chairman of the Local Council— LAM: You’re stupid.
QUAN: I’m sorry, Father. Why do you say that?
LAM: One day, the Communists will lose their power in the White Sand Desert. Then what are you going to do? Return to the fields and be a slave like your ancestors?
QUAN: No, Father. Nothing can destroy our great achievements in the White Sand Desert.
LAM: [becoming angry] Always—‘Yes Father’, ‘No Father’, ‘Excuse me, Father’—that doesn’t get you anywhere. You stupid fool.
A long intense silence.
Tell me, where the Communist power has collapsed, are the Communists being executed? Has anybody been hanged? Has anybody been beheaded by a hoe? Has anybody been drowned in soapy water?
QUAN: No, Father. I don’t know.
LAM: You don’t know! What is the point in being a leader then?
QUAN: Please, Father! The world has changed a great deal.
LAM: [dumbfounded] And you have kept me in the dark! What right do you have?
QUAN: I just didn’t want you to spend the rest of your life feeling disappointed.
LAM: How could things collapse so fast?
QUAN: You sit at home all day, admiring your medals, dreaming about Socialism, oblivious to the fact that people no longer think like you. If I had just closed my eyes and followed you, our people would have died from starvation long ago.
LAM: Do people still remember my name?
QUAN: I will always remember you, you are my father and I love you.
LAM: Do you really love me?
QUAN: Yes, I do. And I respect you.
LAM: Whatever happens to me, will you still love and respect me as you say?
QUAN: You are a fine example for me to follow. Whatever happens, I shall always love and respect you.
LAM: Say whatever you want to say, do whatever you want to do. But make sure that your father is not going to be left in the sun to die!
QUAN: Why do you say that?
LAM: Anything might happen. People change. Politics change.
QUAN: Do you mean the stories the crazy old man told me are true?
LAM: What if they are and what if they are not?
QUAN: [embarrassed] If the old man’s stories were true, then…
LAM: …Then would you kill me? You just said you would love and respect me for the rest of your life!
QUAN: Yes, Father. But now only you and I are here. Please tell me, are his stories true?
A silent moment.
LAM: Go! Leave me. Stop asking stupid questions. I have never been afraid of death.
QUAN: What do you mean?
LAM: Just go !
QUAN: Where can I go now? Please let me stay with you.
LAM: I go my own way. Our roads lead in opposite directions.
QUAN: Where does your road lead? And where does mine?
LAM: I go back to the past with all the things that people want to forget. You go to the future and you must do things that people will want to remember. Go now! Quickly, before I become angry.
QUAN: [afraid] I am going. [Intending to go] Goodbye, Father !
LAM: Quan! My son !
QUAN: [turning] Yes, Father?
LAM: Come here. I want to shake your hand !
He shakes QUAN’s hand.
In future, if anyone asks you where is the person who burned this tank, please tell them that he has gone into oblivion. Now go!
QUAN: [tearfully] Father.
LAM: [gravely] Go! Never cry. Tears cannot save this White Sand Desert.
QUAN exits quickly. LAM watches his shadow disappear, then holds his head, before bursting out crying like a baby. He bangs his head against the side of the tank. The CRONE comes in, carrying the dirty, heavy bag on her back.
The Crone!
The CRONE empties out skulls and bones from the bag and sits down. She proceeds to clean them with her shirt front.
CRONE: Where do you come from? How do you know my name?
LAM: [whispering] From hell !
CRONE: Is it a happy place down there?
LAM: For some it is, for others it is a sad place! Did you find those bones in the compound?
CRONE: Why do you ask? Do you know anyone among them?
LAM: I knew them all.
CRONE: Isn’t that enough? Why come here again? Aren’t you scared of death?
LAM: [with a grave face] No. This Lam is never afraid of death.
CRONE: Once upon a time, there were long–legged creatures who brought along a rain of fire to pour over the short–legged creatures. [Singing] ‘La… la… la…’ Do you want to find the long or the short bones?
LAM: I want to find my own. [Whispering] I have just begun looking for them. I don’t know if I will find them.
CRONE: The more you look, the harder they are to find. Don’t look for it and you’ll find it. The world is blind, no one sees anything. Now go away! I have to prepare breakfast for my children.
LAM crawls away toward the compound. The CRONE takes the bones and climbs onto the tank to enter the compartment. AN and MARY enter. Silently, they sit on the exposed roots of the tree. AN respectfully lights some incense sticks, planting them in the sand next to the tree roots. The shadows of the two figures in white shrouds move gently amongst the incense smoke.
AN: Each time I light the incense and pray for their souls, I have the feeling that they are still living here.
MARY: [choking with emotion] Did you plant this tree?
AN: Yes. I buried the remains of your father and Mai here. I planted the tree over their grave. For years, the tree grew very quickly.
MARY: Can you take me to the soldier who carried out the orders? Who burned alive my father and Mai. I just want to see his face.
AN: [sadly] He died a while ago. When I heard that he was gravely ill, I went to visit him. It was he who told me the whole story. He died full of remorse with his eyes open. Not many attended his funeral, just armies of ants. I remember clearly that I accidentally stepped on the leader ant and all the soldier ants were in disarray, crawling around the dead leader in the middle of my footprint.
Silence.
MARY: That footprint seems to have a soul.
AN: Everybody asked why he was not buried in the war heroes’ cemetery of this desert, but he said, in his will, he wished to be buried like an ordinary person.
MARY: Have you seen the War Hero who burned this tank again?
AN: No. I haven’t. But I hear he is known everywhere for his victorious battles!
MARY: Why don’t you find another lover to console you?
AN: [looking far away into the sand dunes] Here, in this desert, there is a bird that lives with one partner all its life. If one dies, the other stays faithful until its own death. All my life, I’ve only loved Mai. And I’ve dreamt of becoming a poet like your father dreamt of becoming a flautist.
MARY: And neither of you realised your dreams.
Long silence.
AN: [suddenly pointing to the sky] Look. Do you see the red over there? It looks exactly like the kite my old friend used to make when we were young!
MARY: It’s the same as the one your old friend gave me.
AN: That’s right! He loved the colour red !
MARY: Which colour do you like?
AN: I also like red. But my red is that of the sun.
MARY: And his red?
AN: Perhaps of blood !
MARY: But red is red !
AN: No, there are differences.
MARY: When you die, do you want to go to hell or heaven? AN: [after thinking] I want to go to hell !
MARY: Why?
AN: If I don’t go to hell, how can I find the old friend who made those wonderful kites for me?!
Long silence.
MARY: You two are alike, yet so different. [Pause] I am going this evening. It is probably the last time I’ll see you.
AN: Aren’t you coming back to collect the remains of your father?
MARY: Dig up this tree? No !
AN: It is the only way to get your father’s remains. I carefully put his and Mai’s ashes in a cannon shell and buried them under the tree!
MARY: [moved] This is my father’s second home. Please leave his soul and his bones to be forever with those of Mai beneath this tree. Let them remind us of our hope for the good and beautiful things of life that will never be lost!
A landmine explodes loudly in the compound area. The CRONE appears on top of the tank, holding pieces of LAM’s clothing. She looks sorrowfully toward the compound.
AN: [puzzled, asking the CRONE] Who gave you those pieces of clothing?
MARY: Whose are they?
CRONE: The one who wants to go and look for his own bones !
MARY: Who?
CRONE: [pointing to the compound where the landmine exploded] He went to where all the souls of the dead come from.
AN runs out quickly.
MARY: [calling out] Mr An! Where are you going?
AN: I am looking for my friend, the beautiful kite–maker.
CRONE: [standing on top of the tank like a statue] Don’t leave me here alone.
MARY: [climbing onto the top of the tank, standing next to the CRONE] Crone! Crone. I am staying here. With you.
Landmines continue to explode from the distant compound. The
CRONE holds on to MARY and cries. MARY takes the CRONE in her arms. The dead souls in white shrouds appear. Their voices become audible as the explosions diminish and fade away.
FIRST SOUL: Perhaps it was because of his music. The flute prevented me from raising my gun. Please do not think because I am sand that I can become a traitor!
SECOND SOUL: Please, don’t shoot me. Let me live. My wife and my little girl.
THIRD SOUL: Sit up and compose a good poem to remind people that here lay over three hundred and sixty young, unloved soldiers, who were burned to death on the same day.
FOURTH SOUL: He is still alive, but he will never marry a traitor like you!
FIFTH SOUL: Outside the storm is abating. Do you hear the wind caressing the sand dunes? Let the children free to fly kites, to play and to sing on the dunes of this White Sand Desert!
QUAN enters. He looks toward the now silent compound in the distance. He then briskly walks toward the tree with the old, bleached, wooden sign in the shape of an arrow nailed on its trunk, with the written warning: ‘Danger! Landmines! Keep Out!’
QUAN: [calling to MARY] Excuse me, Mary. Please help me take this sign down.
MARY: [climbing down from the tank] Why?
QUAN: Those are the last landmine explosions in the White Sand Desert.
His mobile phone rings and he starts to hunt around for it in the sand.
CRONE: [standing on top of the tank, singing at the top of her voice] The storm is over my children, come and eat!
This rice comes from the dried fields of our land.
This fish comes from the dried rivers of our land.
My love for you is like the sunshine over these vast sand dunes. Please eat, my children, then I will tell you a story:
Once upon a time there lived a young man and a young girl…
In the distance, the birds are singing, welcoming a new day. The light fades slowly with the singing of the CRONE.
THE END