Treatment: ASTRAY (Abhandengekommen) by pescif

ASTRAY Abhandengekommen An Opera in One Act

Treatment by Frank Pesci Music and Libretto by Frank Pesci

CHARACTERS Principal Roles (4 Singers) HERSELF (Colaratura Soprano) – reappears after a long, mysterious absence to find that her husband thinks she is dead, and prefers that she stay that way. HIMSELF (Lyric Baritone) – reads his own death notice in the newspaper. He is appalled at the reported manor of his death, which is not at all what he had in mind. THERAPIST/BUROCRAT (Mezzo-Soprano) MAN IN THERAPY/OBITUARIST/HUSBAND (Lyric Tenor)

The action takes place in a group therapy space (a church basement or municipal hall), in the home once shared by HERSELF and HUSBAND, in the OBITUARIST’s office, and in the BUROCRAT’s office

SCENE ONE In the therapy group THERAPIST greets HERSELF, HIMSELF, and the MAN IN THERAPY and explains the process of dealing with their particular affliction. SHE encourages them to share and, by way of being the leader, tells her story. “Hello,” SHE says, “I’m dead.” “…hello” the OTHERS mumble. SHE tells of how HER life was miserable. An unloving spouse ignored her, HER children saw right through her, and HER job was insignificant and meaningless. Slowly, SHE felt that SHE was fading from the minds of everyone SHE came in contact with – friends stopped calling, colleagues stopped scheduling meetings, waiters never took HER order, even the clergy left her off the prayer list. SHE was forgotten. SHE never knew why, and that was torture. But one day, a woman approached HER as she sat alone on a park bench. This stranger knew HER whole story, as she herself had lived through the same experience. In that moment, SHE realized that SHE was dead to the world – who SHE had been was no longer recognizable to the world around HER. SHE embraced the rest of HER life and dedicated it to helping others with the same affliction. The OTHERS stare at HER in blank silence. “One’s death can be hard to accept,” SHE says, “especially after the fact.” SHE encourages the OTHERS to share THEIR stories and begin the process. After an awkward pause, the THERAPIST calls on the MAN IN THERAPY, who jumps in shock with eyes bulging. HE regains his composure and begins to tell his story. HE faked HIS own death. It was supposed to be a joke, a college prank, something to get HIM in the local paper. When HE came out of hiding and appeared at HIS memorial service, no one recognized HIM. As HE listened to the eulogy, HE thought someone else was being memorialized, but HIS picture was next to the coffin. HIS fraternity brothers were crying – CRYING! What happened? HE went over the plan – it was only a prank! HE could feel HIS own body – everything was there, but no one believed that HE could still be alive! The drunken sadness at the frat house was unbearable. HE kept trying to pour HIMSELF a drink, but someone would pick it up before HE could drink it. Wasn’t it all a joke? Weren’t they all kidding? Surely, they would all turn around and look at HIM and have a good laugh at HIS expense? Right? No. He was dead to them. HE was gone. They buried “HIM.” (What was in that coffin??) That was years ago. HE still hangs out at the frat house, hoping someone will notice HIM. No one does… The THERAPIST sighs. “One’s death can be hard to accept, especially after the fact,” SHE repeats. But, SHE goes on, it’s the first step – the only step – to embracing a life that lies

ahead. “You may all feel alone, but look around you. The strangers on the street who make eye contact with you recognize a kinship, a similar affliction. The world is brimming with the dead, as well as the living who have moved on. So what better to do than to move on yourself?” There’s a silence in the room. Both HERSELF and HIMSELF are staring at the floor, hoping not to be called on next. “Well?” THERAPIST says. HERSELF looks up to meet the THERAPISTS gaze. With a sigh, HERSELF begins to tell the tale. SHE is transported to a single bed, in which she lays alone. SHE does not recognize the room, nor does SHE know when SHE laid down on the bed to begin with. The room was dusky, and the only sound was HER rustling the sheets. This was two weeks prior, SHE says. It took HER a day to get out of the bed. As SHE moved around the room, more of it revealed itself. It was plain and without decoration. It took another day for HER to remember HER own name, but SHE considered it unimportant, and forgot it by the next day. SHE wasn’t hungry, but found bottles of water stashed throughout the room. Eventually, a door revealed itself, which led to an antechamber. There SHE found a dresser with clothes, and some personal effects, including and identification card with a picture of a woman who looked familiar. The text on the card seemed to be in a language foreign, and the letters moved around by themselves. SHE got dressed and found another door, which opened to a brilliant light. She didn’t know how long it took, but eventually HER vision revealed that SHE was standing on a busy city street. Not knowing where SHE was going, SHE began to walk. Flickers of familiarity toyed with HER – a lamppost, a street sign, a building. On billboard advertisements, recognizable words began to form. This encouraged HER to look again at the ID card, where SHE saw a name, recognized it, and then willfully resolved to forget it. Looking up, SHE saw HER reflection in a shop window and recognized the woman whose picture SHE held in HER hands. The rest has come back to HER in pieces each subsequent day, but questions still remain. Wandering around the city, SHE was approached by a stranger who brought HER to the THERAPIST’s group. There’s a pause, then the THERAPIST takes a deep breath and looks at HIMSELF. HE knows it’s HIS turn, and he launches into HIS story. HE knew HE was dead from the moment HE saw HIS obituary in the morning paper. To HIS surprise, this did not strike HIM as particularly odd, and HIS death was a welcome, if unexpected, occurrence. As HE read, HE found that all of the details of HIS life were summarily presented in appropriate order, and HIS contributions to society and to HIS profession were admirably noted. HE was pleased with HIMSELF. Then HE read the last line, which made HIM fall out of his chair in shock. The cause and circumstances of HIS death were mundane, uncomplicated and mediocre – asinine, even. Such was this death that no person with a scrap of creativity could have opted for it. It had nothing to do with the grand, heroic, Shakespearian expiration that HE had envisioned. It

was an outrage! Something had to be done – an investigation, a correction, an appeal! The last impression of HIS life must be elevated to the proper level demanded of HIM. EVERYONE in the group looks a little awkward, and the THERAPIST is searching for something to say. Finally, SHE hands out assignments. The MAN IN THERAPY is ready for some one-on-one. HERSELF and HIMSELF, being new to the group, have specific work to do: fill in the gaps, understand the meaning of THEIR deaths, solve THEIR mysteries. SCENE TWO walking the city streets HERSELF is standing on the street where SHE left the confines of the room and the bed. SHE turns round and round, looking for anything that could jog HER memory, fill in the gaps, and answer three burning questions: How did I die? How long have I been dead? Who did I leave behind? Slowly, SHE retraces HER steps, inch by inch, back into the room, back into the bed. SHE closes HER eyes and begins to hear a muffled voice. The voice misses HER, it was searching for HER, it kept saying a name, one SHE doesn’t recognize. Hopeful, SHE opens HER eyes to find herself in another bedroom, one from her past. It was a room in which SHE made a decision, a decision to strike out on HER own. It comes back in pieces – an argument, a threat, pleading, reconciliation, and then that same resolve. Her resolve was to leave a life, a man…HER husband. SHE left and didn’t tell him. HE must have searched for HER, but SHE had made sure to leave few traces. SHE wonders if HE was still looking. SHE wants to see HIM again. SCENE THREE the OBITUARIST’s office HIMSELF barges into OBITUARIST’s office, newspaper in hand. HE is livid, and demands to know where the information contained in HIS obituary came from. “Is the information incorrect?” asks OBITUARIST. It is not. “Are you not dead?” HE supposes so. “I fail to see the problem,” says the unconcerned OBITUARIST. HIMSELF regales OBITUARIST with the details of the Most Honorable and Exciting Death that HE was supposed to endure. HIS entire life was to conclude in the Most Honorable and Exciting Death, as HIS entire life had been a prelude to the event. Every day, HE reflected on HIS death five times – a Bhutan custom. HE was well prepared, and did not let the reality of HIS eventual demise cloud HIS mission on earth. But could HE not have had the Most Honorable and Exciting Death that would have inspired millions to reflect and improve upon their own lives? OBITUARIST is unimpressed. HE writes dozens of obituaries every day. They all read the same – loving spouse, doting parent, committed employee of Who Cares? They all end up in the ground. The spouses move on, the children divert their attention to themselves, the co

workers never cared in the first place. If there’s only one memorial service, it saves time and column inches. And who could possibly predict the way they were going to die, and the meaning it would have to others without suicide and a note with the significance of the Magna Carta? HIMSELF is sternly silent. Perhaps, HE implies, the OBITUARIST has no such designs, but the wishes of others for their own lives and deaths cannot – and should not – be denounced or truncated by senseless parties in fishbowl offices. Who, HIMSELF demands, who gave the information that HE died such a meaningless death? “Who else,” OBITUARIST replies, “but the Government. If you want to fight someone, fight them.” Righteously indignant, HIMSELF rises, declares HIS intent to do just that, and begins to make an extravagant exit. At the door, HIMSELF turns back to ask “By the way, why can you see me?” OBITUARIST answers, “I’m dead, too.” SCENE FOUR In the therapy group The participants have paired up. THERAPIST and MAN IN THERAPY are off in a corner, talking closely. THERAPIST is pouring tough love on HIM. HE is resisting. HIMSELF and HERSELF are sitting dejectedly next to each other. THEY recount their trials to fill the gaps, understand the meaning, and solve their mysteries. SHE comes out and says it – it’s time to make the break. “There is no break,” HIMSELF says, “I just need a proper ending.” “What if there isn’t one?” SHE says, “What if we have to understand but not resolve anything?” THEY both look over to THERAPIST, who is regaling MAN IN THERAPY about the finer points of self-forgiveness. “Let’s keep it simple,” HERSELF says, “What do we need at this very moment?” “I need,” HIMSELF says, “to know who thought they could have the right to override the most personal moment of my life.” HERSELF says, “I have to know what made me do that to someone else, someone I cared about.” THEY turn back to see MAN IN THERAPY in tears, and THERAPIST patting HIM on the head, clearly exasperated. SCENE FIVE At the home of HERSELF’s HUSBAND HERSELF hides in the shadows, lurking over the shoulder of HUSBAND, who is sitting on a couch, drinking. “I replay the scene over and over,” THEY both say to themselves, “Where was the break?”

Quietly, SHE suggests that the break was in error. Without looking in HER direction, HIS ears perk up. HE is wild-eyed and dangerous. “The break was in error,” HE says to no one, “This doesn’t make sense!” HERSELF is shocked – had HE heard HER? HUSBAND rises from the couch in a dangerous dance, romancing his cocktail along the way. “There were problems that could have been solved,” HE says, “I’ve been through this a million times! I went to her familiar haunts, to her old lovers and her friends, but she left so few signs – and no reason. She just vanished.” HERSELF comes up behind him and whispers, “What was the break, in your mind?” Still to himself, HUSBAND replies, “The break was superficial. She always threatened to leave – this was just one more fight. The topics never changed, and always did, but the substance stayed the same – she wasn’t right for the present, she never could make herself comfortable enough to stay.” HERSELF stumbles to the nearest wall. HUSBAND’s words are true enough, but her meaning was misunderstood. “I never thought I was worthy of his love,” SHE says. HE scoffs. “She never thought she was worthy of my love,” HE says, “But that was never the point.” HERSELF presses the subject: “What was the point?” HUSBAND laughs and drains his glass. “That was the point: we never had to prove our love, we only thought we had to.” HE continues, “Now all that’s gone; now she’s long gone. But I’m still here conversing with her ghost.” HERSELF suggests, “Maybe she’s not a ghost…” HE shakes his head and pours another drink. “She’s gone,” HE says, “and she’s not coming back. The woman I knew and loved, in the time and place I knew and loved her is gone forever.” HERSELF says, “If it’s all gone, then release yourself.” HUSBAND blinks, with a sense of clarity in his expression. SHE fades into the shadows. SCENE SIX In the BUROCRAT’s office HIMSELF storms into the office of the BUROCRAT and makes HIS case as to the unjust reporting of HIS death. The BUROCRAT is unmoved. “Your death,” SHE says without looking up, “was reported through the proper channels.” HE is not denying that HE is dead, but wants the cause of death to be altered to one that HE sees more appropriate. “Have you the death certificate?” SHE asks. HE does not. “Then there’s nothing I can do,” SHE replys. “But I’m alive!” HE shoots back, “I’m flesh and blood, I’m standing here before you, and I want the death I want!” SHE sighs. “Do you have any documentation?” HE does, and produces an affidavit from the OBITUARIST which states that the information received about the deceased – along

with the cause of death – came from the BUROCRAT’s office. SHE reviews the document, and says, “No. This is not my stamp.” HE asks, “Aren’t you the BUROCRAT?” “I am,” SHE replies, “but this was stamped by my colleague, and only he can amend it.” HIMSELF asks, “May I speak with him?” “No,” BUROCRAT replies. “Why not?” “Because he’s dead; he died yesterday.” There is an awkward pause as BUROCRAT returns to the work on HER desk. “Can’t someone else help me?” HIMSELF asks. “No” Why not?” BUROCRAT sighs. “Because, sir, the dead have the final say about the dead.” HIMSELF realizes that HIS mission is futile, and he rises to leave. At the door, HIMSELF turns back to ask “By the way, how is it that you can you see me?” BUROCRAT answers, “How is it that you can’t see yourself?” SCENE SEVEN In Therapy MAN IN THERAPY is giving a tearful re-enactment of a recent breakthrough. Since then, he’s been seeking out people about to make the same mistake HE made, and secretly thwarting their plans. THERAPIST is all smiles. The group breaks off into pairs. HIMSELF and HERSELF look to each other. HE is dejected, but SHE is hopeful. THEY discuss the understanding that accepting THEIR death is the only way to move on with their life. Together, THEY sing: I am lost to the world with which I used to waste so much time, It has heard nothing from me for so long that it may very well believe that I am dead! It is of no consequence to me Whether it thinks me dead; I cannot deny it, for I really am dead to the world. I am dead to the world's tumult, And I rest in a quiet realm! I live alone in my heaven, In my love and in my song. END OF THE OPERA

~ Friedrich Rückert