FLYING ASPARAGUS
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Flying Asparagus by
Natalie Katsou A play inspired by Asperger Syndrome April 2009 edit version: December 2014
Natalie Katsou
Vakxikon.gr 2014
ISBN: 978-960-9776-92-9 Vakxikon - Non Profit Company Vakxikon.gr Publications 36, Marathonos str., 122 44 Egaleo, Greece www.vakxikon.gr info@vakxikon.gr Š 2013 Vakxikon.gr Publications & Natalie Katsou Edition Series: Vakxikon Literature - 20 First Edition: June 2014 Editing: Maria Katsopoulou Second Edition: December 2014 Editing: Paul Whitlock
FLYING ASPARAGUS A play inspired by Asperger Syndrome
To Maria and Foivos, to Perla, to Alexander, to Paul, to Dimitra
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CHARACTERS Michael Michael is 17 years old and has a remarkable memory. He is very talented at constructing things, he does not like metaphors, he gets upset when people touch him and he does not eat anything green. He is a patient in a research centre where the staff are testing ways of "curing" Michael's Asperger Syndrome. However, he is not sick and he cannot be cured. Κ. K. could have any name starting with a "K" as long as it sounds harsh and abrupt. She is 41 years old. She has been working with the same Doctor for 20 years, she observes everybody and she writes everything down. Rules must be obeyed. Β. B. is a twenty-year-old student nurse. She has just started working at the research centre with K. in order to get some experience.
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RED WITH A WHITE STRIPE (Michael is sitting cross-legged beside his bed, playing with his sleeves and observing their shadows on the wall. He is laughing. He pulls at his bedsheet, lifting it up and using it to make some different shapes with shadows on the wall. He gets under the sheet, still laughing. Sound comes from a TV off-stage. Michael laughs louder and louder then he suddenly hears a TV theme tune and stops laughing. Michael listens attentively and repeats the TV presenter's words:) Michael: "Ladies and gentlemen, good evening and welcome to our adventurous, magical world of engineering! I am Larry Triogin, the captain of your favourite spacecraft. Tonight, like every Friday at 20:00, we will take off for an unknown place. Let's take a trip . . . to Japan, where we will create a garden of pebbles and sand. That's right . . . ." (The TV sound stops. Michael looks straight ahead.) Michael: How do you like my uniform? It's especially made for transatlantic flights. Is it not? Why? It's handmade. I made it myself. Really. I do not tell lies. I don't like it at all, telling lies. Made it on my own, out of old clothes and shoelaces. It's simple: we take 2 sweaters, 3 shirts, 4 shoes, not a pair necessarily, but definitely the same size, yes, size 9. Add glue, it smells of resin. Take scissors, a big pair and a small one. Scissors, not a knife. A knife cuts! I've cut myself once – here, by the wrist – there's a vein, if it gets cut, it bleeds forever. It starts and will not stop. Then she shouts, K. shouts! And then some antiseptic to wash the glue off my hands. I prefer shampoo, it smells nicer. Cut and stick, cut, stick, cut, stick. It's simple: we take 2 sweaters, 3 shirts, 4 shoes, not a pair necessarily, but definitely the same size, yes, size 9. Add glue. Now this red one here is made from Dad's shirt, and this lace was on my favourite sneakers when I won the games . . .
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(K. enters with a notepad.) K.:
Do you believe there's anyone else here in this room? Apart from you and me?
(Pause. K. writes something down in her notepad then exits.) Michael: . . . When I won the aviation games. Very important games. Basically, this is my favourite thing. Constructing. Not building, like building houses and stuff. But making something up . . . (K. enters again, she stares.) Michael: . . . putting together airplanes. With mechanical parts. That's how I won the prize. The first underage person to have won such a prize for such a complicated construction. The scale was 1:200 feet, so obviously it was far from my ambition, which is to make it carry a human. Even a tiny human. It was rather narrow. But it was the most powerful and it used a power source that kept it running on a flat surface. Yes, it couldn't fly yet. And it looked rather funny. A super-cute, small aircraft with 4 HP, that was constantly in taking-off mode. Yes, that's how it looked, like it was in taking-off mode, running along like crazy, for ten minutes. Yes. It was red with a white stripe along the wings. (K. notes something down. She exits.) Michael: Yes, white. A white stripe. Red with a white stripe on one side. Along its wings.
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WHITE SHEETS (B. enters with a pair of clean bedsheets. As she passes by Michael, she accidentally brushes against him. Michael growls in protest and moves away from her. B. pulls off the old sheet from his bed. Michael pulls it back. B. keeps trying to remove the sheet but Michael moans and will not let go of it. During this tug-of-war fight, B. is talking and Michael keeps twisting and turning. He rolls himself up in his bedsheet, he pulls on it, he makes repetitive motions around himself.) B:
But why, Michael, why do that? It's nearly bedtime! Don't you understand?
(B. grasps his shoulder firmly. Michael bites her hand; B. winces in pain and slaps him.) Michael: You hurt me! Why? (B. exits. K. enters. She is strict and calm, confident that she can handle this situation. She does not look at Michael. B. is standing by the door behind her, watching. K. lunges forward and grabs the nearest end of his bedsheet off the floor with both hands in one swift move, which takes Michael by surprise, then she relentlessly drags it away from him until Michael is unwrapped. K. finally gets custody of the bedsheet. Michael growls in frustration at his defeat. K. stands there for a moment, without turning her head, then she exits with her prize.) Michael: Stop! It is mine! You deaf? It is mine! Bring it back! You thief! You deaf? (Michael growls again and rolls on the floor.) Michael: Please, please, please! It is mine! You thief, you deaf, you pumpkin!
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(Michael runs to the door, he looks ready to scream, as if he has got spasms, but just growls instead. B. exits.) Michael: Come back! (Michael sits cross-legged, he takes his T-shirt off, rubs it against himself, smells it, puts it on then takes it off again. B. enters with a blanket, she passes by him and carries on making the bed. She kicks or steps on anything which is in her way. Michael rushes around, frantically trying to clear his clutter off the floor, looking tight-lipped. B. picks up his T-shirt. Michael snatches it from her and opens his mouth as if he were about to scream but no sound comes out. B. exits. Michael tries to arrange his things and then shut and lock the door, putting obstacles behind it. Loud music starts; he does not like it. Michael does not manage to shut the door. He tucks himself under the bed. Michael stays there until the music stops. Perhaps he has fallen asleep.)
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BLACK SWORD Michael: It is time. It is time. Now. 8:45, rather getting to 8:46. As soon as it reaches 47, it can be considered as around ten minutes to nine, less than a quarter of an hour to nine. The more it is getting to nine, the more we are late, we've lost time, missed the right moment. In less than three hours, the day will have gone by. Yes. Oh, no! 8:48. Something must have happened. Yes, that's what they say. When we are late and the right moment's gone, "I'm sorry, something happened." We were not there and the minute-hand slipped, yes, that's what happened, the black needle, the black sword slipped and pierced the moment. And what was about to happen, is now bleeding. (B. appears and then exits again.) Michael: What? What happened? Where is she? (Pause. Michael curls up. B. enters again, holding a volume of an encyclopaedia.) B.:
Come and sit next to me, Michael. We had stopped at "R". Railway. Red. Ribbon.
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YELLOW CHEESE (Michael is running on a giant hamster wheel, something like a fairground or circus wheel. Michael runs faster and faster, like a hamster in a cage. K. enters, she watches him for a while, notes something down, then exits. Michael carries on. B. enters and starts watching him. Michael hears her come in and turns around to look; he falls over. He pulls himself together, holding on to the wheel tightly. Pause. Michael is looking at B. She takes a piece of cheese wrapped in cellophane from out of her pocket. While she unwraps it, Michael covers his ears and shuts his eyes until she has finished. B. leaves the cheese on the edge of the bed. Michael shrieks. B. takes it back. Michael stands up, still holding on to the wheel. He moves a bit closer to her. B. picks up the cheese and offers it to him but Michael just stands there. B. puts the cheese on the window sill. Michael holds out his hand, B. pulls the wheel away from him and Michael shrieks. It is like a short battle. B. lets go of the wheel and exits. Michael chews the cheese slowly, holding firmly onto the wheel. Tears are shed.)
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GREEN SOAP (Michael is running on his big wheel again. K. enters with some clean towels and her notepad. Michael does not hear her come in. He keeps on running.) K.:
(notes down) "20:00. Auditive reflex response delay."
(She grabs his arm; Michael is taken aback, he shakes and falls over. He does not get back up but stays sitting on the floor.) Michael: "Mammals have an instinctive sense of cleanliness." K.:
(notes down) "20:06. Repeating others' phrases. Voice tone simulation."
Michael: Cats, in Britannica, volume number 3, stay away from water. Yet, they are always clean, they wash themselves, with their own saliva, which is also antiseptic. Hippopotamuses, on the other hand, in volume number 9, big pachyderms, they are constantly in the water, but covered in mud. Pigs, likewise . . . . K.:
All right, that is enough!
Michael: "Mice have a very peculiar relationship with . . ." K.:
I said, enough!
(Pause.) Michael: "Mice are mammals. They do not wash. They are not dirty. Depending on the environment in which they live, just ten inches off the ground. . . . Dust sits on their skin carrying microbes and germs regardless. . . ."
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K.:
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Enough, Michael!
Michael: . . . i.e., Michael, living in an isolated environment and not washing himself, is clean. K.:
(writing something down) Are we going for a bath?
Michael: Do not write down everything I say. I do not like you noting down everything I say! K.:
Why?
Michael: At bath time, you touch me. I do not like people touching me! Your hands smell of detergent, chlorium and cigarettes. I hate your hands, they are made of steel. I hate you touching me. I hate your smell. I hate you! (K. is about to write something down. As she realises what he just told her, she glares at him. She does not write anything down, she turns swiftly and exits instead.)
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CHOCOLATE MILK (B. enters. She gives Michael a chocolate bar and caresses him. Michael shudders at her touch but accepts it.) Michael: When you die, I will be laughing and next day I will be fine. I will drink chocolate milk and not think of you at all. I won't even remember you – you will never have existed! B.:
What!?
Michael: Maybe tomorrow, or tonight even, you might go out crossing the street and a drunk driver in a black Jaguar runs over you and . . . Shwwwwboum! You'll be crushed, shattered! And when I find out, I will just go to bed and in the morning I will ask for my chocolate milk. (Pause.) Michael: Hit me! Go on! Hit me hard so that I get hurt! Make me feel something strong. Please! (Pause. B. goes towards the door. She stops and turns. Her eyes are full of tears. Michael is staring at her. B. exits. Michael starts punching his arm.)
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WHITE MILK (Michael is huddled in bed, between the sheets, in a mess, agitated and restless. K. enters with a glass of milk. She pulls back his bedsheet and leaves the glass on the floor. Michael tucks himself back in. K. opens the window violently, pulls back his bedsheet again and exits.) K.:
(off-stage) Drink it!
(Michael gets up, takes the glass and pours the milk out of the window.) Michael: It smells so nice. So white. You'll grow up, you'll get six feet tall, strong like Mummy. Do you know how strong Mummy is? With thick branches, seven thick branches and 5,860 green leaves with pointed ends. You, with all the white milk you drink, you might get white leaves, we'll see. Drink it. Nice, huh? Yes, thousands of white leaves! K.:
(off-stage) Did you drink that?
Michael: I have no leaves and I don't drink plain milk. Or is it something else I am lacking? I do not drink plain milk, that's certain. And I will not grow up either. That's what they say. I will always be like that. Like what? Only I could tell, say them. But I am not kind enough to share it, in spite of knowing, say them. And then Mother starts crying. She could have white tears. But she doesn't. Hers are like mine. But mine are mine alone. There is nothing to mess with other people's. My stomach is mine, too. And I would not like to be like Mummy! Mummy is never there. No, I do not look like you. I do not look like you or anyone else. And I do not want to get strong. I am strong enough, already. I wouldn't know what to do with all this strength shut up inside me. Stop crying. I do not like it when you cry! I am here now, why cry? I never understand your feelings.
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(B. enters. She puts a cardigan around his shoulders.) Michael: I am not ill! (Pause.) Michael: Thirty million babies are born every year. In developed countries, most births take place during the spring and summertime. In underdeveloped countries, only one-third of babies born reach the age of four, because of hunger and illness. Since 2000, the average number of children per family in Europe is 1.75. Which means, something less than two children. Who do they look like, all these children? (B. exits.) Michael: Go. You, too, leave. Go away!
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HONEY-APPLE (B. and K. enter the room. Michael is hiding under his bed, out of sight.) B.:
Where has he gone?
K.:
Probably lost in his collection of screws. Call him out!
B.:
Michael! Where are you? Does he often hide?
K.:
He must not be allowed to impose his dysfunctional behaviour on us. Let him get sick. Let him stay sick!
B.:
He is not sick! He is just . . .
(K. throws a sharp look at B.) K.:
He was born that way. This responsibility is in your hands from now on. Tell him to get out!
(K. exits. B. gets down on all fours, looking under the bed.) B.:
Come out, Michael, you'll catch a cold lying on the floor! You cannot keep hiding. You worried us all. No-one would like . . . . Are you crying? I can never tell when you cry. Nor when you're happy. Stop hiding like a mouse, Michael!
(She stands up.) B.:
I will get you some apple with honey. Apple-honey. Honeyapple, OK? Come out, please!
(She walks to the door and turns around.)
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NATALIE KATSOU
I am afraid they might send you up into the attic with the rats. I doubt if mice are good room-mates, Michael. Apple-honey, honey-apple, honey-apple . . . .
(B. exits.) Michael: (pops his head out, mumbling to himself) Honey-apple, honey-apple, honey-apple, honey-apple, honey-apple, sunnyapple, sunny-apple, real apple-with-honey, honey-apple, honey-apple, mouse-apple, real apple-and-mouse, real . . . . (Michael faints.)
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ASPARAGUS (Michael is kneeling on the floor, working with screwdrivers, nails, hammers and other tools. He is busy constructing something throughout this whole scene. B. enters and gives him a chocolate bar.) Michael: I am not an engineer. B.:
Then you must be a magician! You made it. Your present arrives tomorrow.
Michael: I am not a magician, either. You are mistaking me for my father. He can handle every casualty, fix all imperfections. He is the best plastic surgeon ever: "The Magician"! He can turn every face into a painting, every head into a work of art. Only he could not remove the asparagus from my own head. (Pause. Michael unwraps the chocolate. After he finishes eating it, he folds its wrapper carefully, placing it at B.'s feet. He carries on with his construction.) Michael: No. Taking into account the speed at which he is going to be rotating on the wheel and the energy he is spending in calories, within 20 minutes of running on the wheel, an average rat could provide the energy for a vacuum cleaner for 40 minutes. But I cannot stand vacuum cleaners. Their sound, like drilling into my head, tearing my brain apart and sucking my thoughts . . . I cannot take it! (Michael seems about to explode. Pause. He calms down as if nothing had happened.) Michael: It is possible to add a low-volume lamp so that it switches on when he is going to be spinning around the wheel. So gradually he will learn how to use it, whenever he wants to
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say something, for instance . . . . (Michael continues assembling his strange contraption. B. gazes at him for a while but finds it impossible to make eye contact. K. suddenly enters and stands there, watching them. B. rushes to hide Michael's construction from her. K. notes something down then exits. B. exits behind her.)
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GREY FUR Michael: So what is it going to look like? Like the one . . . . Big or small? Not too big though, so that we can fit. Not too small, either. Otherwise we'll crash it accidentally. Human error. Mistake or negligence. Most accidents happen out of negligence. That means we did not calculate the danger and the possible outcome of an action. We estimated wrong. Most accidents at home, 67% of them, to be accurate, happen for the same reason. And out of lack of right reflex. Which means, one could prevent it by staying calm and responding faster. Forty percent happen in the kitchen and 32% in the bathroom. The main cause is usually manageable but casualties worsen because of panic. In Mediterranean countries, temperament can lead to tragedy . . . . (Pause.) Michael: ". . . As we can conclude, it could be fatal to step on a pet, or to lock it in the closet or even squeeze it through the door by human error. It has to feel safe." Therefore, it should not be too small. (Pause.) Michael: It should not have the same colour as the floor or the carpet or the bed or my shoes, either . . . . (Pause.) Michael: According to data so far, it will more likely be grey. It could be white. Or brown with white spots, especially if it comes from a mixed breed of rabbit from Northern Europe. Britannica, volume 16, page 300. It so happens that on occasion, animals from the same family group will mate together in spite of the
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difference of species. That is how mutations in the genetic chain occur that lead to transformations . . . . (Pause.) Michael: There is an 85% probability of the common mouse living in the sewers of Central European capitals to be grey. Dark grey fur. Yes. Citizens have acquired this grey nuance, strongly related to lack of oxygen and imagination. Loss of laughter increases tooth decay, too. (A David Bowie song is playing loudly in the dark.)
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THE GIFT (K. enters, holding a small cage covered in a cloth. B. follows her.) B.:
It's here!
(K. offers the cage to Michael and he reaches out to grab it but K. pulls it back. Sounds of distress come from the suffering, unseen occupant of the cage.) Michael: (almost launching himself at her) I haven't got it yet! Haven't got it. Give it to me. Give it to me! (Michael moans. K. throws the cage on the floor, straightens her clothes then exits. Michael inspects the cage anxiously.) Michael: Is it dead? Do I . . . Do I have to touch it?
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CRUMBS (Michael is sitting with two dishes of food on the floor in front of him. One is full of uneaten peas and broccoli. The other is full of crumbs and grey hairs. B. enters.) B.:
Michael! Did that creature eat out of your plate? Would you share your food with a rodent? You do not even let us touch you!
Michael: Leave him alone! He is cold. He is afraid.
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FROGS' LEGS Michael: (talking to his pet) We have to go. Get up. Ready? It's scary. It's a chance. Luck. Luck. I will be following you. You can smell well. You do not need to see. You can smell instead. Your nose fills in for your eyes. With people, it's not the same. Bats and rodents, however, . . . (B. enters but Michael does not notice her coming in.) Michael: . . . bats rely on hearing to see. The signal projected through their ears as a soundwave crashes on surfaces and returns, allowing them to perceive space . . . . B.
Did you call me, Michael?
Michael: . . . They can calculate distance from objects like tree branches, so that they do not end up smashed and they can move with accuracy and speed in absolute darkness. A kind of radar . . . . (Michael, suddenly realising that B. is in the room and watching him, tries to smarten himself up.) Michael: There are frogs and ducks in the lake. You can feed bread to the ducks, small bread rolls, tiny rolls of bread . . . (Pause.) Michael: . . . then they pick on each other to get the bread. And frogs too, you can catch them, tie a thread around their leg and hang them on a branch. You can watch . . . (Pause.)
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Michael: . . . how the bubble under their throat gets big and pink and then white and then it bursts. B.:
There is no lake, Michael. No rivers either, really. There is nothing here. Or out there.
Michael: Have you ever listened to a frog choir? They sound like a woodwind orchestra. Some people eat frogs, frogs' legs especially. I've never eaten that. I do not eat green things. Like peas, salad, broccoli, or frogs. (Pause.) Michael: I am not ill. I don't want any more questions. I do not like people writing down everything I say. (Pause.) Michael: I am leaving. You can come with me if you like. Perhaps it would be better if you came. I feel uncomfortable with strangers. If someone speaks to me, I will start shrieking. B.
I would not let you go out on your own, Michael.
Michael: So you're coming too? B.:
Wait here. I will get my coat.
(B. exits. Michael sits on the edge of his bed and waits. He waits and waits for her.)
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CHOCOLATES (Michael is sitting on the edge of his bed but his face is now covered in bruises and scratches. His T-shirt is torn. A recording of K.'s voice plays off-stage: "We are upset with you, Michael. You have disappointed us. You know that you cannot go out on your own. You are not prepared for such things, you lack the necessary training. You have no sense of orientation. Your foolishness was twice as bad. What if we hadn't opened the door the moment your head started bleeding? Your skull could have ended up in pieces, Michael! One would think we treat you badly. No? How could anyone figure out that you did all this to yourself? And just because you assumed that you could go for a walk by the lake? To feed the ducks? Stubbornness is a big fault, Michael. You have to abide by the rules. Get some rest until we think of something. I'm afraid that we will have to deprive you of your chocolate for this week, Michael. Goodnight.")
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STRAWBERRY ICE-CREAM (K. enters with some German textbooks and her eternal notepad.) K.:
Guten morgen! Alles gut? Wir müssen jetzt unsere Übungen anfangen.
(K. writes something down.) K:
Michael, kannst du mich hören?
Michael: Go away! My friend does not like you. K.:
You have no friends. You are incapable of any sort of feeling. Asperger people have no feelings. What you call your "friend" is a disgusting mouse!
Michael: Get out! K.:
Filthy rat!
Michael: Witch! I do have feelings, since now I am absolutely furious, aren't I? Furious and flying, flying asparagus! Do you see? Now vanish! K.:
(writing) "Bipolar disorder, a crisis, nerves deranged . . . ."
Michael: You are the one who is deranged! (K. exits. B. enters with two strawberry ice-creams.) Michael: I have no friends. Asparagus have no friends! B.:
How about your new pet? How about me?
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Michael: I'd like to be alone, please. Asparagus grow in the desert. Thank you for the ice-cream. Maybe tomorrow. (B. exits.)
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PINCERS (Michael is constructing a huge model airplane.) Michael: Did you bring everything? Scissors too? I'm not sure we need scissors. Definitely a chisel. And a hammer. What about the small nails? Steel nails, made out of steel, like K.'s hands. Nothing escapes them, they never break. And some wire. Mind you don't cut yourself! Where are you? So, what else? Hammer, nails . . . Wheels. Definitely wheels. Absolutely necessary, the wheels. And the motor. I thought of the motor last night. I took it out of a remote-control toy, not sure it can fit. Will it stand, what do you think? What else? Two planks, one for the base. Yes. And a counterweight. Do you know how long I've been planning this? Not on paper, because they'd tear it to pieces. In my head, I was designing it. They take away all my papers. They examine them. Everything I do, they watch and watch. But say nothing in the end. Pincers. Pincers to twist and cut the wire, I forgot them. Did I? Let me have a look. Think, think. Pincers, piensa, pensa, coming from verb pensar, which means "I think", in Spanish. Do you speak Spanish? I don't. I read it in a dictionary. Entry number 9,844, page 517. Yes. Pensa. We should be fine, for sure. They give me any tools I want. They say I've got "a gift" for modelling. Gift comes from "give something to someone". Everything they give me is "a gift, a present, a treat". Yes, "gift", entry number 50,067, page 823, Cambridge Dictionary. I was reading through "X" and "Y" last night when I could not sleep. Perhaps "a gift" is whatever's got to do with tools and wires and the rest is "a treat". They all want to help me and treat me. Every day. From 8.00 in the morning until 22.00 at night. Everyone, even that girl with the flute voice. Shshshsh . . . I hear something . . . If anyone comes in, we won't speak at all. We will carry on with what we're doing. Otherwise they get worried and they make us do something else. The truth is that
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when I concentrate on what I'm doing, I hear nothing, I dive deep, yes, everything else switches off. If someone calls my name, I come up again . . . I could not describe to you where exactly I get into. Somewhere very deep inside my head and somewhere really high up at the same time, among colourful clouds, soft like cotton. I can hear water running, leaves in the wind, violins and orchestras. Or usually I can hear nothing. It's better not to hear anything. Perhaps there is a point in space where no sound or motion can get through. Everything lies motionless, quiet and the body feels like it is floating, empty of all thoughts. Can you imagine that?
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THE NOTEPAD (B. enters. Michael ducks underneath his bed and pulls out a big model airplane, red with a white stripe. He puts on a peaked cap then inserts his head through a large opening under the airplane's fuselage so that his face sticks up out of its cockpit and the model rests on his shoulders. He stands up and starts pushing his model airplane about, making it "fly" around the room.) Michael: This is the captain of aircraft type Jumbo 546, "Eugene1" speaking; we are ready for take-off. We will reach 3,800 feet and we will cross the sierra of Machu Picchu, over the Mayan and Incan ruins to our final destination in Patagonia. There is sunshine outside and good visibility, sky temperature to -35 degrees . . . . (B. laughs. She holds on to the rear of the airplane and follows in Michael's footsteps. K. suddenly enters with her notepad.) Michael: Obstacle ahead, we will have a side-collision! (The bulky model airplane passes so close to K. that one of its wing tips nearly knocks her over; she screams.) K.:
What is going on here? Are you out of your mind too? Is this contagious? It's all because of that filthy rodent! I should note this down: (writing in her notepad) "Contagion danger . . ."
Michael: Don't you dare touch him! K.:
(continues writing) " . . . Nervous disorder worsening . . ."
Michael: You are taking notes again. Stop it!
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K.:
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(continues writing, ignoring Michael) ". . . Aggressiveness, lack of adjusting to normality . . ."
Michael: Stop taking notes! K.:
(still writing) ". . . Suggesting immediate isolation."
(Michael grabs K.'s notepad and tries to rip it apart. K. and Michael fight each other for it. K. finally regains possession of her notepad then exits. B. follows her.)
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SNOW (Darkness.) Michael: Shshshsh . . . silence. Are you here? I cannot sense you. Oh, yes, there you are! (Pause. Michael is lying on the floor under his bed. He lights a match and watches its flame until it goes out. Silence. He lights another match and watches it burn out. Silence. He lights another match and lets it go out.) Michael: (talking reassuringly to his pet) Don't be afraid. Look! Snow! Snow, snow. (He lights a match and continues speaking:) Michael: Definitely snow. We are staying here. Maybe there is a storm, maybe an avalanche rolls down and we get buried under it. Voice cannot transcend ice. Whoever has got asparagus in their head, does not speak when afraid. Even if the rescue team were standing next to us, I would not speak. Although I would like to scream. The voice inside my head torments me, it shakes me so hard that it can shatter all ice: "I'm here, can you hear me? Here!", but it gets drowned by asparagus. Strings get cross-wired and messages get confused. My inner and my outer self. They get mixed up. It happens to you, too. Under stressful and complicated circumstances. (After this match goes out, he lights another one.) Michael: Do you understand? (As soon as the match goes out:)
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Michael: I like it that you do not speak. (He laughs.) The tip of your nose trembles. That shows that you listen. (He lights another match.) Michael: It's pink, it's really funny. Not triangular or round but like a tiny heart. Have you ever actually seen it? Chritz, chratz, chritz! (He laughs.) Michael: It can smell anything. How does snow smell? Tell me. It must be smelling white and soft. And cool. You can drink snow when you run out of water. In a few years, the North Pole is going to melt and we'll be drinking ice. Earth's head is travelling towards Earth's navel and it's melting. Earth is shrinking! (After this match goes out, K. enters with a flashlight. She has a quick look round, without noticing Michael hiding in the dark, then exits. Michael lights another match and watches it, etc., 2-3 times in a row. Once the last one goes out:) Michael: Shshshsh. Be quiet, I tell you! Do not move. Do you hear me? Where are you? I cannot see you. If they hear us, they will catch us and they will start talking and talking and talking . . . be quiet, what is the matter? (Alerted by the sound of his voice, K. enters again with her flashlight and shines it directly on Michael, who cowers from her in panic.) K.:
What is the meaning of this? Why are you rolling on the floor, Michael? You are not a mouse! Or are you? On your feet, quickly! And that abomination will be removed; tomorrow, first thing!
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SUGAR (Loud David Bowie music, mixed with the noise of TV programmes and advertising jingles. Michael is lying in bed and does not move. Doors open and close, time passes. Michael sometimes stands up like a somnambulist, he looks under his bed, messes about with the bedsheets, etc., he lies down again and tucks himself under the covers. At some point, he takes the model airplane out from under his bed, he caresses it, he speaks to it, lifts it up, shakes it around, he smashes it to pieces. He picks up the pieces, he tries to put them under his T-shirt, they fall off him, he runs after them, he kisses them, bites them, then he smashes them even more. He rolls around on the floor then bangs his head on the ground until he falls asleep. All this happens without real sound, only song and TV broadcasts. B. enters, holding a tray with a thermometer, a bowl of water and a towel, a manometer and a blanket. K. enters with a box of pills.) B.:
We should crush them in a spoon with some sugar.
K.:
He does not taste anything, he does not feel anything. He cannot help it. Some people just cannot be treated. Do you understand?
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WHO KILLED THE MOUSE? (Michael lies in bed, covered up, still. B. enters.) Michael: He is dead. They killed him! B.:
They did not kill him, Michael. He just ran away. They took him into the garden for a while and he ran away.
Michael: I'd rather you were gone now. Thank you. (B. covers him with a blanket. Michael jolts at this unexpected physical contact. B. exits.)
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THE COW WITH FIVE LEGS (B. enters.) B.:
Michael, I heard you yelling in the night. You were shouting in your sleep.
(Pause.) B.:
Sometimes I feel as if I am being chased after, as if somebody knotted a rope around my neck and they make me turn round and round, like the cow with five legs, one leg is sewn in her belly deliberately, at the circus, in the tent where they used to take me on a Sunday (who tore her belly and sewed that leg on her, a fifth leg?) and red lights are flashing on me, they blind me, everyone's laughing, I cannot see anyone, full of masks around me, all the same, only somebody is holding the other end of the rope and I cry, the knot is choking me, and I scream, but nobody can hear me because I am the cow with five legs, please come in, have a look, look around, I'm choking, this way in, ladies and gents . . . .
(Pause.) Michael: And how does it end? B.:
I wake up. With the bedsheet rolled up around my neck.
Michael: (reaching for her hand) What is your name?
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WINGS (B. enters, bringing in a tray with some breakfast, which she puts down on the floor. She pulls the curtains back. Michael gets up. He sits on the floor and starts eating his breakfast. B. makes the bed then she goes to the door.) Michael: Don't go. (Pause.) Michael: Don't go, please! (Pause.) Michael: I know I have got asparagus in my head and I cannot tell you the right things. I cannot say the things I want. (Pause.) Michael: I want us to leave. To fly, to travel around the world. Î’.:
Michael, look at me!
Michael: I want us to fly in a red airplane with a white stripe along the side. Î’.:
Look me in the eyes.
Michael: Red with a white stripe along the side! (David Bowie music plays loudly. The lighting in the room becomes very bright, everything turns blindingly white. B. and Michael exit. After a moment, the lighting returns to normal. Michael's room is empty and its window is now wide open. K. enters. She realises that there is no-one
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in the room and runs around in panic. Then she notices the open window. She screams and rushes out of the room. Silence. There is a strong wind blowing through the window. The whole room changes colour and it starts swinging as if it is flying.) THE END
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AUTHOR'S AFTERWORD TO THE PLAY "FLYING ASPARAGUS" This script was started in 2009, a year which, for a long time, I wished to delete from my personal history. Perhaps because it was a year full of scratches and scars, an unavoidable step towards maturity, a Grand-Guignol leap from myself towards other people. Around that time I came across the Asperger world, Michael's world. The deeper I got absorbed in my research, the more I wondered if I myself was one of these hard-to-reach, unapproachable and often, of course, brilliant people inside a unique autistic range. Whether I do actually belong to this or another category is of no importance. By the way, I probably do not and I should figure out something else to justify my ways and, certainly, my own genius. But one of the reasons that made me persist with and pursue this play for so long, is how many people actually have some elements of their behaviour that may seem strange and therefore, we exclude them; how easily we package people into stereotypes and "species" and we adopt codes of behaviour in order to protect ourselves. In fact, we sometimes protect ourselves too well, ending up alone, trusting no one. We do not even allow ourselves to walk outside the lines and deviate from the trend, we do not face our own traumas or our successes with honesty. We treat each other in the same way as know-alls behave towards guinea pigs, and automatically we turn into guinea pigs ourselves. There is no point in flattening our peculiarities and differences. It is as irresponsible as pushing people into jars and sticking laboratory labels on the lids. To me, personally, this has been a stimulus to make choices about whether I genuinely am the way I behave or do I have the nerve to act as I really feel?
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At the same time, it is a challenge to co-exist with all the other unique people. A challenge to accept and trust. And this confrontation restarts all over again every day. This version of "Flying Asparagus" is the latest and most abstract after a series of drafts, trials and readings. The play got very close to becoming a show a few times – which was my ambition in the first place – it's been translated into English and presented as a rehearsed reading in London, the ending changed, even its main character was renamed. I would like to thank everyone who has helped me with my research and my journey, especially because I've had the chance to get to know them all. I also wish to give special thanks to Paul Whitlock, a dear friend and collaborator. Without his valuable feedback and assistance, my project would never have got this far. Paul has worked with tireless dedication behind the scenes as the editor of this revised, English-language version of my play, supporting it at every step of the way. Natalie Katsou November 2014
THIS DIGITAL EDITION (E-BOOK) OF FLYING ASPARAGUS BY NATALIE KATSOU WAS TYPESET AND PAGED IN DECEMBER 2014 FOR VAKXIKON.gr PUBLICATIONS
THE DIGITAL EDITION (E-BOOK) FLYING ASPARAGUS OF NATALIE KATSOU WAS TYPESET AND PAGED IN DECEMBER 2014 FOR VAKXIKON.gr PUBLICATIONS