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For most of my career, I could only answer the second half of the riddle. Personal experience has provided me thorough knowledge of what doesn't work onstage. I have very little doubt that the gods of comedy and tragedy decided my writing career was the perfect victim for them both. But I am getting ahead of myself, no? Let me tell you about my early life:
I was born in Paris, the only child of Claude de Lune and his wife, the former Jeanne Coq de Raltigue. Papa came from a family with a long history of eccentricity. He was forever coming up with bizarre ideas such as going around the world in eighty days, only to abandon them in favor of even more bizarre ideas such as going twenty thousand leagues under the sea. Papa also cared little about good French cooking. This turned out to be a blessing since Mama's culinary skills were--shall I say--unique. Whatever Mama touched in the kitchen was quickly reduced to a lump of carbon. Often she resorted to ordering meals from the local tavern, the Goose and Grapes. She once said that she knew she would marry the first man who did not gag on her cooking, and that's exactly what she did. And if Papa could tolerate burnt main courses, then Mama could put up with his crazy ideas.
As I was growing up it became apparant that I had inherited Mama's cooking skills (folks claimed they could spot my pudding en flambe a mile away), and unless I could find a husband who had a sense of taste like Papa's, I would have to support myself. So Papa taught me how to read and write and do figures. I think he was hoping I would be able to help him build a flying machine (or was it a swimming machine?) he had dreamed up, but I had other ideas.
My parents decided to retire to a remote village named Cuzzi (named for its founder, Jacques Cuzzi) and asked me to come with them. I told them I wanted to stay in the city.
"Why?" Papa asked.
"Because I want to write poems and plays."
Papa shook his head. "That's the craziest idea I've ever heard."
Mama looked at me and looked at Papa. "She's a De Lune, all right."
In the end, they agreed to let me stay in Paris and try my luck. And
try it I did--so much so that it went away and refused to work for me for
a while.
I decided that the home I lived in with Papa and Mama was too big for one girl to manage alone (especially one with housekeeping skills such as mine), so I proposed that I share it with a troupe of actors, singers, dancers, and writers. Somehow the neighbors heard of this idea and didn't like it one bit. They had already tolerated more than their share of mechanical and culinary mishaps, and the thought of living with rehearsals going on all the time was just too much for them. They politely informed us that they would rather burn the house down than put up with a bunch of creative people next door. So we sold our home to another family and Papa and Mama moved to Cuzzi and I lodged at a small room in town. Later we found out the new family was one that liked running for public office, and managing obnoxious campaigns, and inventing stupid slogans, and the neighbors decided that a troupe of performers wouldn't have been so bad after all. But by then it was too late.
It was tough getting started. The city is full of wannabe poet-playwrights, and it's a struggle to come up with something that stands out. But I am proud to say that I did get noticed. True, my plays were noticed mainly because of how terrible the performances were, but I tell you that it's much better being panned than ignored. I think.
How bad were they? Well, I considered a show successful if I could 1) get enough actors (not even good actors, necessarily), 2) get them to understand vaguely what their lines were, and 3) actually run through the entire show, regardless of whether or not an audience was present. In fact, some of my better shows were played without an audience, because the actors managed to finish the show without getting booed or pelted with fruit.
No matter what show I did, it seemed to be jinxed. We tried to put on the show The Three Little Pigs for a crowd of children, and the houses of straw and sticks stayed up while the house of bricks collapsed into smithereens. I had a big talk with the set designer about that. ("You forgot to mortar the bricks together?!") And in my play There's No Place Like Rome the actors were constantly messing up the lines, changing "Et tu, Brute?" to "And who's a brute?" "Poor madman," to "Poor madam," and "Hail, Caesar!" to "Sail, Haesar!"
And it did not help that I was writing some of my most infamous works then, such as Pinocchio de Bergerac and The Phantom of the Doo-wopera. My play Less Miserable was titled that because, as one early critic put it, "it was less miserable than De Lune's other shows--but not by much."
This went on for a long time. But things are bound to change, and for
me there was no place to go but up. And it began when I spotted a performer
extraordinaire
at the Feast of Fools...
We three queens of summer are
Going to travel in our car*
Over fields and fountains,
Tourists and mountains,
Not knowing where we are.
Oh, no.
Car of blunder, car of fright,
Running over all in sight,
Nowhere leading, now we're needing
Someplace cheap to spend the night.
* Played by a fruit cart "borrowed" from a local vendor.
We had managed to get a good sized crowd gathered, and all was going well until Stephania tripped on her regal cape and crashed into me and I crashed into Suzanne, who for good measure fell against one of the tent supports so the whole tent came crashing down on all of us. When we finally emerged from the heap, people were laughing and throwing coins. They thought it was part of the act. It was more money than I had seen in a long time, so I didn't object. Calculating the damages made to the tent, we figured that the money we got let us break even, which wasn't bad at all. Unfortunately we didn't have the time or materials to fix anything on the spot (everything closes on Topsy Turvy Day, including the local repair shop). The crowd began to move away. Stephania and Suzanne thought the tent wasn't worth keeping, but I thought that it could be salvaged for...something. (I suspect I take after Papa, who never threw anything out). So my friends left me to figure out what to do with what was left of the tent.
I lifted some of the fabric. Suddenly, a gloved hand reached out of the heap and grabbed my arm. I shrieked in fright and surprise and instinctively yanked my arm back, but the hand didn't release its grip. Rather, I found the hand was connected to an arm, and the arm to the body of a smiling masked man with a short black goatee.
"Ah!" he said, looking directly into my face. "What have we here?"
I stared back at him. "Who are you? What are you doing in there?" A horrible thought crossed my mind. "Oh, no! Our tent didn't land on you too, did it?"
He shook his head and released my arm. Effortlessly he sprang out of the heap, revealing his bright outfit of blue, yellow, purple, and magenta. "On the contrary, mademoiselle, your tent's collapse was a rather fortunate event." He scooped up a stray coin on the street and flipped it to me. "Till we meet again." And he dived back into the heap.
"Wait!" I called. I pulled back the fabric again, but this time there was nothing. I moved the cloth and the poles aside, but the man was gone. I rubbed my eyes. Was it a dream that a man had come from nowhere and disappeared just as quickly into thin air? But the coin in my hand was real.
I turned and saw a young girl watching me, looking amused. I had seen this gypsy girl around Paris before. "Hey, Kalindra," I said. "Did you see some man in a harlequin's outfit here earlier? I'm not going crazy, am I? I swear I saw him here a minute ago."
What, a De Lune who isn't crazy?" she asked mockingly. "You are talking about Clopin."
"Clopin," I repeated. "Who is he?"
She said nothing. I paused and looked at the coin in my hand. "Here," I said. "Take it." I tossed it to her. She caught it and looked at me. Finally she spoke.
"Follow me."
She ducked into a crowd and I ran after her. "Kalindra! Where are you going? What are you doing? Who is this Clopin?"
She didn't answer. Suddenly she stopped so quickly that I couldn't help but crash into her. "Watch it," she warned. Then she pointed to the open village square. Some men cloaked in dark hoods paded into the square, singing loudly.
I was confused. "What am I supposed to see?"
"Watch!" Kalindra commanded.
I did. From beneath someone's cloak, the brightly costumed man popped out and shouted with laughter. He leapt up and swung around a pole.
"Come one, come all! I, Clopin, welcome you!" he called. "It is time once again to celebrate the Feast of Fools, Topsy Turvy Day, when things are not as they are meant to be--" Here he stopped and grinned wickedly at the crowd and--I thought--at me in particular. But the wicked grin was soon replaced by a good-natured smile as clowns, jugglers, dancers, and other surrounded him. Such voice! Such agility! Such charisma!
I turned to Kalindra. "How do you know him?"
She replied casually, "He's a friend of mine."
"Bah! You know more," I said. I wondered why I hadn't seen him before. "How long has he been in Paris?"
"Longer than you have," the gypsy responded.
I could see I was not going to get more specific information unless I made a deal with her. "Listen, you. Say I treat you to a meal at the Goose and Grapes tavern. Will you tell me more about him then?"
She looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and surprise. For once I felt I could see through her--and not because she was as thin as a rail. She was hungry and the offer of a free meal didn't come often. "Isn't the tavern closed?" she asked.
"Oh," I said. She had a point. Everything closed on Topsy Turvy Day. Except-- "Wait! The tavern is open!"
"Really? How do you know?"
At that moment we could hear Clopin sing merrily:
"Where the beer is never stopping--"
"Well, all right," Kalindra said. "But I won't tell you anything I don't want to tell you."
"Great," I thought. "She'll just eat and run."
Again I was wrong. We ate quickly and cheaply at the Goose and Grapes (Madame Therese the tavernkeeper gave us a good scolding for not choosing one of the better, though more expensive, soups) and walked outside. The festivities were still going on. Kalindra faced me and said, "You've been nice to me, Claire, and I'll keep my promise. This is what I will tell you. Clopin is the King of the Gypsies. I've known him since I was a little girl, and that was long before I saw you here on the streets. He knows everyone and everything." She stopped. "I'm not sure I can say more."
"You've hardly told me anything," I began, than hastily added, "Well, no. I didn't know the gypsies had a king. Why haven't I seen more of him?"
We heard his voice again. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the piece de resistance!"
Kalindra grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the sound of the voice. "Why don't you talk to him yourself?" she asked, pulling me through the crowd.
"Now?" I squeaked. I glanced toward the stage and could see the King of Fools contest going on. I never saw the winner's face, for Kalindra kept pulling me until we were backstage. Clopin bowed to the crowd and they cheered him and the new king. The Clopin climbed down from the platform.
I looked to Kalindra, but she had disappeared. As Clopin came down, I caught him by the arm. I admit I seized it rather tightly, as I was afraid that if I didn't, he'd somehow slip away and vanish as he had before.
On to
Chapter Four
Copyright 1996, 1997 by Angela Kuo.
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