Tuesday, January 24, 2006
New York City
Sunday night a friend and I went to Beauty Of the Father,(http://www.mtc-nyc.org/BeautyOfTheFather) a new play by a favorite playwright of mine, Nilo Cruz. Cruz won at least one Tony and maybe more last season for his play, Anna and the Tropics. His themes strike me as central to my experience of relationship arcs: betrayal, jealousy, family loyalties, conflict, forgiveness, and transformation.
The play is set in southern Spain in present time. Cruz uses the poet Lorca as the omniscient voice--he is a ghost and as such can speak to Emiliano, the principal character and father figure, and can speak directly to the audience as well ( what a great device!). At one point, Emiliano is furious with his lover,Karim, a young Moroccan man who, we are told, was orphaned at a very young age. Emiliano's anger stems from Karim's budding love relationship with Emiliano's daughter, Marina, who has just reconnected with her father after 15 years( or so) of estrangement. The result is the inevitable and very troubling triangle--and Emiliano's rage spills out all over the stage.
At one point, Lorca who dressed in a white suit and white shoes, tries to reason with Emiliano before he confronts Karim.
Lorca talks of the young man's difficult early years and advises Emiliano: " When you talk to him, Emiliano, imagine that he is sleeping. It will remind you that he was once innocent as were we all."
That says it all, doesn't it? In the past three weeks, I've had my share of disappointments all of which have at least one of the elements that Cruz addresses in Beauty.
This morning, I spoke to my older brother, Bill, of whom I am very fond.The topic was my upcoming 60th birthday in early March.
I have planned a celebration for family and friends in near my birthday ( actually right afterward--Irish superstition?) at a wonderful brownstone inn near Union Square just a block from the tavern where O'Henry wrote his famous short stories.
Sixtieth birthdays have special meaning for my siblings and me. That particular birthday has become what I call a "phew" birthday. Phew, I made it past that piece of my legacy, missed that DNA. Let me explain. At my father's 60th birthday party, I remember him raising his glass in a toast. With a little Irish lilt to his voice he said:" Enjoy me now. I won't be here for this date next year." The response from my mother, friends and family? "Oh, Bill, you're such a kidder." One month later, he died instantly from a massive coronary. Incidently, he had four brothers, all of whom were also deceased by their 60th year. So, you get the picture.
I remember his "phew" birthday two years ago. He had had his children with him in Florida to celebrate. But after Thanksgiving, when he was in New York, I called and invited he and his wife to brunch with my children, spouses, and grandchild. Getting any family larger than two together is a major task and this was no different. ( OK, that's another entry sometime..)
I sensed he had worried about the significance of the day. He had dropped a lot of weight and looked fit, had stopped smoking ( well, not cigars but...) and seemed to be flourishing in his adaptation to his version of retirement. We don't generally exchange presents on birthdays, but this was a milestone and I wanted to make a statement to mark it. So off I went to Tiffany's. The clerk and I had an in depth conversation as I poured over cufflinks to find just the right ones, hoping that he would like them --he's very difficult to buy for in my experience and I wanted this to be right. It was great fun to do.I love surprises and so does he, I think.
Everyone arrived. I made sure the maitre d knew that the bill was not to come to the table so he wouldn't try to pick it up. I put the little blue box at his place. We ate, we laughed, sang happy birthday. Eventually, my grandson wasn't able to hold it together anymore, so his mom, Jennifer, took him home. But everyone lingered awhile.
I watched my oldest son, Chris, laugh out loud at my brother's jokes. I watched the light in my youngest son's eyes as he watched his uncle. In many ways, this man was their only male link to the grandfather they never knew. And he has many of my father's characteristics.
And then it was over. That's the last time we have all been together. 2003.
I learned yesterday that Bill won't be able to attend my party. So, I emailed him and asked if we could set up some time to talk. We spoke this morning at 8am. I woke early and thought about Cruz' theme but mostly about Lorca's line. I imagined him sleeping as the phone rang.
I did my best to describe my disappointment about my birthday without emotion. We don't talk much except for holidays and I didn't want this call to be unpleasant, yet I wanted him to know how important he was to me, how much he would be missed. So, I just told him that I knew he loved me, that I loved him and didn't want us to be old--or dying ( maudlin, he interjected ...or Irish , I said ) and find that we hadn't spent time together. I knew whatever I said, it wasn't the words anymore but the ether between us in that moment that might change our connection--or not.
At the end of Beauty, Emiliano and Karim are scuffling as they go offstage. Then there is gunfire. Lorca stands center stage and shows his bullet wounds from his execution by Franco, the Spanish dictator, many years before. Bloodshed everywhere. But Cruz wouldn't let the play end that way. Somehow Emiliano, Marina and Karim worked it out, were changed by the dialogue, the possibilities. No one died offstage, and, of course, Lorca lived on as an eloquent ghost.
My beloved brother ended the conversation saying: " I can call. I'll do that. I'll call and surprise you sometime, that's what I'll do." And I believe he will. Is that enough? Sure. I'll miss him that night to mark my milestone--but he more than anyone knows that it's the "phew" birthday, so there or not , he'll rejoice with me.
As other disappointments arise, ( and what would life be without them), I'll try to remember to imagine the person who has disappointed me as sleeping, as innocent, as human.
Thank you, Nilo Cruz, for that.
M.C.
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