CHARLES WUORINEN: HAROUN AND THE SEA OF STORIES · CHARLES WUORINEN 1938–2020 HAROUN AND THE SEA OF STORIES LIBRETTO BY JAMES FENTON HEATHER BUCK soprano STEPHEN BRYANT bass-baritone - [PDF Document] (2024)

CHARLES WUORINEN: HAROUN AND THE SEA OF STORIES

CHARLES WUORINEN  1938–2020HAROUN AND THE SEA OF STORIESLIBRETTOBY JAMES FENTON

HEATHER BUCK soprano

STEPHEN BRYANT bass-baritone

MATTHEW DiBATTISTA tenor

DAVID SALSBERY FRY bass

BRIAN GIEBLER tenor

WILBUR PAULEY bass

MICHELLE TRAINOR soprano

NEAL FERREIRA tenor

HEATHER GALLAGHER mezzo-soprano

CHARLES BLANDY tenor

AARON ENGEBRETH baritone

THOMAS OESTERLING tenor

STEVEN GOLDSTEIN tenor

BOSTON MODERN ORCHESTRA PROJECT AND CHORUS Gil Rose,conductor

DISC 1 (80:54)

ACT I [1] Scene I In the Sad City of Alifbay 10:42 [2] Scene 2 AStory 2:20 [3] Scene 3 Enter Two Men 7:11 [4] Scene 4 On theRoad 3:17 [5] Scene 5 To the Valley of K 1:16 [6] Scene 6 In theDark 0:33 [7] Scene 7 In the Valley of K 2:25 [8] Scene 8 MeetingMr. Buttoo 2:59 [9] Scene 9 The Floating Gardens 7:58 [10] Scene 10On the Houseboat 2:28 [11] Scene 11 Changing Bedrooms 3:01 [12]Scene 12 The Story Tap 9:38 [13] Scene 13 Flying to the Moon 3:05[14] Scene 14 Wishwater 5:37 [15] Scene 15 The Story He Drank 1:56[16] Scene 16 Flying to Gup City 9:17 [17] Scene 17 War isDeclared 7:08

DISC 2 (52:35)

ACT II [1] Scene I Rescue the Princess! 6:59 [2] Scene 2 To theTwilight Strip 7:30 [3] Scene 3 On the Way to the South Pole 3:37[4] Scene 4 They Were Being Pulled

Slowly Forwards 12:47 [5] Scene 5 Meanwhile, at the

Citadel of Chup 5:39 [6] Scene 6 At the Door of P2C2E House 5:29[7] Scene 7 Mr. Buttoo’s Rally 4:33 [8] Scene 8 Back Home 2:14 [9]Scene 9 Haroun Wakes in His Bedroom

at Dawn 3:46

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By Mark Lamos

FILLING THE SEA OF STORIES

I can’t quite remember how I came to direct the premiere ofHaroun and the Sea of Stories, though I was thrilled to be asked,and I was eager to work with Charles Wuorinen, whose music I verymuch admired. I came aboard early in the composing process, whichis always exciting for a stage director on a new opera. And as afan of James Fenton’s, when he agreed to write the libretto—inrhyming verse, no less (Salman’s book is in prose), I sensed thepiece would have strong “bones” which Charles could write to, andwhich I could stage with some assurity. James, Charles, and Idiscussed in very general terms how much we loved the book and whatwe felt the libretto needed to relate, since the book is picaresqueand chock full of incident, detail, and surprises.

The finished libretto almost immediately inspired Charles tocommence composition, and I was happy that James was able so deftlyto mirror the novel’s many tones, especially its playfulness andwistfulness. As I read it, images tumbled into my head, so I begancol-laboration with the superb design team: Riccardo Hernandez onsets, Candace Donnelly on costumes, and Robert Wierzel on lighting.It was a blessing that we’d worked together before and so had ashorthand and an ease together. Projection designer Peter Nigrinijoined us as a newcomer and blended right in to the flow of ideas,images, and deeply dramaturgical thoughts the designers had aboutthe novel. None of them had heard the score yet—Charles was stillworking on it—but we had the libretto and the novel in hand, andthis generated enough ideas to get us going. The research was a joyto do; we could use it to give free reign to our fancies, and wewere determined to fill the stage with color and exuberance andtexture. India! Fantasy!

D I R E C T O R ’ S C O M M E N T

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Periodically I’d be invited to visit Charles and he would playwhat he’d composed so far. I enjoyed these get-togethers. He provedeasy-going, opinionated, and very witty. Ribald too—especially whenwe uncorked the gin and vermouth and made liberal martinis. We hada running joke: he’d play a passage for me, and I’d yell, “Tunes,Wuorinen! Give me tunes!” And without missing a beat or a note,he’d continue banging out cascades of non-tonal, rhythmicallychallenging music and yell, “I don’t do tunes!”

Salman was living mostly in New York City and still under thethreat of fatwā, so there was something that felt revolutionary inmaking a piece adapted from and inspired by his work. As I recall,he was impossible to reach; he had to remain hidden. I was dying totalk with him, though—we all were. Well, Howard (Charles’s partner)called me one day and said, “Salman is coming to lunch, you mustjoin us.” As I approached their home, I noticed (being aninveterate consumer of espionage and detective novels) a group ofworkmen doing ... something ... to the front steps. Mostly, theywere watching me as I approached. They’d not been there before, andby this time I’d become a relatively frequent visitor to Charles’sand Howard’s home. They looked at me suspiciously as I, lookingsuspiciously at them, slowed down. Were they waiting to snatchSalman away before he could get inside, I wondered. (The fatwā hadinspired a good deal of worry, tension, and indeed fear all ‘round.It seemed very brave of Salman to venture out.) I noticed agleaming black sedan parked right in front of the house, as well.Its motor purred but the windows were black, so whoever was insidewas invisible.

Charles, Howard, and I waited. And waited some more. Finally thedoorbell rang, and there he was. We shared a delightful lunch, andhe was clearly thrilled that the opera was going to come about. Hehoped somehow to be able to attend, but at that time it seemeddoubtful. The lunch was collegial, and I was particularly happy tonote that the mysterious workmen on the steps were gone by the timeSalman had to depart. Another black car whisked him away.

The score, like the libretto, was completed on time, and NewYork City Opera, as usual, had fielded a stunning array of young,eager, attractive singers who came to the first rehearsal

note—and word—perfect. The score is exceptionally challenging,as you will hear. When I told the veteran mezzo Joyce Castle of myadmiration for the cast’s perfection, she nodded knowingly andsaid, “That’s how American singers are. Europeans,” she sniffed,“... aren’t! They take a lot of boring time to learneverything.”

I enjoyed rehearsing the piece, and scenes staged themselveswith relative swiftness, thanks to my wonderful assistant DavidGrabarkewitz and the crack NYCO production team, who kept us neatlyon schedule. The wonderful Heather Buck, pitch perfect as a sublimeHaroun, led a cast of singing actors who went out of their way tocapture the absurdity and energy of the creatures and the people inthe opera.

When costumes, set, projections, and lighting came into theprocess, Charles seemed very happy. The final thrill came onopening night at the State Theater when, almost unexpectedly,Salman himself stepped onstage to join all of us taking a bow. Thepacked audience and everyone involved in making the piece roaredwith joy at his appearance. Tears flowed too, I recall.

I hope this recording will bring further life to Haroun. Itrichly deserves many revivals.

© 2020 Mark Lamos.

Mark Lamos directed the world premiere production of Haroun andthe Sea of Stories at New York City Opera in 2004.

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N O T E S

HAROUN AND THE SEA OF STORIES is an opera in two acts with alibretto by James Fenton based on the novel by Salman Rushdie.Scored for vocal soloists, chorus, and full orchestra, it waspremiered by the New York City Opera, conducted

by George Manahan, on October 31, 2004, at the New York StateTheater at Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts in New York,NY.

By Clifton Ingram

To read Haroun and the Sea of Stories is to start in the middleof things, albeit not in classical in medias res as many literarywarhorses do. (Think: Homer’s Odyssey, “The Three Apples” fromArabian Nights, or Dante’s Divine Comedy, where we must rely on thestory-within-the-story to learn about our characters’ experiences.)Haroun does begin ab ovo (“from the egg”), from the beginning ofthe story, in a more or less traditional way. But storytelling canbe tricky enough when told start-to-finish. Haroun’s reliance onnested narratives allows the stories-within-the-story to echo andreinforce each other, ultimately resonating their meaning tostronger effect. For example, here’s one way to parse our younghero’s interconnected goals throughout the narrative:

In order for our young hero Haroun to save his family, he mustfirst restore his father’s Gift of Gab.In order to save his father(restore his power and confidence), Haroun must save the Land of Kfrom the corrupt politician Snooty Buttoo.In order to save the Landof K, Haroun must first find and save the Sea of Stories (therebyrestoring his father’s storytelling ability to defeat SnootyButtoo).

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In order to restore the Sea of Stories, Haroun must travel tothe Land of Chup and defeat the Prince of Silence,Khattam-Shud.

Simple, right? Maybe not. There is a holistic quality in how thenested narratives—the adventures within the adventure—are joinedand layered. They rely on each other for the final victory ofstorytelling—in the end, they must defeat Khattam-Shud, as thetelling of this defeat is what ultimately defeats Snooty Buttoo,not to mention the home-wrecking Mr. Sengupta—which is more atriumph of effect and feeling than any logical conclusion to thestory. Here, the deus ex machina that saves the day is the act ofstorytelling itself, which is both a whimsical notion and somehowplausible in an abstract sense. It is not so much about followingevery twist and turn of the plot, but about the fun to be had withthe optimistic openness of a child protagonist along the way. Evenmore simply put, Haroun’s adventures do not need to make sense tobe meaningful—even if the novel does both, in its own way.

No doubt, Haroun and the Sea of Stories is a tale aboutstorytelling. Salman Rushdie’s very choice of title emphaticallyhits home that this is one of “those” meta-narratives, a heady

“story-about-the-nature-of-stories” story. And there is muchgoing on in and behind the text and throughout the libretto ofJames Fenton’s deft adaptation of Rushdie’s 1990 novel. It is averitable verbal playground for an experienced composer likeCharles Wuorinen to set an opera. But for all its adult depth,Rushdie’s novel reads more like a children’s fairytale—why? Indeed,the literary atmosphere of Haroun and the Sea of Stories issaturated with tongue-in-cheek punning, intertextualtips-of-the-hat, and all-around whimsical wordplay. It is the kindof bookishly clever storytelling that reminds us of those childhoodchimeras—like Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland or NortonJuster’s The Phantom Tollbooth—the ones that we revisit out ofnostalgia as adults, only to find a familiar fantastic landscapefrom our sepia-tinged memories rife with previously missedmeanings, often of surprisingly mature content, in contemporarytechnicolor.

One point here is that the reading (and re-reading) of the storychanges the story itself, that by the very act of reading we arealways-already inadvertently projecting ourselves into the text.Another point is that seemingly benign “literary nonsense” caneasily prove to be quite the opposite. The textual reversals andinversions of reality’s grey heaviness often end up carrying theirown special weightless seriousness. Haroun and the Sea of Storiesdoes so by means of faulty cause-and-effect, madcapmisappropriation and misunderstand-ing, new-fangled neologism, andpantomime-like portmanteau. Haroun is a message in a bottle forgrowing minds: the type of Disney or Pixar-esque animated romp thatwe would call “fun for all ages.” But beyond the simple pleasuresof the text, Haroun and the Sea of Stories contains all theingredients necessary for a good parody or satire—and can be easilyread as one, as seems to be Fenton’s and Wuorinen’s desire inshaping their opera.

But this is all really just to say that Haroun is about themulti-faceted power that stories hold. Their imagination-fueledpotency of possibility is activated not only by the telling of thetale, but also by its reception. Haroun’s own nemesis, thenefariously despotic Khattam-Shud, speaks to this power during hisexplanation for poisoning the Sea of Stories with all the twistedarch logic expected of a James Bond villain. According to thisArch-Enemy of All Stories, the world is not meant for entertainmentand imagination, for Fun. Instead, Khattam-Shud believes, “Theworld is for controlling. Inside every single story, there lies aworld, a story world, that I cannot rule at all.” Khattam-Shud,like a true tyrant, fears that which he cannot control. This is notsurprising, of course; as Rashid Khalifa tells his son Haroun,Khattam-Shud “is the Prince of Silence and the Foe of Speech … Andso at the end of everything we use his name. We say: it isfinished. It is over. Khattam-Shud: The End.” Haroun’s father isdescribing a rigid and humorless fundamentalism in regard to thetelling and interpretation of the very stories that the autocraticvillain seeks to eliminate. This illuminates perhaps a moresignificant element about cultural storytelling: how important thestories we are allowed to tell is to culture-creation. And make nomistake, Haroun was written in the face of much oppression forRushdie.

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The value of freedom of expression to society is ultimatelybeing examined in Haroun. This freedom determines how we aswitnesses are able to access the different meanings of our ownlives by proxy, literally or otherwise. After all, ultimately thisfreedom determines what we share and learn from each other. And so,perhaps the dominant thrust of this fanciful tale is that the moretypes of stories we have, the more bountiful we are able to findour lives’ meanings. Haroun and the Sea of Stories then becomesabout what music critic Peter G. Davis aptly describes as “freeimagination trapped in a world of oppressive thought control.”Through this lens, Haroun is a tale about the triumph ofimagination over autocracy.

The steadfast composer Charles Wuorinen, who has remained loyalto 12-tone serialism for much of his long career, had the followingto say about his writing the Haroun opera and staying true to theoriginal novel:

“I wanted to try to emulate the character of the book and haveit both ways. I mean, in the world of serious music, there’s a verystrong populist push these days, and that’s something that I wantno part of, but that fact doesn’t need to get in the way of pureentertainment.”

Wuorinen’s devotion to the serial technique is in some ways apolitical one, as serialism is all too often considered an overlyacademic and “unmusical” invention of early 20th-century atonalpioneers. Using serialism therefore might seem contradictory tosome as a means to write an opera about the triumph of freedom ofexpression. But for Wuorinen the tried-and-true technique seemsmore a means of salvation, as it necessitates a con-stantinnovation of his craft, a way for the composer to avoid the tooeasily consumable, of getting stuck in a rut. And Wuorinen’scontempt for “populist” neo-Romanticism is very much on record. Inthis light, Wuorinen’s setting a whimsical story like Haroun andthe Sea of Stories with the 12-tone method feels like a throwngauntlet, a challenge to those that would dictate another’sartistic and creative choices—a statement that “I’m doing it myway,” regardless of a music scene’s political pressures. Aself-described “maximalist,” Wuorinen uses serialism as a means tocreate vast amounts of motion, a “music luxuriant withevents”—everything but the kitchen sink, as it were. Indeed, themusic of Haroun and

the Sea of Stories is kaleidoscopically opulent at times, neverresting long on one idea, full of energy and hopefulness for thepossibility around the next corner, much like its youthfulprotagonist. The restless music is charged with what the composerfinds so attractive about Rushdie’s novel, “an admirable absence ofself-pity and bitterness … a social and political message againstpeople who want to shut everyone up and strangle the imagination.”And in the same way that the whole is greater than a recognition ofits parts in following the plot of Haroun, Wuorinen suggests thatthe opera’s ever-mutating maximalist effect is more important thanlocating the music’s internal logic: “There is a [pitch-class] setunderneath, though if anyone can find it, I’ll give them a cigar.The overarching shape ultimately was given to me by the drama.”Wuorinen’s explanation sounds a bit like Iff the Water Genie’sexplanation of P2C2E (Processes Too Complicated to Explain) toHaroun. Iff’s message here might be that there are things thatcannot be explained, that a steadfast hope for experience to showthe way might be the best option—a subliminal message to Rushdie’sown son for the struggles ahead.

For all its constant shifting of textures and densities, we caneasily find the holistic in the opera. The role of the tyrannicalKhattam-Shud is by no coincidence also sung by the same tenor thatperforms Mr. Sengupta, the clerk who has stolen Soraya (Haroun’smother) away from Rashid and family. The story’s ultimate villain,who aims to destroy the Sea of Stories, is the same as the moreworldly villain that has come between Haroun’s parents and sentRashid into a powerless depression at the start of the drama. Withtheir many echoes and parallelisms, the nested narratives of Harouncontain their own allegorical tale for the reader to find anduse.

The most important nested narrative of all is the context inwhich Salman Rushdie wrote his fourth novel – that is, thenarrative of Rushdie’s own private life and how it isintercon-nected with the already-nested stories of Haroun. Forthose not as familiar with Rushdie’s work, the Bombay-born authorwas launched into literary success with his second novel,Midnight’s Children (1981), which won the Booker Prize with itsuniquely sci-fi blend of

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magical realism with postcolonial and historical fictions. Thiscombination creates a type of fiction that speaks truths about thereality that it is altering; and paradoxically it does so throughthis very artifice, as the fantastic fabrications are at the veryroot from which the fiction diverges from reality in the firstplace.

In February of 1989, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini issued a fatwādue to controversy regard-ing Rushdie’s third novel, The SatanicVerses, forcing the author into hiding for fear of his life (hewould remain in hiding until 1998). The strain would prove enoughto divide his family (like Haroun’s family is divided). A few yearsafter the publishing of Haroun in 1990, Rushdie would be divorcedfrom his second wife, American novelist Marianne Wiggins. It seemsRushdie wished to explain this unfortunate change in the family’scirc*mstances to his then 11-year-old son Zafar through the novel.Indeed, Haroun is based on the type of stories that Rushdie wouldimprovise for Zafar at bath and bed times. In this way, Haroun andthe Sea of Stories is a “message in a bottle” to Rushdie’s son, forhim to read and remember his father from afar and through time ashe grew older. In essence, a story that could change with a growingmind. And so, the acrostic poem of the book’s dedication, which isnotably used as text both to open and close the opera by Fenton andWuorinen, is perhaps the greatest key to unlocking your own meaningin the opera Haroun and the Sea of Stories.

Zembla, Zenda, Xanadu:All our dream-worlds may come true.Fairylands are fearsome too.As I wander far from viewRead, and bring mehome to you.

© 2020 Clifton Ingram.

Clifton Ingram is a composer, performer (Rested Field,guitars/electronics), and writer interested in the fault linesbetween contemporary and historical traditions. He holdsdegrees

in music (composition) and classics from Skidmore College andThe Boston Conservatory.

T E X T S

Haroun and the Sea of Stories Music by Charles Wuorinen Librettoby James Fenton, based on the novel by Salman Rushdie

Haroun Khalifa Heather Buck, soprano

Rashid Khalifa Stephen Bryant, bass-baritone

Snooty Buttoo Matthew DiBattista, tenor

Butt the Hoopoe David Salsbery Fry, bass

Iff the Water Genie Brian Giebler, tenor

Mali / King of Gup Wilbur Pauley, bass

Oneeta / Princess Batcheat Michelle Trainor, soprano

Mr. Sengupta / Khattam-Shud Neal Ferreira, tenor

Soraya Heather Gallagher, mezzo-soprano

Prince Bolo Charles Blandy, tenor

General Kitab Aaron Engebreth, baritone

Bagha Thomas Oesterling, tenor

Goopy Steven Goldstein, tenor

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ACT I

[1|1] Scene 1 In the Sad City of AlifbaySORAYAZembla, Zenda,Xanadu:All our dream worlds may come true.May come true.They maycome true.All our dream worlds may come true.

HAROUNThat was my mother singingIn the sad city of AlifbayAndthe smoke of the sadness poured awayPoured awayFrom all the sadnessfactoriesSadder than songSadder than songSadder than the seas wherethe glumfish swamAnd something went wrongOne daySomething wentwrongAnd cut the thread of my mother’s song.

SORAYAZembla, Zenda, XanaduZembla, Zenda...

HAROUN (speaking)As if someone had thrown a switch!My fathernoticed none of this.He was too busyTelling stories every dayHourafter hour.Myth and magic, wicked uncles,Cowards, heroes, catchytunes,

Brand-new sagas, ancient legends,Gangsters in yellow checkpantaloons.

RASHIDOh I am the Ocean of Notions.I am the Shah of Blah.TheSource of the Sea of StoriesIs roughly speaking where we are.I’mthe guru of the Gulf of GumptionWith a hundred-mile attentionspan—A heck of a fellerA treat of a tellerA million-volume versionof a man.Boccacc-i-o’s DecameronIs nothing to the likes of me.AThousand and One Arabian NightsAre but a trivialityAnd Proust is aslim, slim volumeAnd Tolstoy a trite little joke.I’m the Genie inthe Bottle.I’m the guy you’d like to throttleI’m a never-endingsequel of a bloke!I’m the Library of Alexandria!I’m a desertful ofDead Sea Scrolls!I’m a whole heap of hieroglyphics!I’m the GreatestStory Ever Told!I’m the soap of the soapiest opera!I’m the Tale ofa Tub at the turn of a tap!I’m the art of diction!I’m the SupremeFiction!I’m a multi-story carpark of a chap!

MR. SENGUPTA (to Soraya)Supreme fiction indeed.I’ll give him asupreme fiction one of these days,Excuse me if I mentionExcuse meif I dareExcuse me but your husbandHas his head stuck in theair.And what are all these stories?And what are they to you?(Mydear)What’s the use of storiesThat aren’t even true?

HAROUN (overhearing)What’s the use of stories that aren’t eventrue?What a terrible question!Father, where do stories comefrom?Everything comes from somewhereSo a story couldn’t come out ofthin air.The river comes from the mountain...

RASHIDCorrect!

HAROUNThe rain comes from the sky...

RASHIDSpot on!And the stories come from the Great Story SeaAnd Ishall never drink it dry.I drink the warm story watersThen I feelfull of steam

HAROUNRidiculous!

MR. SENGUPTA (aside to Soraya)My car is waiting.Come with me mydear,

My dearest.

RASHIDAnd the stories come bubbling out of me...

HAROUNAny more of this nonsense and I’ll scream!

RASHID (speaking)The story water comes out of an invisible tapinstalled by

one of the Water Genies.Of course you have to be asubscriber.

HAROUNAnd how do you do that?

RASHIDBy a P2C2E— a process too complicated to explain.How doesa stroke of geniusStrike on the stroke of three?By a P2C2

HAROUNP2C2

BOTHP2C2E!

RASHIDIt’s a complicated businessWhich one day you willlearn.It’s a wonder!It’s an enigma!But you will have your turn(Myboy)If I stand you a subscriptionWill you do the same for meFor aP2C2

HAROUNMe, too, see through

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BOTHThe P2C2E!

RASHIDNow why should your mother have written me a letter?Whycouldn’t she have spoken herself?Let’s see:“My dear Rashid, myhusband as was,You are only interested in pleasureBut a proper manwould knowThat life is a serious business.You have your head in theclouds—”

HAROUNThat’s what Mr. Sengupta always says.That sounds like Mr.Sengupta!

RASHID“And your feet off the ground.Your brain is full ofmake-believeSo there is no room for facts.Mr. Sengupta has noimagination at all.This is okay by me.”Oh No.

Drops letter, which Haroun picks up.

HAROUN“Tell Haroun I love himBut I can’t help him anymore.I haveto strike out now for a new life.I have to slam the door.”

RASHIDEleven o’clock precisely.She must have planned it allTothe last detail.

Takes up clock and smashes it. Goes on rampage smashingclocks.

MRS. SENGUPTAThey‘ve gone. They’ve gone together.It was youneglecting your wife gave him the chanceAnd he took it like the ratthat he is! Oh! Oh!

HAROUNThat was my clock. Why did you smash my clock?

RASHIDWhat to do, sonWhat to say, where to go.This alwaystelling storiesThis is the only work I know.

HAROUNBut what’s the point of it?What’s the use of stories thataren’t even true?(Rashid hides his face and weeps.)If I could catchthose words I spokeAnd take them back againI’d pay whatever priceit tookNot to have seen your pain.To turn the clock back a minuteor lessTo catch the word on the wingI’d pay whatever price ittookNot to have done this thing.I hurt you then. I know it now.Iknew it at the time.But a word can strike like a criminalAnd fleefrom the scene of the crime.Return to the scene, o criminalword—Isn’t that what criminals do?Return, return to the scene ofthe crime.I have my dagger here for you

[1|2] Scene 2 A StoryANNOUNCERLadies and Gentlemen,The momentyou have all been waiting for—The great Ocean of Notionshimself,The Shah of Blah,The Supreme Fiction—Mr. RashidKhalifa!

Applause

CHORUSTell us a storyMaking it sentimentalAnd gentleOr gory!Tellus a storyOf caliphs and eunuchs and ogresOrOf Romans in tunics andtogasShouting MEMENTO MORI!Tell us a storyOf paynim knights anddamozelsOrOf fishnet tights and mam’sellesInflammatory.Tell us astoryOf the dragon, the hippogriff and the centaurAnd other suchmythological impedimentaAs are obligatory—Tell us aStoryNow!(pause)If you please!

RASHIDNow let me see, in the Valley of HumIn the days ofwho-the-devil was it...

CHORUSThis opening is inauspicious. Please improve.

RASHIDIn the Valley of Hum in the days of Ha...

CHORUSThis exposition is exiguous.We have nothing to go on.Giveus some facts.

RASHIDIn the Ha of Hum...

CHORUSThis is minimalism

RASHIDHo?! Hum?Ark. Ark.

CHORUSVerging on subliminalism.You have exhausted ourpatienceWith these equivocations.Have some rotten eggs inreturn.

Crowd pelts Rashid.

[1|3] Scene 3 Enter Two MenRASHID (solus)Well, what’s the use?Ihad it all onceAnd now it seems I’m throughBut who cares? Who’sthere to care

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If I’ve run out of juice?I might as well put my head in anoose.What’s the use of stories that aren’t even true?Oh it was allmy imagination.I had one onceAnd now it’s flown into the blue.Butwho cares? I’ve lost the caring part of me,My instinct and myart.I’m just a flake.I might as well jump in the lake.What’s theuse of stories that aren’t even true?I’m done.My wife thinksherself well shot of me,I’m an embarrassment to my son.I’ve lostthe thread.I’ve lost the plot of me.I might as well be deadAndthrough.What’s the use of stories that aren’t even true?

MRS. SENGUPTAI tell you something, Mr. Khalifa.Independence is abeautiful thing.No more Mrs. Sengupta for me!From today, call meMiss Oneeta only.(Sings her torch song, with diminishingconfidence.)I‘m empoweredBright as a frying pan that I myselfHaverecently scoured.I’m empowered!The woman I once wasOh that bloodywoman was perfectly obviouslyA bloody coward.Now I’m empoweredI’mnot afraid to live alone.

I don’t sit waiting by the phoneNor do I cry myself to sleep(Ornot as much as I used to)And— you know— my existence has notsoured.I’M EMPOWERED!(Bursts into tears.)O! O! What is tobecome.

RASHIDWhat is to become indeed.What is to become of all ofus.I’ve lost the gift of the gabAnd the strangest thing hashappened to Haroun.He seems to have lost his powers ofconcentration.Eleven minutes is as long as he can last.Aftereleven, niente, nada, nix.

MRS. SENGUPTAIt’s his puss*-collar-jee.

RASHIDI see.

MRS. SENGUPTAYou follow my drift.

RASHIDWell, no. Not your drift, as such.Explain please.

MRS. SENGUPTAHis mother left at eleven o’clock precisely.Thatwas when you broke all the clocks.It’s puss*-collar-jee!

HAROUN (overhearing)That isn’t true.Or maybe it is true.I seemto stumble

After eleven minutesAnd even when I count to elevenMy mindbegins to wander.What lies beyond elevenIs wrapped in mystery.I’mstuck in time like a broken clock.I have no future.

Enter two men

RASHIDWho are you?And why are you looking at me askance?

TWO MENWe are two men in mustachiosAnd yellow check pants.

RASHIDI see I’m in for the high-jump.Tell me what this missionmeans.Cut the crap and spill the beans.

TWO MENSupposing a teller of storiesGot work from a powerfulmanTo tell the public storiesAs only a storyteller canAnd thispowerful man had a rivalWho paid the old guy on the sideTo pretendto forget all his stories—

RASHIDIt’s not true!

TWO MENAnd the silly old story-teller went and liedAnd thepowerful man grew angryCos the story-teller had taken a bungSo hesent out his trusted henchmen

To cut out the story-teller’s tongue—What a pityWhat a horriblepityWhat a horrible pity that would be!

RASHIDI deny it all.It is true that I have been indisposed oflateBut at our next appointmentIn the Valley of KI shall beterrificoMagnifico.Splendifico.

TWO MENBetter you areBetter you areOr out comes that tongue fromyour lying throat.What a pityWhat a horrible pityWhat a horriblepity that would be.(Spoken) And in case you think us incapable ofsuch an

outrage, here’s one we prepared earlier.

Handing Rashid a human tongue

HAROUNMy fault again.I started all this off.What’s the use ofstories that aren’t even true?I asked the questionAnd it broke myfather’s heart.And now it’s up to me to put things right.Somethinghas to be done.Something has to be done.And the trouble is— Ihaven’t a clue in my head.

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[1|4] Scene 4 On the RoadCHORUSGet on the bus.Get on the bus.Geton the bus and come with us.Vegetables goats and chickensSacks ofrice and what the dickensLeaking parcels, bags of rye—Fling them inand pile them highGet on the bus.Get on the bus.Get on the bus.Geton the bus and come with us.Gentlemen of many parts,Travellingsalesmen, unravelling tarts,Hucksters, fixers, confidencetricksters,Muckers, suckers, city slickers—Get on the bus.UnsavourymonksGet out of your bunks—Get on the bus.Get on the busWithus.Don’t make a fuss.Don’t bust a truss.

BUTTYou seem a tip-top type, young man.My good name isButtDriver of the Number OneSuper Express mail-coachTo the Valleyof K.At your service, sir!

HAROUNTo the Valley of K?Hey, if you mean what you sayAnd youreally are at my serviceThen there is something you can do.

BUTTIt was a figure of speechBut but butI shall stand by myfigure of speech.Butt’s a straight manNot a twister.What’s yourwishMy young mister?

HAROUNNow let me see...From the town of GThere runs a wayTo theValley of K...

BUTTCorrect!

HAROUNAnd from the Pass of HTo the tunnel of IThere’s a hairpinbend...

BUTTThere are twenty bendsAnd that’s where many a journeyends.

HAROUNBut when you come through the tunnelTo the Valley of K—Orso my father tells me—There’s a view to take your breath away

SNOO

TY B

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[1|7] Scene 7 In the Valley of KHAROUNSo it was all true.Thefields are gold with saffron.The mountains are silver with snowAndthe skies are blue.

RASHIDThanks for fixing this up, son.But I admitI thought wewere all fixed up good and proper.Done for. Finito.Khattam-Shud.

HAROUNKhattam-Shud?What was the story you used to tell?

RASHIDKhattam-Shud is the Arch-Enemy of all stories,Even oflanguage itself.He is the Prince of SilenceAnd the Foe ofSpeech.Everything ends.Everything must come to an end.Dreamsend.Stories end.Life ends.And so at the end of everything we usehis name.We say: it is finishedIt is over.Khattam-Shud: TheEnd.

HAROUNKhattam-Shud.This place is doing you good.Your crazystories are coming back.

CHORUSGet on the bus.Get on the bus.Get on the bus and come withus.Don’t make a fuss.Don’t bust a truss.Get on the bus with us.

[1|8] Scene 8 Meeting Mr. ButtooSNOOTY BUTTOOMr. RashidEsteemedMr. Rashid—A legend comes to town:The Shah of Blah deigns to makehis wayTo the Valley of K.A pleasure to meet you.The name isButtoo.

HAROUNAlmost the sameAs the bus driver’s name.

BUTTOOMy dear young man not at all the same.Bus driver?SufferingMosesDo I look the bus driver type?Do you know to whom you speak?Iam Snooty Buttoo!

HAROUNWell, excuse me—

BUTTOORespected Mr. Rashid,Bearers will carry your bags.

And no man can be sad— Or so says my dad—Who sees that viewWhenthe fields are goldThe mountains silverAnd the sky is blue.Justgive us two front seatsAnd cheer up my dad with that view.

BUTTBut but butThe hour is late.We’ll never be there beforedark.But but butSo what— let’s try.Let the sad dad have his dayAllaboard for the Valley of K!

[1|5] Scene 5 To the Valley of KCHORUSDriver, driver, not sofast.Every moment could be our last.

BUTTThe snow line! Icy patches ahead! Hurrah!

CHORUSIf you try to rush or zoomYou are sure to meet yourdoom.

BUTTCrumbling road surface! Hurrah!

CHORUSAll the dangerous overtakersEnd up safe atundertakers.

BUTTHairpin bends! Hurrah!

CHORUSLook out. Slow down. Don’t be funny.Life is precious. Carscost money.

BUTTDanger of avalanches! Hurrah!

CHORUSIf from speed you get your thrillTake precaution—Make yourwill.

BUTTFull speed ahead into the Valley of K! Hurrah!

CHORUSAaagh!

They enter the tunnel.

[1|6] Scene 6 In the DarkBlack.

BUTT (spoken, amplified, with reverberation)Like I said,Tunnel.At the far end, Valley of K.Hours to sunset, one.Time intunnel, some moments only.One view coming up.Like I said, noproblem.

They emerge from the tunnel.

CHORUSAaah!

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Why doesn’t father bop this Buttoo on the nose?

RASHIDBut you must go a long, long wayTo find Angel Fish.ThoseAngel Fish are few and far between.

HAROUNNever mind Angel Fish.I can’t even see to the tip ofmy—

RASHIDPhoo! Who made that smell?Come on. Admit.

HAROUNIt is the mist.We seem to have rowedInto the Mist ofMisery.It is the Misery makes the Mist.

BUTTOOThat boy is crazy for make-believeLike the folk of thisfoolish valley.My enemies tell bad stories about meAnd the ignorantpeople lap it up like milk.So I have turned to you, Mr. Rashid.Youshall tell happy storiesYou shall tell praising storiesAnd thepeople will believe youAnd they will vote for me!All of the peoplewill vote for me!!All the people will vote for meWhether they likeor no—The muddy peasant with his ruddy wife,The butcher with hisbloody knife,The nice boy on the way to school,The ice boy with hisice-chopping tool,

The master of the silver band,The lowly crematorium hand,All thepeople will vote for meSeveral times in a day.None of them will getawayUntil they vote for me!!All the people will vote for meWhetherthey like or no—The laundress with her steamy vat,The brothel madamand her cat,The oily spiv with fancy wheels,The transvestite insix-inch heels,The chap in the chupatti flour,The departed Parseein the Vulture Tower—All the people will vote for meSeveral timesin a day.None of them will get awayUntil they vote for me!!

HAROUNFunny how that harsh hot windBegan to blowAs soon asSnooty Buttoo began to speak.This lake is positivelytemp’ramental…But it’s not at all dull.It’s positivelytemperamental.Perhaps we have come to the Moody Land.The MoodyLand, the Moody LandI heard my father sayWhen people were happy inthe Moody LandThe sun would turn the night to day.But when the sungot on their nervesMy father said to meAn irritable night wouldfallFull of mutterings and misery.

(And yours too, I suppose, young man.)

HAROUN AND RASHIDSoldiers everywhereAnd armored carsAnd helmetedpolicemenLounging outside the barsBurly men and surly menWanderingaround—There’s a sad feeling,A bad feelingIn this town.You cansmell it on the highwayAt night, when the trucks are goneAnd themoon is shiningBright as a silver pieceYou can smell it in thealleywaysWhen the blinds are drawnAnd the flame of thenightlightGutters in a pool of grease.Sleeping out on therooftopsUnderneath the stars.Gunshots from the mountains.Gunshotsfrom the bars.Fearful men and tearful menStretched out on theground—There’s a sad feeling,A bad feelingIn this town.

HAROUNHow popular can Mr. Buttoo beIf he needs all thesesoldiers to protect him?And why should my fatherTell stories forhis campaign?

BUTTOOHere is the swan-boat.Tonight you stay as my guestIn thefinest houseboat on the lake.I trust it will not prove toohumbleFor a grandee like you.

[1|9] Scene 9 The Floating GardensRASHIDYou see, Haroun, yousee—The Floating Gardens.They weave a floating mat of lotusroot.You can grow vegetables on the lake.That is, if you wantto.

HAROUNYou sound sad, father.Don’t be sad.

BUTTOOSad? Did someone say sad?Surely the eminent story-tellerIssatisfied with all we have done for him?

RASHIDSir I am more than satisfied.This sadness is an affair ofthe heart.

BUTTOOWife left you, did she?Never mind.There are plenty morefish in the sea.

HAROUNFish? Did he say fish?Is my mother a pomfret?Is she ashark?

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BUTTOOTouchy, touchy Mr. Rashid!It was a joke only,A passinglightness,A cloud blown away on the breeze.Of course we have thehighest expectationsOf your performance tomorrowAnd all thepraising storiesThat will redound to our credit.Of course wehave...Don’t we?Now as for you, young man,We have given you theturtle room.

HAROUNThank you, it is very pleasant.

BUTTOOVery pleasant, indeed!Inappropriate young person,This isArabian Nights Plus One.“Very Pleasant” doesn’t cover it atall.Supermarvelloso, perhaps.Incredidable, and whollyfantastick!All the best belongs to me!Belongs to me!Belongs tome!The biggest vest!The biggest treasure chest!The biggest bathroomin the East or West!Everything best belongs to meBy right!Goodnight!

[1|11] Scene 11 Changing BedroomsNight music to indicate thepassing of time. Haroun and Rashid are in their bedrooms, unable tosleep.

RASHIDIt’s no use.I won’t be able to tell my stories.I’mfinished, finished for good.“Only praising tales” indeed.I am theOcean of Notions.I am the Shah of—Well, I’m not some office boy forSnooty Buttoo to boss

about.But what am I saying?What if I get up on stage and havenothing to say?They’ll slice me in pieces.They’ll come and cut outmy tongue.It’ll be up with me for good.Finito. Khattam-Shud!Sinceyou left meSince you cleft my heart in twoSince you bereftmeThere’s nothing deft that I can doI’ve no heft leftSince you torethe weft in twoCleft my heartLeft me apartFrom you.Even my aria’srun out of rhymes.

HAROUNStill singing about my mother.

RASHIDWho’s there?

And if they were neither happy nor sadBut muddled and unsureThecolours would run in the Moody LandAnd every outline becameobscure.Oh father, father, take my handAnd try the trick withme.Let us spread some joy in the Moody LandAnd clear the Mist ofMisery.

RASHIDMy son, my son,The Moody Land was only a story.

HAROUNNow I know how sad he is.“Only a story” indeed!The Shah ofBlah would never have spoken like thatIn the good old days.And nowthe mist is getting worse.

Lightning, Thunder

OARSMEN (Chorus)Oh Oh Oh, down we go!

HAROUNOkay. Everybody listen.Stop talking. This is veryimportant.Not a word. Zip the lipsOn a count of one twothree.One!(I must try to calm them downOr we’ll definitelydrown.)Two!(I must calm myself as wellAnd not let Buttoo break thespell.)Three!

Now the waves and wind are goneBut the mist is lingeringon.Father, father, help your son.Think of the happiest times youcan.Think of happiness gone by.Think your happiness across thesky!

The mist disappears and the moon comes out.

RASHIDNow the sea is calm, and here’s the moon.You’re a blinkinggood manIn a blinking tight spot.Hats off to you, Haroun.

They arrive at the houseboat.

[1|10] Scene 10 On the HouseboatBUTTOOWelcome to myhouseboat,The largest and best on the lake.I have called it ArabianNights Plus OneBecause even in the Arabian NightsYou will neverhave a night like this.For you, erudite Mr. RashidHere is thepeaco*ck room,And here on the shelves you will findThe wholecollection of tales known asThe Ocean of the Streams of Story.Ifever you run out of materialYou will find plenty here.

RASHIDRun out? What are you saying?

30 31

I call you deplorable.

HAROUNAre you really one of those geniesMy father told meabout?

IFFSupplier of Story Water from the Great Story Sea.Preciselythe same. No other. It is me.Or rather it is I.I is it.Hence thisvisit.I regret to reportThe gentleman your fatherNo longer requiresthe service.He has discontinued narrative activitiesThrown in thetowelTold his last storyTo the last vowel.And hence my presenceForthe purpose of disconnection of his story tap—To which end, kindlyreturn my tool.

HAROUNNot so fast.I don’t believe you.How did he send themessage?I’ve been with him almost all the time.

IFFHe sent it by the usual means—A P2C2E.

HAROUNAnd what is that?

IFFObvious.

It’s a Process Too Complicated to Explain.How does the StoryWaterCome from the Story SeaBy a P2C2

HAROUNP2C2

BOTHP2C2E!IFFIt’s a most mysterious businessAnd hard todeconstruct.It’s a riddle.It’s a conundrum.But it’s utterlyineluctableIf you think of my departmentYou can think straightthrough to meBy a P2C2

HAROUNNo! Not he too!

BOTHA P2C2E!

IFFSomething to do with thought-beams.We listened to yourfather’s thoughts—

HAROUNAnd you got the wrong end of the stickMy father hasdefinitely not given up.

IFFWell, those are my orders.If you have any queriesPleaseaddress them to:P2C2E House

HAROUNIt’s me. I couldn’t sleep.I couldn’t sleep on the turtlebed.It’s too weird.

RASHIDThat’s funny. I’ve been having problems with thispeaco*ck.I’d rather a turtle any night.How do you feel about thebird?

HAROUNDefinitely better.A bird sounds okay.

RASHIDWell then let’s swap.Now get some sleep young man.

[1|12] Scene 12 The Story TapIFFDo this. Do that.Put it in. Takeit out.Rush job. Hush-hush job.Never mind my workload.Hot tap. Coldtap.Story tap. Disconnect.Cash job. On account.On thenever-never.Never so much as a by-your-leave.Never a thought forme, sir.Disconnect my story tapAt the hour of three, sir.Do this.Do that.Put it in. Take it—(Interrupting himself)And on top of itall, where’s my disconnecting tool?

Who’s pinched it? Where are you?No kidding. Well, enough’senough.Party’s over. Fair’s fair.GIVE IT BACK.

HAROUNNo.

IFFThe Disconnector. Hand it over.Return to sender.Yield.Surrender.

HAROUNYou’re not getting it backUntil you tell me what you aredoing here.Are you a burglar?Shall I call the cops?

IFFMission impossible to divulge.Top secret, classified. Eyesonly info.Zip the lipsOr you’ve had your chips.

HAROUNVery well. Then I’ll wake my father.

IFFNo. No adults.Rules and regulations.No parents or other closerelations.

HAROUNI’m waiting for some explanations.

IFFI am the Water Genie IffFrom the Ocean of the Streams ofStory.You may think as a boy you’re adorable.

32 33

Of all the winged creaturesKnown and unknown to man.

HAROUNI see a lion with a human headAnd curly beard and hairywings,I see a monkey fly from tree to tree,Angels and flyingsaucers, stranger thingsThan ever I’ve heard said.I see a school oflevitating fishGulping the air and heading for the skyAnd all thesebirds which seem to turn to meAnd offer me the wings to fly—Flywhere my heart could wishAnd offer me the wings to flyGo headingfor the open skyFly where my heart could wish.Swim like a bird.Flylike a fish.Go heading for the open sky.So, I’ll choose thatone—The one with the funny crest.

IFFSo, it’s the Hoopoe for us.A significant choice!

Throws miniature Hoopoe out of window.

HAROUNWhat was that for?

IFFWait and see.(A huge Hoopoe arrives.)And off we go!

[1|13] Scene 13 Flying to the MoonHAROUNThat’s odd, thatfloating feeling.Just like on the mail coach ride.And this Hoopoewith its feathersReminds me a lot of old Butt.Butt with his quiffof hair.Butt’s hair seemed featheryAnd these feathers seem hairy.Nobird could fly so fast.Is this a machine?

BUTT THE HOOPOEBut if I was?Do you have some objection tomachines?But but butYou entrusted your life to me—Am I not worthyof a little respect?A machineIs entitled to some self esteemOr soit seemsTo me.

HAROUNYou seem to be reading my mind.

BUTTBut but but certainly.And I am speaking to you bytelepathy.

HAROUNAnd how do you do that?

BUTT AND IFFBy a P2C2E.How does a hurtling hoopoeSpeak bytelepath-ee?

Gup CityKahani.

HAROUNMr. Iff, take me at once to Gup City!

IFFOh, what a pity.Gup City is banned, off limits, strictlyrestricted.

HAROUNIn that case you’ll have to go back without thisAnd seehow they like that.

IFFOkay okay okay I give in.You’ve got me bang to rights.But ifwe’re going, let’s go now.

HAROUNYou mean—now?

IFFNow means nowIf you have something to doDo it now.Thinking oftying a shoe?Tie it now.Don’t wait to slipAnd trip on thestreet—That is complete-

ly insane.Think what advantage you gainDoing it nowIf you havesomewhere to goGo there now.Though it is far as the crowFlies, flynow.

Don’t wait to packA rucksack or two.That is the usual way.Trustyour first impulse and say:I’ll go there now.So, pick a bird.

HAROUNThe only bird around hereIs a sort of wooden peaco*ck.

IFFFoolish thieflet,A person may choose what he cannot see.Aperson may mention a bird’s nameEven if that creature is notpresent and correct.A woodpecker, say, or a whinchat,A wheatear, awaxwing or a wattlebird,A whimbrel, a whistler or a wagtail,Awigeon, a wedgebill or a weebill,A whipbird, a warbler or awhiteye,A whippoorwill, or a white-winged wydah—All these exist,but there is more to come.For a person may selectA flying creatureof his own invention—For example, a winged horse or a flyingturtle,An airborne whale or an aeromouse.To give a thing a name, alabel, a handle,To pluck it out of the Place of Namelessness,Inshort to identify it—Well, that’s a way of bringingThe said thinginto being—Or, in this case,The said bird or Imaginary FlyingOrganism.So pick a bird.Think of all the birds you can,

34 35

ALLBy a P2C2P2C2P2C2E!

IFFSee there.That is the second moon of Earth—Kahani.

HAROUNBut but butHow can the earth have a second moon?It wouldhave been discovered!

BUTTSpeed, speed—It is the Speed of the moonKahani.Speed of themoonSpeed of the moonNecessaryNeedful speedShine like a spoonFlylike a steedLuminaryLunar speedSpeed that concealsSpeed thatrevealsSpeed of hand and foot and thighVoom! Varoom!Away wezoom!Speed of a glance or a glint in the eyeSpeed of the moonSpeedof the moonNecessary

Needful speedBe heedful HarounOf the speed of the moonHeedful ofthe needful speedHeedful of the needful speed.

Rushing towards them is a sparkling and seemingly infiniteexpanse of water.

IFFThe Ocean of the Streams of Story—Wasn’t it worthtravellingSo far and fast to see?

BUTTThree two one zero!

They land on the Moon Kahani.

[1|14] Scene 14 WishwaterHAROUNIt’s a trick.There’s no Gup Cityhere—No point in being here at all.

IFFHold your horses.Cool down.Keep your hair on.Everything willbe explained.

HAROUNBut this is the Middle of Nowhere!

IFFThis is the Deep North of KahaniAnd here we may findWishwater.

IFF

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36 37

Harsh words and hot water for you.Stop taking it out on theboy.

IFFBut but but...Okay, okayGup City it is.Unless of courseYou’dlike to hand over the Disconnecting ToolAnd call the whole thingoff.

Haroun shakes his head miserably.

BUTTBut but butYou’re still bullying the boy.Cheer him upmanCheer him up.Give him a happy story to drink.

HAROUNNot another drink.What are you going to make me fail atnow?

IFFCheer up, HarounAnd look at all the colours of the sea.It isa liquid tapestryOf breath-taking complexity.This is the Ocean ofthe Streams of Story.Every tale that has been told is hereAnd everytale that has yet to be inventedAnd if you’re very carefulYou candip a cup into the oceanAnd fill it with a single story—A singlepure stream of storyLike so.

Go on now. Knock it back.Guaranteed to make youfeelA-number-one.

Haroun takes a cup, dips into the sea, and drinks a story.

[1|15] Scene 15 The Story He DrankPRINCESSAn outlandish knightfrom the north country cameAnd he came for to rescue meAnd thefour-headed lion did shake its maneMost grisly for to see.Oh haveyou seen the noble knightAnd have you heard his tune?It is thefairest knight in the landAnd his name it is Sir Haroun.Oh yes I’veseen the noble knightA-pricking o’er the planeAnd the sun did onhis helmet shineAs on a mountain after the rain.

HAROUNLet down, let down your flaxen hairAnd I shall climb totheeAnd I shall slay your jailer boldAnd I shall your rescuerbe.

PRINCESSAnd so I let down my flaxen hairAnd he began to climbButthen... I felt a hairy legAnd EEK it was a spider all the time!Eekmy dearest— you have into a spider turned!

Attacks Haroun with knife

BUTTLook for the brightest patches of water.That iswishwater.Use it properlyAnd you can make a wish come true.

IFFWish for your father, Haroun,And maybe you can make hisproblem disappearAnd we can all go home.

HAROUNOh very well.Though I should have liked to see Gup Citytoo.

IFFTip top type!Prince among men!And hey presto—wishwaterahoy.

Iff fills a bottle with wishwater and hands it to Haroun.

BUTT AND IFF Drink the water.The harder you wishThe better itwill work.Your heart’s desireWill be as good as yours.So—down thehatch!

HAROUNI wish—what will I wish?My wishes fly before meLike aschool of flying fish.I wish my father well...I wish him all thehappiness of heartAnd artTo tell...To tell my mother to come homeagain!

No, that’s not right.Not quite.I wish—what could I wish?Mywishes fly before meLike a school of flying fish.I see my fatherpleadingSaying: do this one thing for me...What thing?What can thatbe?Maybe my father telling stories every dayMade my mother runaway.I wish she would come back.No... that’s a different track...Iwish—what would I wish?My wishes fly before meLike a school offlying fish—FlashingDashingDisappearingLike a school of flyingfish.

IFFEleven minutes—Just eleven minutes and his concentrationgoesKa-bam, ka-blooey, ka-put.

HAROUNI know.I have failed.

BUTTWishes are not such easy things.Don’t bully the boy.You,Mister Iff, are upsetBecause of your own mistake,Because we mustnow go to Gup City after allAnd there will be harsh words,

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Shorn the shape the shadow shows.In the shadow of the moonDarkerthan the deepest woodYou shall know, if you go,Haroun,Khattam-Shud, Khattam-Shud—You shall knowIf you shallgoKhattam-ShudKhattam-Shud.

HAROUNLook at all the birds.The sky is filling up withbirds.

IFFSomething serious has happened.All units have been calledback to base.

HAROUNListen.Listen to the beating of their wings.Listen to thesong of the birds.

CHORUS OF BIRDSHalcyon blueHalcyon blueWe’re flying through thehalcyon blueOn a thermalOn a highLike mackerel in a mackerelsky.Heaviside LayerHeaviside LayerWe’re flying through theHeaviside LayerOn a cycloneCycling nearCycling home through theexosphere.Bats have wings

And sprats have wingsAnd pterodactyls have similar thingsTobring them throughThe tropopauseAnd pare their nails and clip theirclaws.Halcyon blueHalcyon blueWe’re flying home through the halcyonblueOn a thermalOn a highLike mackerel in a mackerel sky.

HAROUNWhat’s that?

BUTTA floating gardener of course.Look— he floats, he runs, hehops.No problem.

MALIWho are you, stranger?

HAROUNI am Haroun KhalifaFrom the sad city of Alifbay.

MALII am Mali,Floating Gardener First Class.

HAROUNPleaseWhat does a floating gardener do?

MALIUntwisting twisted story streams.Also unloopingsame.Weeding. In short: gardening.

[1|16] Scene 16  Flying to Gup CityIFFWake up, snap out ofit.Let’s have you.What happened?Did you save the Princess?

HAROUNI was saving her.But then I turned into a spider.

IFFTurned into a spiderIn a Princess Rescue Story?I can’tbelieve it.Never in all my born days.

HAROUNI’m glad to hear itBecause I was thinkingThat it wasn’tthe most brilliant wayTo cheer me up.

BUTTIt’s the pollution.Something or someone has been puttingfilthInto the Ocean of the Streams of Story.If the stories getpolluted they go wrong.

IFFAnd if the poison has come as far as the Deep NorthThen GupCity could be close to crisis.

BUTT AND IFFTop speed ahead!This could mean war!

HAROUNWar with whom?

BUTTWith the Land of ChupOn the dark side of Kahani.This lookslike the doing of the leader of the Chupwalas—The Cultmaster ofBezaban himself.

HAROUNAnd who is that?

BUTT AND IFFHis name is Khattam-Shud.

HAROUNToo many fancy notionsAre turning out to be true.Tell memore about Khattam-Shud.

IFFKhattam-Shud is the Arch-Enemy of all stories,Even ofLanguage itself.He is the Prince of SilenceAnd the Foe ofSpeech.

HAROUNExactly what my father told me.

BUTT AND IFFOn the far side of the moonDarker than the deepestwoodIn a permanence of gloomLives the Master Khattam-Shud.And thedark Chupwalas goFearful of his least commandAnd their sombrelegions knowDeeds done by his dreadful hand.Everything must have anend,Die, decay and decompose.Friendship falter, falter friend.

40 41

Now the lagoon is damask greyAnd now an amber silkAnd now thelagoon is a purple velvetDipped in a bath of asses’ milk.Stare inthe depths of the water.Stare in the depth Haroun.This is thebiggest kaleidoscopeOn the bright side of the moon.These are thecolours of thought.These are the colours of dreams.These are thecolours of storylines.These are the story streams.Now the lagoon isred.Now the lagoon is blue.Now the lagoon is everythingEverything alagoon should be—Topaz, quartz, chalcedony—Doing everything alagoon should do,Everything, Haroun for you.

The crowd bustling about. General Kitab appears and the crowdfalls silent.

GENERAL KITABWords fail the king.He cannot speak to you.

CHORUSWords fail his Majesty?This is most unusual.

GENERAL KITABYou tell them, Prince Bolo. (Weeps.)

PRINCE BOLOThey have seized her!They have seized the PrincessBatcheatMy bride to be.

The servants of the CultmasterKhattam-Shud…

CHORUS (softly)Khattam-Shud.

BOLOHave made off with my future wife.Churls, varlets, dastards,hounds!By gum, they shall pay for this!Will they not pay for this,General Kitab ?Will they not pay through the nose for this?

GENERAL KITABMy liege, it is the most blasted business.ThePrincess is now a prisonerIn the citadel of Chup,The ice-castle ofKhattam-Shud.

CHORUS (softly)Khattam-Shud.

GENERAL KITABWe have sent messagesTo the CultmasterKhattam-Shud—

CHORUS (softly)Khattam-Shud.

GENERAL KITABOh will you stop interrupting?We have sentmessagesConcerning the vile poison being injectedInto the Ocean ofthe Streams of StoryAnd the abduction of the Princess.We demandedthat he stop the pollutionAnd return the King’s daughter withinseven hours.Neither demand was metAnd I have to inform youThat astate of war now exists

BUTT AND MALIThink of the Ocean as a head of hair.The StoryStreams are floating everywhereAs a thick mane is full of flowingstrandsAnd you can run the stories through your hands.Think of thathair growing longer every dayThicker and knottier, tangled everyway.It needs a brush, conditioner, shampoo.That’s what a floatinggardener has to do.

BIRDSHalcyon blueHalcyon blueWe’re flying through the halcyonblueOn a thermalOn a highLike mackerel in a mackerel sky.

BAGHA AND GOOPYHurry, hurry, don’t be late.Ocean’s ailing. Curecan’t wait.Hurry, hurry.Hurry.Hurry, hurry.Hurry.

BUTT AND MALIThese are Plentimaw fishes.See how many mouths theyhave.

HAROUNSo there really are Plentimaw Fish in the SeaJust asSnooty Buttoo said.Excuse me,Are you quite well?

BAGHAAll this bad taste! Too much dirt!

GOOPYSwimming in the Ocean starts to hurt.

BAGHACall me Bagha. This is Goopy.

GOOPY AND BAGHAExcuse our rudeness. We feel droopy.Eyes feelrheumy. Throat feels sore.When we’re better we’ll talk more.Thingsare worse than we’ve ever known.And the worst place is down in ourOld Zone.

IFFWhat? What?If the Old Zone is pollutedThen the Source of allStories is poisonedAnd if the source is poisonedWhat will happen tothe Ocean, to us all?We have ignored it far too longAnd now we paythe price

BUTT (spoken, amplified)Hold on to hats.Hitting the brakenow.Gup City ahead.Record time!Va-va-va-voom!No-o-o problem!

They land in Gup City.

[1|17] Scene 17 War is DeclaredCHORUSNow the lagoon is blue.Nowthe lagoon is greenAnd now the lagoon is strawberry jellyAndsomething in between.

42 43

ACT TWO

[2|1] Scene 1 Rescue the Princess!Outside the Palace, exactly asbefore. Chorus and singers frozen in the same positions.

CHORUSKhattam-Shud!

GENERAL KITABAnd now, herald, let my word go forth.Bring the spybefore the people!

FIRST HERALDBring the spy before the treacle!

SECOND HERALDBring the pie before the treacle!

THIRD HERALDFling the pie before the treacle!

HAROUNFling the pie before the treacle?This could get messy!

GENERAL KITABYou are right.Officer, bring the spy before thepeople.

Footsteps approaching. Rashid is brought on with a sack over hishead.

HAROUNThat looks like my dad.It is my dad.

RASHIDSir, there seems to be some mistake.

I am just a story-tellerAnd a long-time subscriberTo yourstory-water service.

CHORUSOne of our own subscribersAnd he has betrayed us!Caughtspying in the Twilight Strip.

HAROUNHe’s not a spy.He’s my father.

RASHIDHaroun!

HAROUNAnd the only thing wrong with himIs that he’s lost thegift of gab.

RASHIDThat’s right, my son,Tell everyone.Broadcast it to thewhole world.Don’t mind my feelings.I’m just a humblestory-tellerWho bit off more than he could chew.I becameover-extendedAnd now my story’s ended.(Weeps.)It’s sodiscouraging.

CHORUSAaah!

Between the lands of Gup and Chup.(Silence.)I said a state ofwar now existsBetween the lands of Gup and Chup.(Silence.)I mustsayYou don’t seem very interested.

CHORUSYou told us not to interrupt youAnd we obeyed you to theletter.

GENERAL KITABMy dear friendsI seem to have offended you.You mustforgive a military manHis crusty old ways.

CHORUSIt is never necessary or politeTo raise one’s voice amongfriends.

GENERAL KITABOh I have offended you.Accept my most abjectapologies.Forgiveness, forgivenessForgiveness is all I ask.Forgiveme my friendsMy failure to transcendThe limitations of my socialclass.

CHORUSForgiveness, forgivenessForgiveness is all he asks.Forfailure to transcendThe limitations of his social class.

GENERAL KITABForgive me my friendsMy failure to transcend

The limitations of my social class.

CHORUS (still seemingly offended)Very well. Go back to what youwere saying.

GENERAL KITABI said I have to inform youThat a state of war nowexistsBetween the lands of Gup and Chup.

CHORUS (after a split second, with amazing volume)War! War! War!War!War between the lands of Chup and Gup!War between the lands ofGup and Chup!A battle to the death!A battle to the dying breath!Astruggle for the triumph of the forces of the Good!A struggle forthe over throw of(pianissimo)Khattam-Shud!

GENERAL KITAB (spoken)That’s exactly what I had in—

CHORUSWar! War! War! War!War between the lands of Chup andGup!War between the lands of Gup and Chup!The armies of thenightAre absolutely frightful.They are poisoning the Ocean like apoison of the bloodAnd the frightfullest of all of themis(pianissimo)Khattam-Shud!(fortissimo)Khattam-Shud!

End of Act I

44 45

PRINCE BOLOWell then...

RASHIDSire, swift as a sunbeamI surveyed my situation.It wasinsupportable.An unspeakable peril.Not only was I in my nightshirtand unarmed,I was also outnumbered twenty-five to one.

PRINCE BOLOThose odds are trifling.

RASHIDExactly what I thoughtUntil I heard somethingThat made myblood run cold—So cold, I decidedThere wasn’t a moment to lose.Imust seek help at once.Prince Bolo, sire,Are you sitting down?

PRINCE BOLOOf course not, I—

RASHIDBe prepared for the worst.As the Chupwala soldiersHauledthe Princess awayKicking and screamingI heard one say:“The greatFeast of the Idol BezabanIs coming soon.Let us offer this GuppeePrincessAs a sacrifice.

Let us stitch up her lipsAnd sacrifice her to Bezaban.”

PRINCE BOLONow there is not a second to lose!Assemble the armedforces—All the pages,Every Chapter,Every Volume.To war! To war!ForBatcheat, only Batcheat!

GENERAL KITABFor Batcheat and the Ocean!

CHORUSFor Batcheat and the Ocean!

RASHIDSire, I shall lead you to the Chupwala tents.

HAROUNI’m coming too.

RASHIDNo, son.This could be dangerous.

HAROUNAll the more reason for sticking together.It’s a PrincessRescue Story.It’s a deed of derring-do.It’s a case of death orglory.A prioriIt’s my cue.

RASHIDThough the upshot may be goryWe shall have to see itthrough.

PRINCE BOLOTell us your story.I love a good story—Especially ifI come into it.Tell us a Prince Bolo story.

RASHIDOh very well then.It was like a dreamIt was a dreamI fellasleep, andI flew to the Twilight Strip.It was dark and the treeswere dripping.

PRINCE BOLOHow utterly gripping!

RASHIDAnd there was the whole Chupwala ArmyEncamped in theirblack tentsIn fanatical silence.

PRINCE BOLOThose black tentsAre making me tense—Go on.

RASHIDI made my wayAmong those dull pavilionsAmong thosemillions of scullionsScouring their skilletsOutside theirbilletsWhen suddenlyI heard the soundOf a young woman singing.

PRINCE BOLOHow wonderful!

RASHIDIt was without doubtOne of the most appalling experiencesof my life—A voice like a parakeetIn heat—Like so:(He imitates thevoice.)

CHORUSBatcheat!He has heard the Princess Batcheat!

PRINCE BOLOPrincess Batcheat,My love, my bride to be!So this isa Prince Bolo Story after all.Proceed, pronounce, for pity’ssake.

RASHIDNo sooner had the princess and her handmaidensCome intoviewThan a posse of ChupwalasLeapt from the bushesAnd bagged thelot of themKicking and screaming

PRINCE BOLOAnd you did nothing?You did nothing to save them?

RASHIDMe? I did nothing?You mistake your man...Ahem... I, ah,I...

46 47

As they come to the Twilight StripHeart Shadow—The night isbrushing youBrushing like a raven’s wingA fearful thingTo feel.

IFFHeart Shadow—The wind is rushing throughRushing like aswollen streamAnd yet it seemsUnreal.

MALIIt feels like a memoryBuried somewhere beneath the snow.Itfeels like a memoryOf something somehow lost long ago.

MALI, BUTT, AND IFFHeart Shadow—That loss is crushingyouCrushing you before you startMaking you lose heart—HeartShadow.You’re feeling Heart Shadow.

They land on the Twilight Strip.

CHORUSHush for a moment.This is the Twilight Strip.On these darkshoresNo birds sing.No wind blows.

No voice speaks.Feet falling on the shingleFall silently.The airsmells staleAnd stenchy.The bushes cluster aroundAnd leaflesstreesLike sallow ghosts.All is still and all is cold.The darknessis biding its time.

RASHIDThe further they lure usInto the darknessThe better forthem.And they know we will comeBecause they are holdingBatcheat.

HAROUNI thought that LoveWas supposed to conquer allBut it seemsthat LoveMakes monkeys of us—Makes mincemeat of the lot of us.

PRINCE BOLOStorytellerNow is the hourWhen you must lead us tothe tents of the Chupwalas.Great matters are afoot.We must save thePrincess.

HAROUNYes, father, you must save the PrincessAnd II shall godown to the Old Zone

Though the story may be hoaryA prioriIt’s our cue.

CHORUSIt’s a well-known categoryIt’s a tale that’s tried andtrue.It’s a Princess Rescue StoryA prioriIt’s our cue.

[2|2] Scene 2 To the Twilight StripBAGHASaving Batcheat! What anotion.

GOOPYWhat matters now is saving the Ocean.

BAGHAThat’s the plan to set in motion.

GOOPYFind the source of the poison potion.

BAGHA AND GOOPYThe Ocean’s the important thing.Worth more thanthe daughter of any king.

HAROUNSounds like mutinous talk to me.

BAGHA AND GOOPYWhat’s a Mutinus? Who he be?

HAROUNWhat a chattering, clattering, quarreling crewSailingthrough the halcyon blue—Floating gardeners, Pages,Barge-birds,

Plentimaw FishPlentimaw FishPlentimaw Fish in the Story Sea.

CHORUSChatter chatter chatterWhat’s the matter if we chatterIfwe chatter chatter chatter on our way?Chatter chatter chatter allday?What’s the matter with our patterWith the clatter of ourscattergunRattlingBattlingFray?

HAROUNYou’ll give the game away!

CHORUSBetter to giveBetter to liveGiving the game away.

HAROUNWhat an absurd armada!How can we ever succeed?There isn’teven any lightTo see the enemy by.We’re on a suicidemission.Batcheat will perishAnd the Ocean will be ruinedforever.

BUTTBut but butDon’t be depressed.You’re suffering from HeartShadow.Everyone gets it

48 49

BAGHA AND GOOPYNever thought it would be so bad.We have failedyou. We feel sad.I feel terrible. She feels worse.We can hardlyspeak in verse.

HAROUNStay here and keep watch.Goodbye.The water is growingthicker.It’s like looking into molassesThrough dark glasses.

MALIThese are the waters of neglect.These are the seas ofdisgrace.Give me a year andI could clean this place.

HAROUNBut we haven’t got a year.We haven’t a moment towaste.

MALII’ll go ahead and I will clearA channel through.You can stopa cheque.You can stop a leak or three.You can stop traffic butYoucan’t stop me.You can’t stop me(I said)You can’t stop— aaagh!

HAROUNMali. Mali! Where are you?Mali?

Hissing sound.

BUTTIt is the Web of the Night.We are caught in the Web of theNight.And the Web will grip you harderThe harder you fight.

IFFIt’s no use.It’s no use.Khattam-ShudHas cooked our goose.

HAROUNSo we’re prisoners already?Some hero I turned out tobe!

[2|4] Scene 4 They Were Being Pulled Slowly ForwardsIFFUp thecreekPretty pickleHad our chips is what I’d say.

BUTTWoe is us!Alack-a-day!

IFF AND BUTTHai-hai-haiHai-hai-haiIt’s zap, bam, phut, finitofor us all.

HAROUNYou’re a fine pair of companions.Pull yourselvestogether.

And I shall save the Sea of Stories.

RASHIDTo save the Sea of Stories singlehanded!There’s more toyou, Haroun Khalifa,Than meets the blinking eye.

HAROUNThere’s not a moment to lose.The sea is dying as wespeak.The sea is dyingAnd all the stories will end.

RASHIDGood luck, son.Good luck, Haroun,My pride and joy!Oh, Ifeel as if I’d lost the plot entirely.

[2|3] Scene 3 On the way to the South PoleMALISpeed of themoon

BUTTSpeed of the moon

IFFNecessaryNeedful speed

MALI, BUTT, AND IFFShine like a spoonFly like a steedLuminaryLunar speed

HAROUNIt’s getting even colderAnd the waters are losing theircolour.

BUTTSpeed that concealsSpeed that reveals

BAGHA AND GOOPYWe’re going the right way! We can tell!Before itwas filthy! Now it’s Hell!

HAROUN (to Mali)Doesn’t the poison hurt your feet?

MALIPoison?A little poison? Bah!A little acid? Pah!I’m a toughold bird.It won’t stop me.You can stop a cheque.You can stop a leakor three.You can stop traffic, butYou can’t stop me.

HAROUNNobody wants to.We’re out to stop theCultmasterKhattam-Shud.

IFFIf the source of the Sea of StoriesIs at the South PoleThenthat’s where Khattam-Shud will be.

HAROUNTo the South Pole.To the South Pole.

BUTTFull speed ahead to the South Pole.

50 51

And those must be the poison tanksAnd yet it all seemsShadowyAsif the whole thing were made of shadows.(Enter Khattam-Shud.)Andwho is this skinny, scrawny,Measly, weaselly, snivelling clericaltype?Can this be the terrible Cultmaster himselfOr could it be hisshadow?He reminds me of someone.

KHATTAM-SHUDSpies. What a melodrama.A Water Genie from GupCityAnd a young fellow from down thereIf I am not mistaken.

HAROUNI know him.I’ve met him somewhere before.

KHATTAM-SHUDWhat brought you here, young man?Stories, Isuppose.Well, look where stories have landed you now.What startedout as storiesHas ended up as spyingAnd you know what happens tospies, don’t you?Excuse me if I mentionExcuse me if I dareExcuse mebut this young manHas his head right in the air.What started outwith storiesHas got him in a stew—Young man!What’s the use ofstories

That aren’t even true?

HAROUNI know. You’re him.You’re Mr. Sengupta and you stole mymother.

IFFHaroun, lad, it’s not the same guy.This is the Cultmaster ofBezaban, Khattam-Shud.

HAROUNBut I thought he was back in his Citadel!

KHATTAM-SHUDHe is. I am. That is, I am his shadow.We’ve split intwoSo I can poison the Ocean hereAnd defeat the Guppies there.Bodythere. Shadow here.No problem.Come, young Haroun,And let me showyou my poison-blenders.We need all the poisons we can makeFor everystory to be ruined in a different way.And I have discoveredThat forevery story there is an anti-story.Put the two togetherAnd theycancel each other out.Every day we release new poisons.Soon, now,soonThe Ocean will be dead—Cold and dead—And my victory will becomplete.

HAROUNBut why do you hate stories so much?Stories are fun.

BUTTHow can we pull ourselves anywhereWhen we are being pulledin the Web of Night?

IFFLook downLook down at the Ocean.

HAROUNIt is as cold as death.

IFFLook at it now.Look at it now.The oldest stories evermade—Look at them now.We let them rot.We abandoned themAnd now theyare utterly spoilt.

The Web of Night is removed. They are surrounded byChupwalas.

HAROUNWe have stopped.We must be on the edgeOf PerpetualDarkness.They are taking us to the flagshipOf Khattam-Shud.

They are led onto the ship.

BUTTBut but butYou must not take that—That’s my brain!

The Chupwalas remove Butt’s brain.

HAROUNOh HoopoeI’m sorry I ever criticised you.You’re the bestand bravest machine that ever was.I’ll get back your brain foryou.Oh brave machineNow it’s too late to tell you what you meanTomeTo say what might have beenWhat moments on this flight havebeenWith your machinery—Oh brave machineNow it’s too late to tellyou what you meanTo meAnd now this night has beenThe chance to putthings right has beenLost, all at seaFor you, for me,With yourmachinery.

IFFHere, a little emergency something.Maybe you’ll get a chanceto use it.

HAROUNWhat is it?

IFFBite the end offAnd it will give you two full minutes oflight.It’s called a Bite-a-Lite.Hide it under your tongue. Shh!

Haroun pockets the Bite-a Lite.

HAROUNLook, it’s a factory ship

52 53

KHATTAM-SHUDFoolish child,The world is not for fun.The world isfor controlling.Inside every single storyIs a world, a storyworld,That I cannot rule at all.Beyond my control!Can you imagineit?Can you imagine what that means to me?It spoils everything!

Mali is heard whistling.

KHATTAM-SHUDWhat was that?I gave the strictestinstructionsNobody should ever whistle.

VOICE OF MALIYou can chop a flower-bushYou can chop a treeYoucan chop liver butYou can’t chop me.

KHATTAM-SHUDIntruder. Intruder alert!

HAROUNHooray, Mali!

VOICE OF MALIYou can chop and changeYou can chop in ka-ra-teeYoucan chop suey butYou can’t chop me(I said)You can’t chop me.

KHATTAM-SHUDSwitch on the darkness!

HAROUNCome on now Haroun—It’s your turn now or never.

KHATTAM-SHUDThis is control.This is control.Kill all theintruders.Kill all the intruders.

HAROUNLet’s see what a Bite-a-Lite can do.(Brilliant light.Groaning and shrieking of Chupwalas.)Now if I just grab thatbrain-box.But how does it connect up?Like so?

BUTT (making strange noises)You must sing a-down-a-downAnd youcall him a-down-a—

HAROUNI’ve driven it mad.Let’s see…

BUTTLook, look! A mouse. Peace, peace!This piece of toastedcheese will do it.

HAROUNThird time lucky, I hope.

BUTTSo what took you so long.Let’s go. Va-va-va-voom! Away wezoom!

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54 55

My princess, my love—Where are you? Are you still alive?

KHATTUM-SHUDListen a moment.You’ll soon hear where yourgirlfriend Batcheat waits.

BATCHEATOooh I’m talking ‘bout my BoloAnd I ain’t got time fornothin’ else.

RASHIDI’m sure I know that songBut the words seem different.

BATCHEATLemme tell you ‘bout a boy I know,He’s my Bolo and Ilove him so.

BOLOShe sings? My Batcheat sings?Then hush my friends andhearken to her song.

BATCHEAT (appearing at a window in a tower)He won’t play polo,Hecan’t fly solo,Oo-wee but I love him true.Our love will gro-lo,I’llnever let him go-lo—Got those waiting for my Bolo blues.

BOLOBeautiful. That’s so beautiful.

BATCHEATHis name aint Rollo,His voice aint low-lo,Uh-HUH!But Ilove him fine,So stop the show-lo,

Pay me what you owe-lo.I’m gonna make that BoloMineYESSIR!I’mgonna make that Bolo— aaggh, mmfff—

Khattam-Shud appears at the window, his hand over Batcheat’smouth.

KHATTAM-SHUDPrince Bolo, General Kitab,I have heard your idleboastsBut before I let anyone lay hands on meI shall sew up thelips of the Princess BatcheatAnd put a stop to this racket forgoodBy sacrificing her to the colossus of Bezaban.I have the needlehere!I have the thread.

PRINCE BOLOSomeone help me. Help save the Princess Batcheat!

CHORUS (looking at their fingernails)Well…

BATCHEAT (breaking free for a moment)I’m gonna MAKE THATBMFFF!!!

BOLOIs that a voice or what is it?

RASHIDIt must be a what-is-itFor it isn’t a voice.

Rumbling noise in distance.

KHATTAM-SHUDMaybe this staple-gun will do the trick!

HAROUNThey’ll kill us if we try to escape.We’ve only got oneminute left of the Bite-a-Lite.

IFFLook in your right pocket.

HAROUNWhat? Wow! I’d forgotten.There’s still some wishwaterleft.

IFFGo ahead. Wish us out of this messIf you think you canconcentrate.

HAROUNMaybe this time I can do better than that.

BUTT AND IFFRememberThe harder you wishThe better it willwork.Your heart’s desireWill be as good as yours.

HAROUNI wish— what will I wish?My wishes fly before meLike aschool of flying fish.I wish this moon to turnI wish this moon toturn in such a wayTodayRight nowSo that the sun will shineShine onthe Dark ShipShine on the dark Chupwalas one by oneShine on, ohsunShine on the bad

Shine on the goodShine on the world, the work ofKhattam-ShudShine on the poisoned seaShine on my friends and shineon me.I wish— this is what I wish.My wishes fly before meLike aschool of flying fish.I wish the sun to riseShine on the dreadChupwalas with their negative eyesShine on the Dark Ship on thepoisoned seaShine on my mother wherever she beShine on my friends,shine on my dad, and shine on me.

The sun rises and the Dark Ship is destroyed.

[2|5] Scene 5 Meanwhile, at the Citadel of ChupCHORUSWar! War!War! War!War between the lands of Chup and Gup!War between thelands of Gup and Chup!A battle to the death!A battle to the dyingbreath!A struggle for the triumph of the forces of the good!Astruggle for the overthrow ofKhattam-Shud!

Battle music.

PRINCE BOLOWhere are you, Khattam-Shud?Come on out.Your army hasbeen defeatedOn the plains of Bat-Mat-KaroAnd BatcheatMy goldengirl

56 57

Or you’ll burst like a stuck balloonI can heartily recommendyouMy talented son, Haroun, Haroun—You’re a tonic!You’re bionic!Mytalented son, Haroun.

CHORUSHats off to you, Haroun.Hats off to you, Haroun.You’re aheck of a chapIn a heck of a spot.Hats off to you, Haroun,Haroun.

PRINCESS BATCHEATWhen they drag you off and gag youAnd they bindyour every joint

CHORUSStop!

PRINCESS BATCHEATIn a Princess Rescue StoryWhich seems to havelost its point,

CHORUSStop!

PRINCESS BATCHEATWhen you suffer a dread enforcementAnd you feelyou’re about to swoonI can offer a warm endorsem*ntOf my punctualfriend Haroun, Haroun—

CHORUSStop!

PRINCESS BATCHEATI was frantic!

You’re romantic!My punctual friend Haroun.

CHORUSHats off to you, Haroun.Hats off to you, Haroun.

BUTT, IFF, AND THE KINGFor that quasi-impossible missionFor thatdeucedly difficult questFor his verve and vim and visionFor his zipand his zeal and his zestFrom the top-knot to the toenailFrompig-tail to pantaloonWe can offer a testimonialFor our capablefriend Haroun, Haroun—Your exampleHas been ample,Our capable friendHaroun.

CHORUSHats off to you, Haroun.Hats off to you, Haroun.You’re aheck of a chapIn a heck of a spot.Hats off to you, Haroun,Haroun.Haroun!Haroun!Hats off to you, Haroun.

THE KINGHaroun Khalifa,To honour you for the serviceYou havedone to the peoples of KahaniAnd to the Ocean of the Streams ofStoryWe grant you the right to ask of us

CHORUSThat sounds like an earthquake!

Sun rises on Citadel of Chup. Enter Haroun with Iff, flying onButt.

HAROUNIt’s a Princess Rescue Story.It’s a deed of derringdo.It’s a case of death or glory—A prioriIt’s my cue.

CHORUSIt’s a well-known categoryIt’s a tale that’s tried andtrue.It’s a Princess Rescue StoryA prioriIt’s our cue.

They rescue Princess before Citadel collapses, taking Cultmasterand Idol with it.

[2|6] Scene 6 At the Door of P2C2E HouseHAROUNThey told me toreport hereAnd they sounded crossMaybe I’m in trouble.Knockknock.

VOICEWho’s there?

HAROUNHaroun.

VOICEHaroun who?

HAROUNHaroun who was told to report here.

VOICECome in, little Haroun.Come in and get a big surprise.

HAROUNIs it a nice surpriseOr a nasty one?

VOICEIt’s a surprise surprise.It’s a

The door opens. Light floods the stage.

CHORUSParty! It’s a party!Hats off to you, Haroun.Hats off toyou, Haroun.You’re a heck of a chapIn a heck of a spot.Hats off toyou, Haroun, HarounHaroun!Haroun!Hats off to you, Haroun.

RASHIDWhen you’ve lost your inspirationAnd you’ve storyteller’sblockAnd you’re somewhere between a hard placeAnd the proverbialrockWhen you need a chap to befriend you

58 59

Whatever favour you desireAnd we promise to grant it if wecan.

RASHIDWell, Haroun, Any ideas?

HAROUNIt’s no use asking for anythingFor what I reallywantNobody here can give me.

THE KINGI think we can give you what you want.

HAROUNAnd what would that be?

THE KINGAfter a great adventureEveryone wants a happyending.

HAROUNA happy ending, yes.But not only for me.I come from a sadcityFrom the sad city of Alifbay.I should like a happy endingNotjust for my adventureBut for the whole sad city, too.

THE KINGHaroun, HarounHappy endings comeBut not till the end ofthe story.I think—ahem—That you and your father hereHave forgottensomething.

HAROUNNow, what could that be?

RASHIDOh my goodness!Snooty Buttoo!It had quite gone out of mymind.Come, Haroun, there is no time to lose.

[2|7] Scene 7 Mr. Buttoo’s RallyCHEERLEADERSVote ButtooVoteButtooWho’s the one for you?Not just one, Buttoo!

MR. BUTTOOAll the people will vote for meWhether they like orno—The muddy peasant with his ruddy wife,The butcher with hisbloody knife,The nice boy on the way to school,The ice boy with hisice-chopping tool,The master of the silver band,The lowlycrematorium hand —All the people will vote for meSeveral times in aday.None of them will get awayUntil they vote for me!

CHEERLEADERSVote vote voteFor you know who.Vote Buttoo.VoteButtoo.Vote Buttoo, or else!

BUTTOO (aside to Rashid)And you, Mr. Rashid,

GEN

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You’re on now,And you’d better be good, or else...

TWO MEN IN MUSTACHIOSOr else out comes that tongue from yourlying throat.

BUTTOO AND TWO MENWhat a pityWhat a horrible pityWhat a horriblepity that would be.

RASHIDLadies and gentlemenThe great Shah of BlahThe Ocean ofNotions himself —That is, myself —Is about to tell you a storyAndthe name of the story I am going to tell isHaroun and the Sea ofStories.

CHORUSTell us that story!Tell us that story!

HAROUN (aside)So you didn’t forget...You’re back on line.

RASHIDThere was once a young boyIn the sad city of AlifbayWherethe smoke of the sadness poured awayPoured awayFrom all the sadnessfactories...

Continues telling story in dumbshow.

BUTTOOI don’t like the sound of this.

I don’t like the sense of this.I don’t like the mood of this.Idon’t like the tense of this.

CHORUS (listening to Rashid)No-o-o-o.

BUTTOOI don’t like the drift of this—Something slipping awayfrom me.I don’t like the shift of this—Someone calling it a day forme.

CHORUSAh-a-a-ah! No-o-o!

BUTTOOI want the glory andI want it whole,I want a storylineIcan control.ControlControlI can control!I want a storylineI cancontrol!

MEMBER OF CHORUSMister ButtooKhattam-Shud!

CHORUSMister ButtooKhattam-Shud.

BUTTOOAlright everyone—That’s enough story-telling.Now everyonego down to the polling-station

And vote for me!Vote for me!

CHORUSNo no no.We will not vote for you.We will not speak byrote for you.We will not trail a coat for youOr push out the boatfor youAny more.

BUTTOOHow can this be?

CHORUSBecause we are free—Or if not yet we shall be soonThanksto the efforts of Haroun.We shall be free of you for good.SnootyButtoo is Khattam-Shud.

They chase him away.

[2|8] Scene 8  Back HomeRASHIDHere we are, son,Back here againin Alifbay.I wonder what we’ll find.Hallo? Anyone there?

HAROUNMiss Oneeta, Miss Oneeta.

MRS. SENGUPTAO too fine!You are back. You are back.Whatcelebrations we will have,

What sweets there will be to eat!

HAROUNWhy, what is there to celebrate?

MRS. SENGUPTAWell now, for meI have really said goodbye to Mr.Sengupta.I’m finally and truly empoweredAnd I am free as a bee.Andas for you...You know...Someone else has said goodbye to Mr.Sengupta too.

RASHIDSoraya! My dear wife!

SORAYAI know, I made a mistake.I went—I don’t deny.I acted likea foolOr worseAnd with that sniveling, drivellingMingy,stingyMeasly, weaselly clerk.But now he’s done forDone forgood.

HAROUNKhattam-Shud.

SORAYAThat is right, Haroun, my son.Mr. Sengupta isKhattam-Shud.

RASHIDWelcome home SorayaWelcomeWelcome home.

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[2|9] Scene 9 Haroun Wakes in His Bedroom at DawnSORAYA’SVOICEZembla, Zenda, XanaduAll our dream worlds may come trueMaycome trueThey may come trueAll our dream worlds may come true.

HAROUNWhere am I? Who was that?OhThat was my mother singing.Imust be home after all.I was afraid it was all a dream.(Picks uptoy Hoopoe.)And my friend, my friend the Hoopoe,So small now youcan fit in my hand.Please understandMy friendIt’s good to knowYouwill be here if I should need you.You’ll be ready to go.But I’vehad enough adventures for a while.

HOOPOE’S VOICEBut but but...No problem.

SORAYA’S VOICEFairy lands are fearsome tooFearsome tooFearsometooFairy lands are fearsome too.

All the clocks in the house begin to strike six.

HAROUNWhat’s all this?I have a new clockNew clothes andpresents.Of course, it must be my birthday.Time is on the moveagain.

RASHID AND SORAYAAs I wander far from viewRead and bring me hometo youHomeHomeBring me, bring me home to you.

HAROUNEverything rhymes.Everything chimes.Yes, time is on themove again!

Finis

A R T I S T S

NIN

A RO

BERT

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Charles Wuorinen , one of the world’s great composers, was aninfluential presence over the course of a lifetime in music. Hisportfolio included three operas, nine symphonies, and twentyconcertos, in addition to works in almost every instrumental andvocal genre. He was recognized with the Pulitzer Prize in Music anda MacArthur Fellowship, among many other awards and honors.

At the time of his death in March 2020, Wuorinen had completed279 compos