Interlocutor

One funny scene from Invasion by Jonas Hassem Khemiri performed last night out of doors in a Chelsea park under the looming Tobin Bridge carrying traffic high over the Mystic River.

A middle aged bearded man playing a middle aged bearded refugee has to say something to us, but his English is limited. He's lost, he's suffering, he's alone: so why does he get persistent phone calls from some young man who wants somebody (him/a girl?) to (pleading/ordering) reply.  The refugee has more to say, he needs a translator, who appears in professional business garb. He begins to speak to us, the audience, in a language that sounds vaguely Arabic, with the relief of someone who can finally say what he wants. Group by group, the translator renders his sentences into clear English.

What we, and he, become gradually aware of is the divergence of his meaning from hers. He becomes more and more relaxed, making references to opera and finally singing Mamma Mia from Abba; she produces suicide bomber testaments, finally statements praising martyrdom. His looks: progressively perplexed and scared. What new mystery has he to cope with here? We ask: how often do translators falsely attribute words or thoughts to those they are serving?

Between the speaker and spokesperson there's a special relationship. We can see this in the way clients keep urgently whispering in the ear of their lawyers, sometimes even taking the floor in urgent frustration. When you are speaking for me, I want you to get it right--to make the points exactly, to convey the significance fully, to be as powerful as I would be if I could speak the language. You are my voice, so fit me like a suit, like a suit of armor if need be.

The interlocutor, on his or her part, must on one hand grasp accurately what the speaker wants to say, but also know how to shape it appropriately and present it effectively for the audience. The idea can be summarized so; the gist is this; the listeners care about that. The message is subtly shaped by the translator into what I would say if I were you.

'If I were you', and yet I am you (for the purposes of the occasion), but really I'm not you. Like flipping of an optical illusion, I'm in and out of your shoes. Meanwhile, you are judging me against your self-perception: That's not right. I wouldn't say it that way. The tone is off.  Why would I ever use that strategy? You're like a distorting mirror; you make me look bizarre, stupid, not recognizable to myself.

The play moved down to the dock. Up and down the river on the Boston side opposite there were well-lit industrial or warehouse facilities reflected in the cool water. The play ended an account of this man seen martyring his hand over a stove flame. I'm still thinking about what that meant, indeed, what the play means. Clearly, it's about the way we think about others, especially foreigners, and particularly those from the Middle East.

Theater explores as few other forms do the mysteries of 2nd person encounters. Last night was a refresher.