Jack Gelber Ko's a Chinese Commie, Maybe

in castroland, an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation between one of mao's minions and the author of "the connection" indicates that the twain still aren't meeting

Standing at the window of my 18th-floor suite in a swank Havana hotel, I gaze at the empty six-lane sea-front highway below: With State Department approval and at the invitation of Commie Cuba, I had been attending the fourth annual festival of Latin-American theater. Red China's representative, Wo Shue, was due any moment. Why did he request to interview me?

A white blur on the blue horizon catches my eye. Ah, our American ship on vigilant embargo duty, choking off trade with Commie Cuba----

Suddenly a noise behind----

A Chinese Commie girl coughs politely. She is the spitting image of Little Orphan Annie. How can that be? It is so. Her curly black hair is a perfect setting for her moon-face, blanked-out eyes and short teeth.

"Come right in!" I give her the boisterous American glad hand.

"Wo Shue will be here in minute," Oriental Annie says.

I answer in Mandarin Chinese, "Good." I can say six phrases in Mandarin Chinese, courtesy of a United Nations language course. (Many years ago I worked as a mimeograph operator in the second sub-basement of the United Nations, where I partook of the language course until my instructor left to open a Chinese restaurant.)

Wo Shue appears at the doorway. His impassive face flashes a smile as he blurts out his heathen Chinese greeting.

I reply with another of my Chinese expressions, which delights this yellow son of a banker turned fanatic.

"Wo Shue greets you on behalf of the Chinese people," Oriental Annie hisses. "He say you friend. In conference room Wo Shue speak out against the aggressions of the American Imperialist Pigs. Wo Shue not mean you. People of China love people of United States."

I mutter, "I come to Cuba to hear this crap!" Before the girl can translate, I offer them a seat, but Wo Shue will not sit until I do. We play a little game of Who will sit first? I lose.

The hotel door is left open, reminiscent of dormitory life. Wo Shue has traveled to the festival at great expense from Peking with a translator (not the girl, but a boy fanatic who is ill and forced to luxuriate in bed with the door open.)

I look at Wo Shue and wonder if I am playing Who will speak first? Ostensibly, I have come to see the festival, too. The truth is that I don't give a damn about the conference but am immensely curious about Cuba. (More on Cuba in my next action-packed episode.)

"I welcome Wo Shue." I hear myself speaking first, thereby losing my second encounter with this wily man. "I welcome Wo Shue on behalf of room 1817 of the Havana Riviera Hotel."

Wo Shue barks an order to the girl to hand me a large envelope. Inside are production photographs of a dozen shows. Guess who is masterfully disguised in every photo? None other than the chief of the Peking Youth Theater himself, Wo Shue.

"Very good," I say with yet another of my Chinese phrases. Wo Shue erupts with gales of laughter, (continued on page 235)Jack Gelber(continued from 131) followed by abrupt silence. I look over the photos. None of the actors looks the least bit Oriental, which accounts for the translator looking like Little Orphan Annie. The sets and costumes are exact duplicates of Western designs. I can almost, but not quite, identify the plays.

"Do you know Oney?" Wo Shue asks through the girl.

"Oney what?" I can see both of them have been watching my every move.

Wo Shue attempts English, "Oney. Oney. Oney."

I rack brain cell after brain cell. What could they be talking about? "No, I don't know what you are talking about." Such an early defeat! How could I have let down so quickly?

"Nighttime journey," Oriental Annie explains.

Nothing will help. I happen to glance down. Of course! I am all smiles as I see the production still of Long Day's Journey into Night.Why can't these people speak American?

Getting even, I say, "I have never met him. I know this may come as a shock, but Mr. O'Neill is dead."

"Very sorry to hear." The girl and Wo Shue look puzzled.

I restrain my instinct to put them on, and offer them coffee. Wo Shue ruefully accepts. He seems to be fidgety, I ring room service and while stoically waiting for them to reply, I call out a pleasantry to Wo Shue: "The modern Chinese theater looks interesting."

Wo Shue sits staring ahead into space until the very last word of the translation and then he explodes. His lace is fierce as a torrent of words pours out of his mouth. He pounds his list into his palm, driving home one point after another.

Ten minutes later I hear the girl tell me that Wo Shue wants me to explain the structure of the American theater. What themes are typical? What plays are typical?

I sag down in my seat, outflanked by the Oriental tactician. What, indeed, are the typical themes? What are the typical plays? I look up. The silent Wo Shue sits with his hands loosely clasped on his lap, the suggestion of a smile playing on his lips and an insolent twinkle in his eyes.

"íDigame! íDigame!" I hear room service finally responding from the limply held receiver. Grateful for the break in his attack, I take a deep breath and order coffee for us. Am I going to let this Commie outmaneuver me? No siree, I'm not letting my country down. I'm not going to let them sap my vital heritage (Bessarabian, as far as I can determine).

I tell him in plain American about Broadway, off-Broadway, off-off-Broadway, Lincoln Center, Actors Studio, regional repertory, foundation-supported theater, university theater, church theater, community theater, showcase theater and foreign-language theater.

The waiter appears. His head is buried in a book as he pushes in an elegant tea-cart with our coffee. I am stunned. Never before has the service been as quick. Then I realize that I have shot my mouth off for a quarter of an hour. Did I give away anything of strategic importance? Perhaps a slip of the tongue while discussing the Ford Foundation? It was enough to shake up any stalwart American.

The waiter slides the bill toward me while continuing to read. Everyone in Cuba reads. Day and night, everywhere you go, people are reading. This fellow seems to be reading a scientific journal concerned with the processing of steel. "Is there any steel manufactured in Cuba?" I ask in amazement. Without looking up, he shrugs indifferently.

My hands are in my pockets searching for a tip. Tipping in Cuba is more of a hassle than in New York. It is somewhat counterrevolutionary to subscribe to tipping. Gusanos(worms) are those who wish to return to pre-Castro Cuba: pimping, prostitution, sex movies, live demonstrations (Fans of Superman, sometimes called Uncle Sam, will be happy to hear that he retired as undefeated champion), gambling and tipping.

By the time I figure out that I had best play the oafish American offering an overgenerous tip, the waiter has disappeared.

"Cigarette?" Little Orphan Annie proffers a metal container with what appears to be a phoenix painted on the side.

"No, thank you." I smile.

"They are superior to American cigarettes!" Little Annie spits out.

"I am not a cigarette smoker." I see Wo Shue slump down in a position of defeat. I add, "I smoke cigars." I show him one of my Larrañaga cinco vegas.

He seems singularly unimpressed. Wo Shue is 50 years old and does not look over 30. Every morning and evening he performs a show-stopping exercise routine on the hotel terrace. Standing erect, Wo Shue begins to move as if he were in an underwater ballet. His hands and feet move sinuously, completing some preordained ritual of skillful balancing and great strength. Without pause he reverses every forward movement until he returns to his original position. This routine gets a round of applause every time. The spectators receive, in return, a small bow.

Wo Shue attacks. What about this so-called musical comedy? Can it really be compared with the Peking Opera? What are the social themes of the new playwrights? Some names, please. What were the plays that won awards last year?

"Virginia Woolf!" I blurt out.

"Who is Virginia Woolf?" Oriental Annie asks as if her job depended on it.

"No, no. She isn't one of the characters. She's an English author." I am not making sense to them. "The play is called Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"

Wo Shue folds his hands together. Now we are getting somewhere. Something significant is going to come of this.

"It was written by Edward Albee," I explain and then clam up. This man is trying to pump me for information!

Wo Shue nods and Little Orphan Annie produces from a genuine plastic case two books and a small envelope. (Bribery, yet.) Ceremoniously, Wo Shue presents me with the gifts. One book is a collection of short stories by the minister of culture and the other is a young playwright's work. The envelope contains a white silk scarf. I can visualize being carted off to jail by the customs officials.

In a panic to reciprocate, I give Wo Shue one of my plays, The Connection, which coincidentally has a dedication to my wife in Chinese characters.

Wo Shue is once again thrown into a fit of laughter. It is the conspiratorial type of laugh which scares the hell out of me. I take it that he thinks I'm on his side just because I can say six things in Chinese and have dedicated one of my plays with Chinese characters. Perhaps I ought to let him think so and then he'll lay off this Virginia Woolf business.

Such is not my fate. Wo Shue stops laughing and asks, "Who is Virginia Woolf?"

"I told you already." I feel my palms moistening. "She's an English novelist. Don't you believe me?" The yellow peril has me on the run. "Actually, the play is about an older university professor and his wife who get a late-night call from a younger professor and his wife."

Wo Shue interrupts. "College years of formation."

"No, no. It isn't a play about the formative years in college. You see, the older couple have made up this child----"

Little Orphan Annie smiles. "Oh, they are scientists. We, too, are on the way to creating life."

"No, no." I am reeling under their blows. "You see, the older professor's wife keeps nagging him to become head of the department."

"Aaaah! System prevent promotion," Wo Shue states triumphantly.

I'm down, dejected, almost defeated. "Look," I admit, "I don't pretend to know everything that goes on on Broadway. The Great White Way is just as much a mystery to me."

Wo Shue lets out a gasp when he hears the translation. He begins to mumble to himself and smile understandingly.

"What's he saying? What's he saying?" I ask the girl.

"He just repeat phrase 'Great White Way,' " Annie says.

I can see I've got him worried and strength is creeping back into my red-blooded veins. "Tell Wo Shue that I was a little hesitant before about telling him about Virginia Woolf. Actually, she's the scourge of the Great White Way."

My cigar had gone out. I search for a light while giving Wo Shue the big put-on. "You are a very clever man," I spread it thick. "No wonder the Chinese Government sent you all this way. What else do you want to know?"

Wo Shue springs to attention and from the folds of his severe black frock coat produces a Made in China (always written that way) cigarette lighter that could pass for a Ronson. It doesn't work. Once, twice, three times he presses the plunger without results. He shakes his head in disbelief. He shakes the lighter while spewing out some ancient incantation. Still, it will not work.

He finds his pocketknife, which has a small screwdriver, and proceeds to break down the entire lighter and reassemble it. It works! Wo Shue insists I keep it.

"What about your work?" Oriental Annie translates.

"What about it?" I fend off answering.

"What is the theme of this play?" Wo Shue points to the copy of The Connection.

I give him a pained expression usually reserved for interviewers. "It's about drug addicts."

A light bulb appears over Wo Shue's head. He begins speaking rapidly again, spraying sibilants at me. "You make honorable effort to expose imperialist effort to enslave American people. Go on, please."

"No, no!" I am losing my temper. "The Government has nothing to do with my play."

Wo Shue smiles. "What style? Like Oney?"

"No, not like O'Neill! Like me!" He had better watch his step. I feel violence coming on.

"Typical American!" Wo Shue accuses me with his finger. "Venerate originality. No good. Chinese people not need to be original. Can concentrate on meaning. That's why we will win over the paper tiger."

I bellow, "You Chinks are a bunch of racists!"

Wo Shue patiently explains, "You misunderstand. No, we don't promote racial prejudice. What about the American South?"

"What about your Chou En-lai running around the world putting down the white imperialists?" I set my jaw and am on the tips of my toes. Just let him say one more thing.

Instead, Little Orphan Annie informs me that Wo Shue has an appointment to discuss African theater with the African delegate. "Thank you," she says once. "Thank you," she says twice. "Thank you," and they are gone.

I swing at where Wo Shue would have stood. It would have been a haymaker to the head--a KO, maybe.