By José Watanabe

Translated Margaret Carson

[Teresa Ralli, as Antigona. Photo, Courtesy of Grupo Cultural Yuyachkani]

IV



NARRATOR



The girl, more child than woman, sitting in a patio. . .

her despair borne so serenely.

Sister to the two dead soldiers, one honored with a burial while the other,

disgraced, has none,

she watches us pass from a distance. The guilt we feel inside,

people of Thebes,

is not caused by her gaze,

for no one, not even the wisest advisor, dared to defy

Creon’s decree

and that is what has damaged our soul.



What burns within your heart, Antigone?

Where does your resentment fly, young girl?

To Zeus, who unleashed all the pain

that exists in the world on your family

or to the king who now treats your brother so cruelly?



VIII

ANTIGONE



Oh gods, you could have created us as invisible beings, or from stone

needing no burial,

then why did you create us from matter that decomposes, of flesh

that cannot withstand the invisible forces of decay?



How shameful, how obscene

to die and not be buried, exposing

soft flesh and viscera to the eyes of the living. My brother suffers

such a punishment

and worse,

for he is food for wild beasts, vultures, and dogs to tear at.



Tall pines that watched me pass when I was a child,

can you see my brother? Was it the wind at sunrise that blew away the fine

dust

I used to cover his naked body ?

Will I have the courage again to fool the guards, now reinforced,

or should I resign myself that once autumn comes, his body

will be only bones and an oily stain on the ground?

[Teresa Ralli as Antígona. The only prop she uses is the chair. Photo courtesy of Grupo Cultural Yuyachkani]

X

NARRATOR



I¹ve seen Antigone, running cautiously from one column to another, from one

corner to another,

as if hiding from no one.



As she passes through the Boreas gate

her flowing white dress seems to move on its own, like a billowing sheet on

a clothesline.

I lost sight of her when she crossed the plain, but a thought

transfigured her face and magnified her beauty

as she made haste

under the midday sun.

ANTIGONE

Polynices, my brother, you must wonder how I found my way to you.

Arrogance undoes all men, and

the sentries believed that in broad daylight no one could be so daring.

And I thank the northern winds

that curl into whirling storms and sweep the hills, lifting columns of dust

that rise to the clouds.

I have come, hidden by a dust storm. I am covered with leaves and nettles,

but the wine in my urn is clean.



How cruelly they scraped away the dust

I poured on you the night before last. The worst of the elements

is your punishment

but I¹ve come to open the earth for you.



(A guard catches her by surprise)



I risked being caught, guard, but let me finish opening the earth

so that I can be a mother and shelter Polynices as Eteocles was sheltered.



They are brothers, guard, their bond unbreakable, with no dispute or

conflict between them.

Perhaps they are calling each other now.



In your heart you know

it is not good for one brother to be protected by the earth while the other

still wanders, a soul in torment looking at his own body in sadness or rage.



I want all the dead to have a funeral

and then,

after that,

forgetfulness.

I¹m caught in your snare, guard. My death begins.

Remember my name --

one day I¹ll be known as the sister who never forsook

her brother:

My name is Antigone

[Teresa Ralli as Creon in Antígona. Photo courtesy of Grupo Cultural Yuyachkani]

XI



CREON



My sister¹s womb bore you, and

love bonds you to Haemon, my son.

You are more family to me than most.



My soul burns with twice the pain and anger

It is just, therefore, that I be twice as severe with you.



My son Haemon wanders in a daze through corridors and rooms

knowing his bride is surely condemned.

For your doom was sealed once the decree

and the punishment were made public.



Still, you laugh, and this insolence is even worse than the burial,

for then you made fools of mere guards, and now you mock

and sneer at your king.



It is always easier to order the death

of one who commits a crime and feels proud of it.

Your laughter makes it a pleasure to sentence you.



But who else is laughing with you?

What accomplices are hiding at home, reveling in your audacity? Did Ismene,

your sister, also help you? Is she the other head of the two-headed serpent?





XX



NARRATOR



The dead in this story come to me

not so that I can speak of distant sorrows. They come to me

so vividly because they are my own sorrow:

I am the sister whose hands were tied by fear.



Antigone came into my home like a sudden, wild flash of light, and said:

³Ismene, your hands must help me bury the corpse of

our beloved brother,

I trust

that since you are nobly born

evil has not conquered you.²



Her words burned, but my spirit was like that of a small trapped animal.

I knew she was right, but I told her she was delirious,

that a mad idea

had possessed her.

It was fear, Antigone, because death was the penalty

we would pay for burying him.

Come sister, I begged you, let us ask the dead to forgive us

and obey the orders of those in power, the living.

But you reproached me. You said, ³Ismene, go seek the favor of the tyrant.

I will seek the grace of the gods,² and you went to the mound of our dead

brother.



(She unties a small bundle and reveals Polynices¹ death mask. As she

speaks, she pauses to pour the three libations.)



Antigone,

do you see the world down below?

The palace is as deeply silent as a mausoleum

A breathing corpse rules us, a tormented king

who quickly grows old.



Look, my sister:

this is our brother¹s face before the dogs

and vultures came, before rot set in.

These belated libations are from my small guilty soul.



From your exalted kingdom

ask Polynices to forgive me for not performing this task at the proper time.

I was frightened by the scowling face of the king. And tell him

how great my punishment is:

to remember your act every day -- a torture

and shame for me.