ACTION 1
Small fires have already been lit in the streets of Tananarivi. Some by the little street dwellers, to keep warm, others to get the charcoal going for the morning drink that will cheat the hunger of the poor. 5.30 am. Life in the city has already begun. Look at the gusto with which the little eight-year-old loads the water beeton on his back! The conductor is pulling hard on the saree and struggling to quickly move the mass of furniture that has been loaded overnight. He, as usual, has taken on the role of both driver and underling. The expected wage is 5,000 Ariari, 1.5 euros. That’s because the lady of the salon is well-off. “My people shed their blood to live,” thinks young Tahiri as he walks briskly to work. “I must do the same. Enough is enough. I have to have a family too. Poor, perhaps, but God willing, as he has for all these people like me. For all the poor people of the world.
ACT 2
The knife of the meat machine is jammed and the customer is waiting to get the meat. Tahiri with great care has removed the protective part of the machine and is cleaning it with his hand deep inside. But the motor suddenly starts up… In a split second, his right hand is gone. Blood, pain, mental despair, crying, darkness. Everything around him now seems to have faded away.
ACT 3
In the operating bed you hear only one rattle – of pain. The mind is gone. Dreams in an instant have turned to dust. He is alone. In the daze of sedation, pain and despair. What he was building in the morning is now shattered. His moist eyes make out a black figure walking up and down the corridor. The walk is mechanical. He stumbles forward to the door of the operating room for a moment. He leaves, he comes. But who pays attention. The pain comes first and precedes. Quickly Tahiri automatically closes his eyes as the pain ruthlessly skewers his body and heart.
ACTION 4
Now he has just recovered from the sedation, but not from the pain. In his sobs his moist eyes suddenly blackened; the black figure. Now closer than ever before. The black-clad stranger’s hand is glued to his forehead. “Don’t cry. You’ll be all right,” he can be heard saying softly to him with as much sweetness and encouragement as possible. Through the pain and wonderment, the young man’s voice is slowly heard asking:
“Who are you?”
ACT 5
At home now. It’s been almost two months. She’s still in pain, but now she has hope. The black figure near him again; he is an Orthodox priest. His best friend now. He’s starting to sober up now. – Will you soon forget me? asks the priest. – Never, answers Tahiri. I don’t forget your words either. – I think one day we’ll pray together. – I’d like that very much. But the Catholics don’t like you. – But I love them. I’m not here to steal, but to give. It’s a question of what you want. I’ve told you everything about God. You want to pray with me? – It’s very beautiful and I love it. But the Catholics support me financially. I’m a Catholic. – I told you, I don’t cheat. I just give. God has it, son. – I can’t forget how close you’ve been to me all this time. And you’re still here for me. I don’t forget you. – When you become Orthodox, it will be my greatest joy. The young man nods his head in affirmation. Their left hands now joined in one. The sun lets its last red rays fall upon them, gracefully playing its wonderful game, which with great art delineates their chromatic difference, and leaves the one and only sub-purple colour to reign on the two well-clamped limbs, and obliterate the difference of one white from the other black. “Well, well, we are becoming the same,” says the priest. The young man looks him in the eye. The priest’s hand parted hastily. He can barely hold his own now blurred eyes. – I’m leaving, he says. I’ll be back soon. Don’t be afraid.
ACTION ESCAPE
The guardian angel of the city is already spreading his purple and yellow salute over the protected state. Tananarivi on his knees, covered by his warm sock. In his hands he has taken his lefu to protect the children entrusted to him by Almighty God. He is lying on their headrest ready to defend them from every enemy. And to give comfort to these irredeemable poor creatures. Comfort in their pain and tears. Night falls. The two protagonists, alone with their eyes closed, are already praying to the same God. Separate from each other, but for each other. The curtain closes here. The “episode” of real life. “Scriptwriter” God. The protagonists are real, but respectfully anonymous. Wondrous indeed is the way God opens the curtain of life for every human being, in an episode that can be repeated every day, whether here in Tananarivi or in any corner of the earth. Where darkness and bitterness are transformed by God’s grace into light and joy.
Hieromonk Polycarp Mikragiananitis
