“No! I told you I hate P.E.!”
It has been a little over a month since rehearsals began for Five Teachers, One Student.
I was working smoothly with the five actors playing the teachers.
The only first-grader who suddenly appears at a rural elementary school was my role this time.
Each teacher, burdened with private worries, flounders while dealing with the new pupil.
As the play progresses and the teachers bump through incidents with the student “Cheon-ho,” their individual circumstances are resolved one by one.
“Hey, Teacher Kang, what have you done to our Cheon-ho?”
“…I swear I did absolutely nothing.”
“Nothing? Then why is the boy fine with every other subject yet throws such a fit against P.E.?”
Choi I-seop, who had played Young-su’s father in House on the Roof, now takes the part of the principal.
Disguised to look older, his deft delivery is met with the lively rebuttal of a comparatively young actor.
“I’m honestly being framed, Principal!”
“A first-grader who should love racing around refuses P.E. altogether!”
As he presses a hand to his brow, three other teachers hurry in behind him.
“This is no ordinary case.”
“In all my years in education I’ve never seen the like.”
“Next period is Korean; shall I quietly ask him then?”
“Good idea, Teacher Lee. We’ll entrust this grave matter to you.”
The principal’s solemn line ends the scene.
“Cut! Nice! Let’s stop here; for Act 2 we’ll take it easier.”
“Yes, sir!”
At Kang Yong-hwi’s energetic call, the actors caught their breath and scattered around the studio.
I trotted over to my bag and gulped the cool water Mother had packed so it would stay mildly chilled.
“Ahh.”
Because the pupil stands at the center of the story, my line count was substantial.
Although all six characters are leads, the cast is slim: only one extra beyond the “five teachers and one student.”
With a far bigger share than in House on the Roof, I was practicing in high spirits.
Kang Yong-hwi’s writing talent really deserves praise. His directing goes without saying.
“Director Kang, about this part…”
“Yeah? Which page?”
Even during breaks he never rested; actors, both our troupe members and those brought in from another company, constantly sought him with the script.
I hopped onto my personal metal chair, legs swinging. A bit more rest, then I’d go listen to what they were discussing; joining their talk always helped more than merely reading the pages.
Under the bright rehearsal lights my eyes felt dazzled. Closing them for a moment should be fine.
I shut my lids, listening to the murmur of the room when someone approached.
“Siwoo.”
“Mm?”
Opening my eyes, I saw Director Kang himself; I’d thought he was talking over there. Was there something he wanted?
“Yes, Direc… ‘Emotion!’”
“You speak so well but always call me ‘Emotion!’” he laughed, mimicking my childlike mispronunciation of “director” in Korean.
“Heh-heh, sounds fun.”
“Well, anyway. Did you go to that reading class today?”
“Yep, and it was pretty good.”
“Oh? Which book did you read?”
“The Old Man with the Lump!”
“Ah, a folktale. Aren’t you bored with such stories? You breeze through tough scripts, so wouldn’t a fairy tale be too easy?”
“Uh-uh, it was interesting.”
I shook my head. Korean oral folklore is still new to me.
A standard good-triumphs-over-evil tale, yes, but the motifs were fresh. I’d always preferred dramas and films over children’s stories; Mother’s shelf held few of those. Even when she borrowed some, I liked the Shakespeare volumes I found among Uncle’s things better.
Yet listening today to how other kids reacted to the story was great fun. Had they just handed me a folktale to read alone I wouldn’t have found it half so engaging.
“Hearing the variety of answers from the same book was fascinating.”
“Was it? You certainly look happier than after kindergarten.”
“Much better.”
“Good.”
Spending all my time among adults, I sometimes forgot this body is still a child. I’ll live over ten years more in it and keep playing child roles. I need to understand how kids think.
“You don’t talk like you do here, right? If you speak too sharply the kids will be lost.”
“It’s fine.”
I moderate my speech there. Already the new actors were shocked when they first rehearsed with me:
“Siwoo, are you really six? My nephew’s entering first grade and isn’t like this at all!”
“Director! This boy’s too smart!”
The veterans just smiled and told them to get used to it. I considered acting less adult so newcomers wouldn’t flip out.
In that sense the reading class was useful. Unlike kindergarten, kids spoke their thoughts in turn, which helped.
It would be a worthwhile time. Mother, too, seemed relieved once she saw I liked it.
“Way better than kindergarten. I can hear what today’s kids think…”
“You are today’s kid, you know,” Kang sighed, shaking his head. “But considering your articles, I get it.”
“Hmm? You read them too?”
“Sure. Every actor’s talking about them. It’s hard to avoid.”
“Eheh.”
The interview with Reporter Lee was published yesterday, crisply written again.
Mother and Uncle were delighted and added it to the scrapbook.
“How does a kid spout lines like that? People are analyzing you to death.”
“Analyzing?”
Was there anything to analyze? I meant exactly what I said.
“Some claim you already shun the complacency money brings; others say you’re a born artist who avoids wealth, or that your family must be rich since you aren’t money-driven. So, are you?”
“Uh… I doubt it.”
Probably not rich. Dad’s chicken shop just improved a bit after the World Cup.
“That’s amazing.”
“Comments call you both ‘adorable’ and ‘little old man’. Can those coexist?”
“Better that than being scolded for not acting like a kid.”
Seeing his surprise at my bluntness, I quickly shifted topics.
“It’s nothing. Let’s focus on this show, okay?”
I shrugged and smiled genuinely. You can’t stop baseless criticism; better to rehearse one more scene.
Gulp.
Inside a quiet meeting room at Bisangcheolddo 777.
Five people sat around the long table. Han Yu-ju and Cha Il-nam kept swallowing dryly while they watched Han Siwoo’s face.
Yesterday Yu-ju had at last finished the script of The Cactus Flower Has Bloomed.
She instantly mailed it to Cha Il-nam, who hurried to send it to Kim Sang-cheol, who printed it for Siwoo.
Eager, Siwoo had begun reading as soon as the previous night’s performance ended, and now, still not done because of today’s matinee, he was silently turning the last pages.
Beside him sat guardian Uncle Ji Dong-uk and Kim Sang-cheol; opposite were Yu-ju and Cha.
It was Sunday, April 1. Monday had no performance of Five Teachers One Student, so they’d rushed over after today’s show hoping for an answer. Though the appointed time hadn’t arrived, they couldn’t simply wait and had come early. Both wore expressions tense yet confident.
Il-nam had devoured the script immediately; the deeper the story ran, the better it grew, until tears burst out of him in pajamas on his bed, alarming his wife.
How Yu-ju produced such work in so little time was unbelievable. Her talent exceeded what he’d known.
Still, anxiety followed: this tremendous script demanded superb acting, especially from the two child leads. He had prayed since last night; only Siwoo could handle the younger brother’s part.
The further it goes, the subtler the emotions.
The story’s psychological depth heightened toward the end. In a novel or comic that’s fine, but drama must be embodied by humans. Could this small boy truly grasp the character’s mind?
Flip.
Siwoo’s script grew thinner, evidence he neared the end. Yu-ju squeezed her eyes shut, unable to watch.
Tap.
At last Siwoo laid the script down and raised his head.
Kim and Cha stiffened at his expression.
Yu-ju cracked one eye and smiled.
A single tear dropped onto the last page of The Cactus Flower Has Bloomed—the most honest response of anyone who had read the script to its end.
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