MISS ROSE: Sir?
MAN [rousing]: Ah.
MISS ROSE: I hope I am not intruding.
MAN: My dear Miss Rose, I’m sure you know that your entrances are always right on cue.
MISS ROSE: Then shall I go directly to the organ?
MAN: Directly and nimbly as a lark rises at daybreak.
[She crosses directly and elegantly to the organ, removing her gloves.]
MISS ROSE: And what would you like, Sir, in the way of background music to your opening remarks?
MAN: Hmm. Let me begin then, first, and then you favor us with a delicate accompaniment of whatever seems appropriate, Miss Rose.
[He wheels his chair downstage center and addresses the audience.]
MAN: —A man constructs about him his own world as the chambered nautilus constructs about it those delicately iridescent chambers which are its dwelling—its place of retreat and refuge.
[He pauses. Miss Rose begins to play suitably delicate and evanescent music.]
MAN: This dwelling is a product of his body, secreted from it and calcified about it for security from the hazards outside, the world external surrounding him near and far. Take a snail, the sort that restaurants of some class, and I have dined in such restaurants, oh, that I have, refer to as escargots. Well, even when sautéed in butter and Pernod, it pleases me not. I regard this creature, call it a snail or call it an escargot, even immersed in Pernod—I regard it as an insect, Miss Rose, and I do not eat insects—voluntarily, never!
[Miss Rose plays an arpeggio on the organ.]
MAN: Of course this may well be a deviation from the subject, which is how a man constructs about him, willy nilly, his own world and is then obliged to occupy it till he’s evicted by— [He smiles ruefully with a slight shrug] —the expiration of his lease on personal—existence . . . The chambered nautilus, when its lease on existence has expired, leaves behind it those shimmering, iridescent chambers in which it once existed, as lovely as if its existence had been devoted to acts of charity, to saintliness and prayer . . . But I, when my time’s run out, will leave behind me this single chamber now visible to you, ordered as best I’m able to my convenience and taste and protection, pro tem. —All is pro tem, and, my dear friends, if you get that into your ears, why, then, I say, your heads are not totally vacant.
[Miss Rose performs another arpeggio on the organ and then segues into something a bit more allegro.]
MAN: Now about me. Who am I? I am, God wot, a legitimate card-holding member of that union that’s devoted to the care an’ feedin’ of actors of any gender. I trust mine’s established as male. But more than that, what am I but the visionary projection of an old man’s junk-heap of erotobilia, and if there be not such a word in Webster’s Unabridged, then let us include it immediately in an appendix thereto. Why do I bother with ’im? Why does he bother with me? —Rhetorical is the question: an understandin’ exists, never to be profaned in a penthouse Jacuzzi, East coast or West. As for this room, well, I call it the Kirche. You’ll be introduced later to die Küche and die Kinder, not to mention the Lutheran Minister’s daughter, whose appearance, when she appears, will provide y’ with sufficient description of her, if not too much . . .
[Miss Rose performs another arpeggio on the organ and then segues into a number such as “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.”]
MAN: Now about this Kirche, this room to which I’m confined by my state of invalidism, is in a section of lower Manhattan which is known as SoHo. You’ve doubtless observed that each wall is of a different color. That one, blue: I face it when I’m feeling sentimental. The opposite wall is red: a primary color all right. And stimulating, eh? Yesss—sometimes to violence. Over there is a red light that turns on when the door of the Kirche is approached from without. The wall behind me is yellow as the center of a giant daisy, yes—
[A giant daisy begins unfolding upstage.]
MAN: —as the center of the giant daisy of day that enters through the window quite high in the wall back there and which dominates the room throughout all daytime hours, all seasons of the year. As the sun begins to fade over SoHo, the giant daisy of day is mysteriously retracted, yes, it disappears through that window by which it entered and is shortly replaced by a fragrant night-blooming vine . . . Now this transparent wall which I face, the wall which is called, in theater, the fourth wall—is white, plain white, unadulterated, yes, unbesmirched by whatever good-natured vulgarities may occur in the course of this, uh—performance. It represents, you see, the basic innocence of nature—not visible and therefore—invisible . . . SoHo? SoHo . . .
[Miss Rose has risen rather abruptly from the organ.]
MAN: Au ’voir, Miss Rose, à bientôt— Miss Rose . . .
[She exits hastily but with elegance sustained. The man begins to grin, slowly, connivingly at the audience; and lascivious as the accompanying action may be, the grin is engaging. —Slowly he unclasps the brass-studded wide belt of his black leather pants. Then abruptly he whips the belt off and tosses it to the floor. His grin is replaced by a conspiratorial chuckle and wink.]
MAN: SoHo. So! Ho! [He sings as he starts to unzip his fly.] Oh, blow ye winds, high ho, a-roving I will go! I’m off to my love with a boxing glove ten thousand miles away . . . Okay—a little bit more. And if you’re not myopic, you’ll observe the top of my blond pubic hair, ah, yes. I’m at least pubescent. Now what? All the way, exposin’ me privates? Shame! I say shame without shame. This show is about as far out as the lingering bit of propriety in my nature will permit it to go. You’ll see more of me later, but before then allow me the privilege, pleasure, and pride of presenting to ye my wife, a lady of the Protestant persuasion, in fact no more and no less than the daughter of the Lutheran Minister of the island known as Staten!
[The man inclines his head with an engaging grin as the light dims on him in the Kirche. The three walls he described in his opening monologue all resemble huge Venetian blinds. The upstage Yellow and stage left Red Blinds flip sides to become flat black. The Blue Blind opens to reveal a dilapidated stove and chair, then it flies up as the lights come up on the Küche. The wife is discovered leaning over the stove. She is probably older than the man, and not so carefully preserved. She is inclined to slatternly ways of dress and behavior, and a certain roguery is apparent in her eyes and manner of speech. There are three knocks at the door.]
WIFE: Who’s knocking? [There is no answer. The knocks are repeated.] Maybe die rent man. Himself in die Kirche, lately he doesn’t slip under die door the rent money as regular as he used to, which has provoked some strain of relations wit’ die collector of it.
[A tall and very dour-looking man all in black, bearing a Bible and an umbrella, enters.]
WIFE: Oh, mein Papa! —Die Lut’eran Minister of the Island of Staten. Oh, mein Papa! To me you vas so vunderbar, etc. [She sings a bar or two of the Eddie Fisher oldie, “Wunderbar.”]
[The Lutheran Minister is not pleased and he expresses his displeasure.]
WIFE: Ja! Die vedder affecks die voice-box, but setzen zie doon, mein Papa. How is things at die first, last, and only Lutheran Church on the Island of Staten? [There is no answer.] —Aw, bad as that! —Tch, tch. Who would’ve thought so unless he’d attended a service and stayed through die sermon, die offertory, and die collection. Well, here ye be where I never expected to see ye, under the roof of a Catholic household. Well. You’re looking wonderful, Papa, I mean not much better or worse. How is attendance at the Lutheran Church on Sundays, overcrowded or empty? [There is no response.] Ja, Ja, I suspected. Sometimes I get intuitions. And the organist, you remember the talented organist, Papa, that led the choir before the choir disassembled, Fräulein Haussmitzenschlogger? Did I pernounce it correckly? Well, gossip travels fast, and a rumor has reached my ears and shattered my eardrums. Papa, is it true, Papa, that Fräulein Haussmitzenschlogger has took up residence in the rectory and that she move
d in the night that Mama moved out and the two of you’s livin’ high on the hog there on Mama’s accidental—bequest—without no formalities such as a ceremony with license? Huh, Papa? Well, a fairytale romance like that, Papa, it touches me too deep for expression of a nature suitable to a Catholic household, this close to the Kirche of Himself. However, this I will say. If ever two human creatures deserved each other on earth it’s you and Miss Haussmitzenschlogger. I mean something is better than nothing, and Haussmitzenschlogger is something. Oh, she’s got her a few geriatric problems, a wood leg and a glass eye, but is otherwise well-preserved, ain’t she? To look on the bright side of things at the Lutheran Church in Staten? Ja. And she knocked out a good hymn on the organ when I last heard her knock one out of the ballpark. Make yourself comfortable, Papa. [There is no response or motion.] I’d offer you to some coffee except I got to preserve it all for myself. But I tell you what. You finish up this cup ’n’ I’ll pour out a fresh one for me.
[The wife turns to the stove. The Minister hits her over the head with his umbrella. Invisible canaries sing as she turns slowly and dizzily about. A sound effect has amplified the blow.]
WIFE: —I don’t know why I got this sudden dizzy sensation in mein Kopf. I got to set down till I recover from this little dizzy spell, Papa. —Lemme set your umbrella in a corner till it drips dry, while you do the honors mit die coffee. PAPA, LOOK THERE BEHIND YOU, QVICK!
[She raises the umbrella, preparing to return the clout, but he turns back just in time to stop her with a stare.]
WIFE: Well, Papa. —What a nice, long conversation we’re having! —About Miss Haussmitzenschlogger, in my opinion you got you a good thing there. She maybe don’t take the cake in the beauty contest department but Dame Gossip tells me she giffs wonderful head between hymns—while you’re preachin’ a sermon. I would offer you a cruller except I got to keep my energy up with all the crullers remaining in the oven. —You want to look in the oven? Why don’t you look at the crullers in the oven?
[She raises the umbrella again, taking several practice swings, but he remains standing and silent.]
WIFE: —Papa, remember Mama? It breaks my heart to think how she jumped over the rail of the Staten Island Ferry. Now how did she do that, a woman that weighed 290 pounds on the hoof jumps over the rail of the ferry light as a flea? Poor Mama, she wasn’t no beauty to win a contest in Atlantic, die boardwalk, you know, but she had zwei Augen, Ja, two eyes in her head and two legs, which is more than you could of said anybody could claim for die Fräulein Hausmitzenschlogger. Well, love is a mystery, huh? Remember the details, Papa, or are they too sad to remember? Too bad she craved a banana and mentioned to you die cravin’. I heard her say, gimme. Last thing I heard her say, as I went up to entertain die ferry boat pilot to Staten, I had dis sort of a school-girl crush on ’im, Papa. Well, Mama, she had the gimmes, huh, Papa? And in dis world, die gimmes ain’t offen die getters. [She sings.] Gimme, gimme, gimme, a banana in Staten, ten cents a bunch— [She speaks.] —but Mama, she wanted just one. Maybe not much to die Rockerfellers, for instance, but to you, it was too much of a gimme. So vot did she get? Not a banana in Staten but ge-splash off die ferry. I heard the ge-splash while havin’ polite conversation wit’ die pilot. I thought nothin’ of it till after die conversation w’en die ferry boat pulled into Staten. I come down die steps from die pilot. Vere iss Mama? Gone like she’d never existed. Vell, die past is die past and die future can only get better and I know vot heart-break you suffered, especially since you’d took out insurance on die life of Mama that week while she was still livin’. Double indemnity, was it? Well, she was an afflicted woman, poor Mama, afflicted with die gimmes and she must of had a poor balance since all she got was a little affectionate pat of die kopf und lost her balance, huh, Papa. Vell, die policy. That was some consolation. How much did you collect on it, Papa? Look, I got my hand out. Reach in your pocket and give me a piece of the bread. If you give me a piece of the bread, never will I remember how Miss Haussmitzenschlogger was waiting on the dock when the ferry pulled in to Staten with a big grin on her face. You got a good thing there. She wasn’t a day over eighty in those days. No glass eye, no wood leg, and she had three teeth in her mouth. She was good at the organ and also good at the organ. —Hmm. So I get no piece of the bread. I am a girl that is used to such disappointments. Not that I don’t appreciate this visit you give me and the long, lively conversation. Maybe you think it all over and drop by again with the bread before I take legal action. I hate to see you go. Give me a Lutheran blessing for old time’s sake.
[He grabs the umbrella and clouts her over the head.]
WIFE: My God, what a wonderful Lutheran blessing you give me in a Catholic household! Ach, I forgot the banana. I been keepin’ a vunderbar banana for you, Papa. Looky here, Papa, a great big ripe banana for just this occasion, your visit on me, God rest my soul. [She hands him a large banana which has matured to the point of absolute blackness.] I like a ripe banana, don’t you, Papa? I showed this banana to a Nosey Parker next door, a Mrs. Molly Delaney of the SoHo Delaneys. “Have a banana,” I said to Mrs. Delaney. “Why,” she said, “this banana is been too long off the tree and the fruit stand.” “Vot you mean?” I ask her. “Lookit die color! No vunder you offer me to it, dis banana is black.” “A-course it’s black,” I says, “a ripe banana is black, not just in spots like a leopard skin, Mrs. Delaney, but black completely all over.” So ve had this argument. Never mind. I still got this ripe banana. Take it, feel it, smell it. Saftig, huh? A nice ripe odor, huh Papa? Don’t be bashful, take it , it is all yours, no hard feelings between us, a nice ripe black banana, nothing like it to dismiss— [She thrusts the banana in his face.]
LUTHERAN MINISTER: Blob, blob, blob, blob, blob!
WIFE: A girl should be so lucky as to receive such a visit from a Papa, the Lutheran minister even of Staten, the Island. Ven lightning strikes once, maybe twice. Ven you are dead maybe I visit your grave, so hurry back, Papa. [She opens the door and shoves him out.] Ha? Ja? All is understood, Papa? Perfect. Now I go tell die good news to Himself in die Kirche before die Vesper service commences. [She starts out.] Oh. Just in case. [She returns to pick up the rubber axe.] See what I got here? Maybe you think it ain’t a genuine axe made out of metal? Maybe you think it is rubber? Well, so maybe you’re right about something. But you know a good piece of rubber goods can be very effective in preventing the over-population growth mit if not in reducing already? Count your blessings, on with it—slowly, slowly, while he continues beatin’ his gums about the wonders of that throne room he’s set himself up in as a straight down the line descendant of the Old Kings of Ireland . . .
[As she starts out, the Blue Blinds stage right descend abruptly and close, concealing the Küche. As the lights rise on the man in the Kirche, the Yellow and Red Blinds flip back to their original colors.]
MAN: Something is impending.
[There is a pause. The man then springs from the wheelchair, does some cartwheels, etc., to demonstrate an excellent state of health, then jumps back into the wheelchair.]
MAN: The sham, the shameless sham and ham of the wheelchair is now established with an exhibition of the calisthenics befitting a descendant of the old Irish Kings, and I jumped back into the wheelchair to resume the sham for a party now approaching, this being a fact which I know because the reflection of the red light has intensified to the degree at which it flickers on the polished fake marble parquet of the floor, as distinguished from ceiling and walls. W-a-a-a-a-lls! —To me they’ve come to mean sanctuary such as once sought in places of worship. I like to think this is one. Pagan, in a way, being not alienated from the indispensable homage to Priapus, but Catholic, oh, yes, Catholic, and don’t deceive ye’selves that there be so much of a chasm between that they can’t be reconciled. Worship. Put it not down! If there be nothing but mystery to worship, why, then worship that. And places of worship in which to sort out in the head those many, many vari
able ways in which to exist and to worship. A man must have his secrets and secrets must have their privacy, and that privacy is now about to be violated by the Lutheran Minister’s daughter, herein before mentioned and adequately described to ye by her appearance. [Very softly.] “Wow,” an expletive once popular and still appropriate among the Third World Culture.
[The wife enters bearing the rubber axe. The man has turned the back of his wheelchair to her and picked up a copy of some such magazine as “Screw.”]
WIFE [panting as if she’d been running]: What are your plans for the future, if any?
MAN [flips a page of the magazine, without looking at her]: If any plans or any future?
WIFE: Either!
MAN: You mean, then, both, I take it.
WIFE: Yes! Both! [She lifts the axe high over his unperturbed blond head, her expressive mouth stretched in a smile, her eyes very wide, a facial expression suggestive of the immortal Fanny Brice.]
MAN [serenely—though the axe now swings like a vertically mobile pendulum over his handsome, youthful head.] My dear little Dame, mein Leibchen, you precious little Hausfrau given me by that force in nature called God—
WIFE [impatiently]: GIT IT ON, MEANING GIT ON WITH IT, YOU WORTHLESS EX— [She stops for breath.]
MAN: Oh, oh. You stopped just in time to save yourself the embarrassment of a suit for defamation of character there . . .
WIFE [catching her breath]: EX—I’ll say it, I’m going to say it!
MAN: Then say it quietly, Miss Lutheran Minister’s Daughter, say it very, very quietly lest the little ones should hear you. You know, certain matters, meaning subject matters, exist which are of too indelicate a nature for their, shall we say, tender years and sensitive ears. Yes, I believe that our little ones are barely, if yet, pubescent. Ah, such pretty ones too, especially the lad with the sky-blue eyes and the hair the color of mine, a chip off the old butcher-block, I’d call ’im, a true son of the ancient kings of Ireland, no less, Miss Lutheran Minister’s Daughter, ah, but, the girl, well, the girl, takes a bit more after the distaff side, as it were. —Excuse me. You were saying?
The Traveling Companion & Other Plays Page 12
