Three Plays: The Last Carnival; Beef, No Chicken; and A Branch of the Blue Nile

by Derek Walcott

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  The Last Carnival

  Beef, No Chicken

  A Branch of the Blue Nile

  By Derek Walcott

  Copyright

  TO NORLINE

  THE LAST CARNIVAL

  The Last Carnival was produced by The Group Theatre Company, Seattle, Washington, June 1–26, 1983, directed by Reuben Sierra, with the following cast:

  AGATHA/CLODIA

  Helen McCardle

  VICTOR/ANTOINE

  Wesley Rice

  OSWALD

  Scott Caldwell

  GEORGE

  Frederick Charles Canada

  JEAN

  Joanne Kilgour

  SYDNEY

  Reuben Renauldo Dumas

  BROWN

  William Hall, Jr.

  ARMY MAJOR

  J. Lee Cook

  YOUNG SYDNEY

  Daniel Turner

  AGATHA (Act II)

  Marilyn Olson

  This play was first produced by Warwick Productions at the Government Training Center, Port of Spain, Trinidad, on July 1, 1982, directed by the author, with the following cast:

  AGATHA/CLODIA

  Frances MacDormand

  VICTOR/ANTOINE

  Cotter Smith

  OSWALD

  Maurice Brash

  GEORGE

  Fred Hope

  JEAN

  Jean Maynard

  SYDNEY

  Charles Applewhaite

  BROWN

  Errol Roberts

  AGATHA (Act II)

  Mavis Lee Wah

  CHARACTERS

  AGATHA WILLETT, an English governess, aged twenty-five at opening

  VICTOR DE LA FONTAINE, a painter, French Creole, aged thirty-five at opening

  OSWALD DE LA FONTAINE, planter, his brother, aged thirty-two at opening

  GEORGE, a servant, black, aged forty-two at opening

  JEAN BEAUXCHAMPS, a maid, black, aged twenty-two at opening

  ANTOINE (TONY) DE LA FONTAINE, carnival designer, Victor’s son, aged twenty-eight

  CLODIA DE LA FONTAINE, Victor’s daughter, aged twenty-nine

  SYDNEY, a revolutionist, black

  BROWN, a journalist, black, aged thirty

  AN ARMY MAJOR, black, aged thirty-two

  SYDNEY, as a child, aged ten

  VINCENT, a servant

  SETTING: Trinidad, 1948–1962 in Act I; 1970 in Act II

  ACT I

  SCENE 1

  A Sunday, before sunrise. The docks, Port of Spain, January 1948. A green wooden shed marked H.M. CUSTOMS, NO TRESPASSING. Dim sounds off the dock. A steel band in the distance. Grey light. AGATHA WILLETT, with a suitcase, coat over one arm, is seated on a crate, her eyes closed. VICTOR DE LA FONTAINE, in white suit, carrying linen hat, enters, waits.

  VICTOR

  Miss Willett?

  AGATHA

  … What is that wonderful smell?

  VICTOR

  The sea?

  You can smell the sea on Sundays when the wharf is quiet.

  AGATHA

  It’s something to do with England, with the war … but what is it?

  VICTOR

  Is it cocoa? On the dock over there?

  It’s from one of our warehouses on the wharf.

  Those beans there in the sun?

  AGATHA

  [Rising]

  Ah! Of course!

  Is all of Trinidad going to smell so fragrant,

  Mr. De La Fontaine?

  VICTOR

  The cocoa valleys, yes.

  AGATHA

  In the war, you know,

  when the buzz bombs started, and we were evacuated,

  and they carted us off to some bleak town in Wales,

  I looked forward to a good hot cup of powdered cocoa.

  Just think of it. It might have come from here …

  VICTOR

  It probably did. We grow the world’s best cocoa.

  AGATHA

  The light’s astonishing. So clear! All this.

  It’s as if the world were making a fresh start.

  VICTOR

  Glad you feel so. Damned hard to paint.

  Where’s all your luggage. This all you have?

  AGATHA

  All me worldly. Shabby old thing, isn’t she?

  Look at ’er. Cowerin’ from embarrassment.

  [Bends, talks to the suitcase]

  Say “Hello” to the gentleman. He’s come to fetch us.

  VICTOR

  [To the suitcase; stooping, shaking the handle]

  Hello. I hope you’ll be at home here. She’s very shy.

  AGATHA

  She’s absolutely no idea why you hired me.

  If I pinch meself I’ll wake up back in Putney.

  I just hope your children take to me, that’s all.

  VICTOR

  I’m an Impressionist. I believe in first impressions.

  AGATHA

  When you had me round to tea for the interview?

  In Regent’s Park? I didn’t know what to wear.

  I walked round and round the park in the rain.

  Then, when we sat down in that morgue of a hotel,

  my heart was rattling like a teacup, couldn’t you hear it?

  VICTOR

  Your hair was wet, your cheeks were shining.

  You looked like a Watteau shepherdess.

  All the other applicants had faces like prams!

  AGATHA

  I felt like the dog’s dinner. How was your exhibition?

  I never got round to see it.

  VICTOR

  A vanity show.

  I rented the gallery myself. Your watch, Miss Willett.

  [Holds out his hand]

  AGATHA

  Me watch? Whatever for?

  VICTOR

  Please, may I have it?

  [AGATHA unstraps her watch, gives it to him]

  Miss Willett, we’re going to hold a ceremony here.

  Your cute little watch is going to be buried at sea.

  AGATHA

  Oh, hold on, mate, that’s a gift from the office.

  Can I have it back?

  VICTOR

  Only if you swear.

  AGATHA

  Bugger, bum!

  VICTOR

  [Laughs]

  No. Swear: “I’m here for good.”

  AGATHA

  I’m here for good.

  VICTOR

  Again?

  From now on, time must mean nothing to you.

  AGATHA

  I’m here for good. Now, can I have it back?

  [VICTOR gives it to her]

  VICTOR

  Christ, where is Oswald? What time is it?

  AGATHA

  [Looking at her watch]

  It’s ah …

  [Laughs]

  Very good!

  What a tease you are for such an artist.

  Are your kids bright? I’m terrified of bright children.

  VICTOR

  Bright? No. Getting spoilt. No, they’re average.

  During the holidays they get
a bit too wild.

  Also, I told you, I need more time to paint.

  AGATHA

  Clodia and Antoine. They’re very pretty children.

  I studied their photographs all across the Atlantic.

  VICTOR

  They’re pretty. They’re their mother’s masterpieces,

  not mine. I just supplied some brush strokes.

  Yes, she left me with quite a bequest.

  AGATHA

  I’m sorry.

  And what about your masterpieces, your paintings?

  Oh, I saw a rather favorable mention in The Times.

  I nearly nudged my neighbour on the train

  and said: “I know that man…”

  [OSWALD, in khaki, enters, followed by GEORGE]

  OSWALD

  Where the arse you been, Victor?

  I over the whole blasted wharf looking for all you,

  and two of you on your arse here like the King and Queen?

  Customs and Immigration want to see you, girl.

  Pardon my language: I’m just a cocoa planter.

  I’m the manure side of the family. Oswald.

  [Kisses her. To VICTOR]

  Victor got taste. I say she drowng.

  She take one look at Trinidad and threw herself overboard!

  Give George your passport. And give me a hug.

  The children are scrubbed and dressed at Santa Rosa.

  [Embraces her]

  VICTOR

  Don’t paw my property, Ozzie.

  [To AGATHA]

  Do you know Paris?

  AGATHA

  [Searching her bag]

  Wait a sec. Paris?

  GEORGE

  Is this your bag, ma’am?

  AGATHA

  [Handing OSWALD her passport]

  Here.

  OSWALD

  Give it to George.

  AGATHA

  Here you are, George. I’m flattered, I must say.

  I wasn’t expecting such an entourage.

  OSWALD

  You ain’t exactly in some African outpost.

  Is a British colony; we have some manners left.

  VICTOR

  Then you’ve never been? I was just wondering

  how much was changed by the war? I studied there.

  AGATHA

  Studied there? Oh, Paris! No, I don’t know it.

  But it wasn’t bombed. That make you happy?

  VICTOR

  We’re French, but we abhor the bloody French.

  It’s the hatred of the colonial for the metropole.

  AGATHA

  Is there much of that here?

  OSWALD

  All right! All you move! The sun hot!

  Ay, George!

  GEORGE

  Eh?

  OSWALD

  Move your fat, black

  Trinidadian arse! We going.

  GEORGE

  It black, but it ain’t fat.

  OSWALD

  Listen, boy, if I say your arse fat, it fat, you hear me?

  GEORGE

  You’se de boss, boss. But respect that white lady.

  You come from a high-class family! So, behave!

  AGATHA

  I’ll carry it. Did you bring this poor man out on Sunday to lift one bag?

  OSWALD

  Well, George strong.

  VICTOR

  Miss Willett, please.

  GEORGE

  It’s a privilege.

  OSWALD

  [To GEORGE]

  Where Sydney? He wanted to come for the drive.

  GEORGE

  Sometimes I feel that boy want to leave the island.

  Once he come in town, he always watching boats.

  [Shouts]

  SYDNEY, GET YOUR LITTLE BLACK TAIL OVER HERE!

  AGATHA

  He certainly runs fast. Is he your son, George?

  [SYDNEY arrives, GEORGE hugs him]

  GEORGE

  Me nephew. Me worthless brother’s child. Ay!

  You want to take off on that big white boat, eh?

  You nearly fall down in your new shoes, big man!

  Come help the lady with she luggage. Take this one.

  [SYDNEY grabs the small suitcase]

  AGATHA

  No! I can manage, love. It’s heavy.

  [SYDNEY waits for a decision]

  OSWALD

  It go make him stronger. You worried? Wait.

  [Searches his pockets, extracts a shilling, offers it to SYDNEY]

  Bet you a shilling you can’t carry this grip.

  [SYDNEY grabs the money. The others, not AGATHA, laugh]

  Children, they all little savages. You can buy them

  with a few trinkets. The boy make a cool shilling.

  AGATHA

  You want to carry this, do you, Sydney?

  VICTOR

  Miss Willett. Please.

  [SYDNEY hides the shilling behind his back quickly]

  We’re driving directly to the Santa Rosa valley.

  We’ll pass our town house around the savannah,

  and if Oswald wants to stop by the paddock,

  to show you his horses, tell him no, quite firmly.

  But be sure to stroke the flanks of his Humber,

  which Sydney spent half of yesterday polishing.

  AGATHA

  Humber?

  OSWALD

  A vintage car.

  It’ll be pleasant with the hood down. Come on.

  AGATHA

  In that case, Sydney can sit on my lap.

  GEORGE

  Sydney will sit where I put him, that’s where.

  [All leave. Except AGATHA. VICTOR returns]

  VICTOR

  Miss Willett?

  AGATHA

  Having a last quick look.

  [Silence]

  Is it bad luck to feel happy so soon?

  VICTOR

  No. Not at all. Look. There’s a good sign. See them? Pelicans. [He takes her arm] Now let’s go home. [They exit]

  SCENE 2

  Seven months later. A Saturday afternoon. VICTOR’s studio, a converted shed on the estate. AGATHA changing behind a screen, VICTOR arranging his easel.

  VICTOR

  You’re in, Miss W. The children love you. So do I. I’ll tell you why. You’ve kept your innocence. I don’t mean virtue, but … Here it is, August in Trinidad, and your complexion stays as cool as porcelain. My own Watteau shepherdess. You know, no matter where an Englishwoman’s from, once they come out here to the colonies, they suddenly become royalty. It takes about a year, just a year, before they start talking about difficulties with the servants, how lazy their garden boys are, how the heat is crushing their roses. Don’t wind up affected. They all wind up affected, like that prime bitch who lives down the road on the next estate, shot up into the gentry! Constance. Constance Holley! She’ll be in to tea someday to test your credentials. And you’ll have to play governess, oh-la-dee-da. God, I’d give up my life to be there. They used to take the Underground—now they teach their children to ride ponies. You’d better watch out, Miss W. You don’t want to wind up at the Queen’s Park Savannah, or the Queen’s Park Cricket Club, being crisp to velvet-footed waiters. You don’t want to become one of the De La Fontaines, love. You’ve seen our cousins. Thick-ankled, thickheaded French Creoles. Have you fallen asleep back there, Miss Willett? I feel I’m talking to a bloody screen!

  AGATHA

  I’m not coming out there half naked.

  Besides, I’m hungry. You’ll starve me to death.

  VICTOR

  Do you miss English cooking?

  AGATHA

  I do miss it.

  [She comes out in a large orange skirt, bodice, bits of a Watteau costume, carrying a book]

  Too much?

  [Indicates her face]

  VICTOR

  Miss it? Yorkshire pud? Bangers? Marmite?

  I’m copying a shepherdess, not a Hogarth wh
ore.

  [Wipes off some of her makeup]

  AGATHA

  Gin Lane’s where I’m from, guv’nor.

  [Wipes her face. She goes to a window. Women’s voices, a chant, heard in the distance]

  It’s Saturday afternoon, why’re they still working?

  VICTOR

  Why’re who working?

  AGATHA

  Those estate women,

  the ones in rags there working in the cocoa.

  They look tired enough to drop.

  VICTOR

  Ask Oswald.

  AGATHA

  Your brother’s off to the races with the kids.

  That’s hard work.

  VICTOR

  Are you sorry for me?

  It’s Saturday and I’m working bloody hard.

  [The women’s voices rise in rhythm, dancing the cocoa]

  AGATHA

  God, it’s like a treadmill.

  VICTOR

  That’s how they press grapes.

  That’s how we dance the cocoa. Besides, they’re singing

  to keep the rhythm up. Don’t start pitying them.

  Don’t stand there mesmerized. Jesus, come on!

  [He shuts the window, draws her away, seats her]

  AGATHA

  Do they get bonuses for overtime?

  [VICTOR places a book of prints on her lap]

  VICTOR

  Come on! Specky-speckies! Glasses! Don’t be vain!

  Open your eyes now. They’re perfectly happy.

  [AGATHA opens her eyes]

  AGATHA

  [Groans again, puts on glasses]

  Crikey, I don’t …

  [Softly]

  Manet? MONET? Oh, crikey …

  VICTOR

  Manet. Monet stipples! Manet, solid light!

  AGATHA

  Right! RIGHT! Thought it was a Mooney for a sec.

  Irish sign painter, Mooney? Very obscure.

  VICTOR

  Wrong! Pissarro.

  AGATHA

  And the sime to yew, guv!

  VICTOR

  And now, ladies and gentlemen, un moment!

  Un moment, si’vous plaît!

  [He draws the curtains, switches on a projector: Watteau’s Embarkation to Cythera]

  I named my son after him; no brush in the world

  ever pleated cloth like that, those silks and taffetas.

  Those fiery, fading silks, see? He painted