Contents
Cover
First Production Notes
Preface
+ TABLEAU ONE +
+ TABLEAU TWO +
+ TABLEAU THREE +
+ TABLEAU FOUR +
+ TABLEAU FIVE +
+ TABLEAU SIX +
+ TABLEAU SEVEN +
+ TABLEAU EIGHT +
+ TABLEAU NINE +
+ TABLEAU TEN +
+ TABLEAU ELEVEN +
+ TABLEAU TWELVE +
About the Translator
About the Playwright
Copyright Information
For François Arnaud, the muse
For Louis Gravel, the source
For Claude Poissant, il maestro
The author wishes to acknowledge the assistance of CEAD (Centre des auteurs dramatiques), who organized a workshop supervised by Elizabeth Bourget, directed by the author, and with the participation of François Arnaud, Évelyne Brochu, Sébastien Delorme, Christiane Pasquier, Étienne Pilon, and Lise Roy.
Tom à la ferme was first presented on January 11, 2011, at Théâtre d’Aujourd’hui, in Montreal, Quebec, with the following cast and crew:
Tom: Alexandre Landry
Agathe: Lise Roy
Francis: Éric Bruneau
Sara: Évelyne Brochu
Artistic director: Marie-Thérèse Fortin
Director: Claude Poissant
Preface
Losing someone suddenly is a thread that snaps, breaking the ties to that other person, the man who is no longer there. The survival instinct takes over and the unravelled pieces of life try to piece themselves together with other unravelled pieces. It hardly matters with whom or with what. Other people – a brother, a son, a lover – become synonymous with the one who is no longer there.
Following the accidental death of his lover, trying to get his bearings, Tom goes to the country to meet his in-laws, who are perfect strangers to him. In this austere rural environment, the neophyte in life finds himself tangled up in a story where synonyms are merely a declension of lies.
The lover – the friend, the son, the brother, the nameless dead man – has left behind a fable woven of false truths which, according to his own teenage diaries, were essential to his survival because, in this same rural setting, one young man had once destroyed another young man who loved yet another. Like an ancient tragedy, years later, this drama determines the destiny of Tom.
Adolescence is the period in which an individual’s personality evolves from that of a child to that of an adult. This evolution begins with sexual maturity and ends with social maturity. This is the crucial point in life when the diktats of normality have the most devastating effect on those who are marginal.
Every day, gay youth are victims of aggression in schoolyards, at home, at work, on playing fields, in both urban and rural environments. Every day, they are insulted, ostracized, attacked, mocked, humiliated, wounded, beaten, taxed, soiled, isolated, tricked. Some recover, others don’t. Some become the mythmakers of their own lives.
Homophobia is not the obsolete subject some would like to believe it is, especially those who are tired of hearing about it or those who believe that if the media are covering the issue, like so many others, someone must be taking care of it.
I experimented with several happy endings for this play, but stories of reconciliation too easily relieve us of our responsibility to find solutions to conflicts. The moral of those stories is prefabricated.
Let me propose that we can all lend an ear to the pain of love, somehow, in some way, every day.
Homosexuals learn to lie before they learn to love. We are courageous mythomaniacs.
Michel Marc Bouchard
Montreal, October 11, 2010
Characters
TOM
A sophisticated ad man from the city. Mid-twenties. Lover of the deceased.
AGATHA
A farmer’s wife. Devout and affectionate. Mother of the deceased, and of Francis.
FRANCIS
A farmer. Violent, a loner. Thirty. Brother of the deceased.
SARA
A stylist. Colleague of Tom’s.
Setting
A dairy farm somewhere out in the country. Kitchen, living room, bedroom, barn, cornfields, dead-cow ditch, trunk of a car, and cemetery.
The action takes place today, in the fall.
The premise of this English-language translation is that the dairy farm is located in rural Ontario. “The city” is probably Montreal, where there is no shortage of sophisticated ad agencies.
Performance Note
The lines that Tom addresses to himself or to his deceased lover should not be played like traditional direct asides to the audience. Tom should instead deliver these lines in ongoing interaction with the other characters.
Sara’s French (like her English in the original French version) is not fluent. She makes mistakes in syntax, vocabulary, and verb tense, but her “proper French” accent and the confidence with which she expresses herself create (at least for Agatha) the overall impression that she is French-speaking.
+ TABLEAU ONE +
Evening. The melody of a rumba can be heard outside. TOM is seated, wearing an elegant black overcoat.
The kitchen.
TOM
Butter. Butter on the table. A stain. Yellow, dirty, soft. I can’t take my eyes off it. All I want to do is make it disappear. There are no flies. It’s fall. I imagine a fly on the knife. I think of something else. I say I’m thinking of something else, and the other things rush back to haunt me. Obsess me. Torment me. A fly that won’t go away.
Beat.
I imagine you when you were little. You’re trying to climb onto the kitchen counter. For a glass of milk. A cookie. You climb onto the counter. Your mother says: “You’re too little. You’ll hurt yourself.”
Beat.
No. No. It’s not working. I’m in your house and it’s not working.
AGATHA
(as she enters) Can you tell me what you’re doing in my house?
TOM
(surprised) All I had was your address. I drove all the way without stopping. It was a lot farther than I thought. My GPS kept saying: Recalculating! Recalculating!
AGATHA
Were you one of his friends?
TOM
I’m Tom. Tom who can’t get up, can’t stand up, can’t straighten up. Tom nailed to his chair. Chained, restrained, soldered, glued to his chair. Tom who should hold out his hand. Tom who should take her into his arms.
AGATHA
Excuse the mess. We’re not ourselves these days. We weren’t expecting his death. The lunch after the ceremony. Have to know how many people.
TOM
I couldn’t find a hotel.
AGATHA
Hotels around here are only open in the summer, and when I say “summer,” I mean from 8:00 a.m. on July 2 to 8:00 p.m. on July 3. Not enough tourists. They tried guided tours of the farms. When you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.
Beat.
You’ve got a nice car.
TOM
I’m too young for this. Condolences. Mourning. Too delicate. I hate suffering.
TOM stands and extends his hand.
My condolences, ma’am. I should have begun with that. My sincere sympathy.
AGATHA shakes his hand mechanically.
AGATHA
Call me Agatha. I’m glad you’re here, Tom.
TOM
She said my name. Called me by my first name. The distance between her and me shrinks.
AGATHA
He never mentioned you to me.
TOM
The distance between her and me is back. Say something. I almost hit a mo
ose. Crossing the road. A male with a big rack.
AGATHA
Take off your coat.
TOM
She could tell me: Go back where you came from! Hit the moose! Die on the highway! I take off my coat.
AGATHA
I’m glad you came, Tom.
TOM
Never mentioned me?
AGATHA
We haven’t heard from his other friends.
TOM
A huge white rack.
AGATHA
I was beginning to think he didn’t have any.
TOM
The moose appeared from nowhere.
AGATHA
A smart guy like him … must’ve made a lot of people jealous.
TOM
He could have charged.
AGATHA
(touching his face) I don’t want you to tell me you’re leaving tomorrow. That’s what he always said as soon as he arrived: “I’ll be leaving tomorrow!” But you’re going to stay.
TOM
I don’t know about that.
AGATHA
You’ll say a few words at the funeral.
TOM
Yes.
AGATHA
You speak well. If you say a few words, people will know that my son was a fine man.
TOM
I prepared something.
AGATHA
You’re a good-looking boy, Tom.
TOM
She keeps saying my name, as if she’s trying to make me real.
AGATHA
Some nice trout! Should I thaw one or two for you?
TOM
I’m not hungry. Two. If you’d like.
AGATHA
His brother caught them.
TOM
Who?
AGATHA
His brother!
TOM
Someone turned the music off.
AGATHA
Milking is over.
TOM
You had a brother?
AGATHA
Francis! I’ll thaw them in the microwave. Does the noise of the microwave bother you? Francis takes care of the farm. Ever since my husband died.
TOM
She’s talking to me.
AGATHA
Forty-eight dairy cows.
TOM
She’s talking to me.
AGATHA
Cows are an everyday thing. Every morning. Every evening. Even Christmas day.
TOM
Pay attention. Cows?
AGATHA
And Sundays. If you want to go out, have to milk first. And when you get home at night, same thing all over again.
TOM
Never mentioned me.
AGATHA
What do you do in life, Tom?
TOM
Answer her.
AGATHA
Tom?
TOM
Assistant to the art director. In an ad agency.
AGATHA
Assistant to the art director!
TOM
Said like that in the kitchen on a dairy farm, with the noise of a microwave in the background, it sounds ridiculous. An ad agency. House music, the tapping of high heels, the scent of Galliano, Miyake. House, high heels, Miyake. My words crash into the walls of the kitchen, one after the other. House, high heels, Miyake. I worked with him.
AGATHA
Oh, really?
TOM
In the same agency.
AGATHA
In the same agency!
TOM
Colleagues, collaborators, co-workers.
AGATHA
You were co-workers!
TOM
Co-workers. Let’s start with that.
AGATHA
You want them cooked in butter or breaded?
TOM
Breaded!
AGATHA
You can sleep in his bed.
TOM
I’m not sure.
AGATHA
The sheets are clean.
TOM
I’m not sure.
AGATHA
I wash them once a month. Even though no one ever sleeps in them.
AGATHA wipes up the butter stain.
TOM
The stain is gone. All that’s left is the moose. On the highway. First snow. Big rack. I can’t talk about that forever.
AGATHA
I don’t know why, but I didn’t scream when I saw you. I should have. A woman walks into her house and finds a stranger.
TOM
All I have to do is stand up and leave, become a stranger again.
AGATHA
The only person who should have come isn’t here.
TOM
Who is “the person who should have come”?
AGATHA
No manners. Maybe that’s the modern way, but I think it stinks.
TOM
Who is “the person who should have come”?
AGATHA
You have nothing to say, Tom?
TOM
There are so many stains.
AGATHA
You’re wearing his cologne.
TOM
There are so many stains on the wall.
AGATHA
Francis leaves his dirty fingerprints everywhere.
TOM
I came to the wrong house. That’s the problem. They’re in mourning here, too, but I came to the wrong house.
+ TABLEAU TWO +
TOM is getting undressed. He is wearing a designer undershirt and briefs.
A bedroom with twin beds.
TOM
“Slip your briefs down your legs. Slowly.” You liked that. “No. Slower than that. Now your undershirt. Over your head. Show me your armpits. Raise your arms higher. Put your hand on your belly. Slowly. Caress your belly. Lower.”
Beat. He smells his undershirt.
“A woody scent. A touch of rum. A blend of patchouli, vetiver, Peruvian cedar.” The cologne salesman was giving you the eye. A skeleton with fancy manners. You said: “His scent is Absence, absence of testosterone.”
He smiles.
I can hear your mother crying in the bathroom. The trout is swimming back upstream in my stomach. All the way to vomiting. If it decides to come out now, if I have to vomit now, in the bathroom while your mother is crying … I lie down on your bed. I fold my arms. I play dead, like you. Tomorrow, I’ll get dressed up for you, one last time. Tomorrow, I’ll tell them: “Today, part of me is dying and I can’t cry. I don’t know all the synonyms for sadness. Emptiness. Loneliness. Anger. Anger. More anger!”
He turns off the light on the night table. Beat.
A sound. A pain in my throat. Unbearable. Can’t breathe. Someone’s choking me. A body. Beer and animal. The lamp! The light! I’m suffocating. My throat! The lamp! Turn on the light. Turn on the light … the light …
TOM manages to turn on the lamp. FRANCIS is on top of him, trying to strangle him.
FRANCIS
If you tell my mother who you are, the coyotes will take care of you. If you open your big trap, I’ll make sure there’s nothing left of you. Nothing. If my mother mentions a girl whose name is Nathalie, you’ll say you know her. You’ll tell her that Nathalie only speaks French and that she worked with him. You’ll tell her that Nathalie is blonde, that she’s twenty years old, and she smokes too much. You hear me? Blonde, twenty years old, smokes too much, and doesn’t speak English. Tell her that Nathalie likes pasta. Loves it. Other than that, you can just say that my brother loved her.
FRANCIS releases him.
So, now you can breathe. Breathe! Go ahead, breathe!
I knew you’d show up someday. I don’t know you. I don’t know your name, but I knew you’d come. Out in the field, at the far end of the field, there’s the ditch where we throw the cows. The sick cows when they die. One more carcass, nobody will ever notice, and believe me, nobody will want to go snooping around there. The coyotes will pick everything clean. So yo
u better do what I say. No more, no less. My mother is sad and she doesn’t need to know who her son really was. It’s hard on her. My father worked himself to death. Allergies from the cows. And now her youngest son has died. That’s hard on a mother. More than a mother can take. Don’t want to make her feel worse. Okay? You’ll say something at the church, something beautiful. And afterwards, you’ll get in your car and drive away. Then my mother will forget. And he’ll be dead for good. Then everything will be fine. Do I need to repeat that?
TOM
No.
FRANCIS
And tomorrow, forget the cologne. When men use cologne, it’s for weddings. Tomorrow, it’s a funeral. Do I need to repeat that?
TOM
No.
+ TABLEAU THREE +
Day 2. TOM is wearing an elegant suit that clashes with the setting. He sprays on the cologne.
In the kitchen.
TOM
Your features appear in some faces, disappear in others. Someone turns away, I see your neck. Another, your hands. Your family! A clothing rack, the day of a clearance sale. Dresses escaped from a container forgotten on a dock. Shirts made of silk wrinkled like scrotums. One of your aunts is telling me about a cousin who lives in the city. I must know her, because I live in the city, too. Your family with their “wanta see my pictures,” and their playrooms, and their latest operations that you’ve forgotten. And your mother, going from one person to the next, repeating “co-workers.” “He and Tom were co-workers.”
Beat.
The plaster is peeling off the walls. The statues of the saints, their hands joined in prayer, are begging us to get them out of there. The chandelier with electric flames, two burnt-out and one flickering. Sprays of flowers tired of being exotic. An asthmatic flute solo enveloping everything. Nothing like what you would have imagined. No! Nothing! Just four employees, grey from head to balls, pushing the box on a squeaky trolley. The box … you, inside, the box. You inside it, inside the box. The box of wood varnished like a condo floor, like a jewellery box for Mother’s Day. You, inside the box, inside the box, you. Your useless hands. Your empty belly. Your devastated lips. You in the box. Me, in the pew. Much too Dolce, too Gabanna. Too …
Beat.
“Were you close to him?” A bit. “You knew him well?” A bit. “You spent a lot of time with him?” A bit. “It’s a pity that she didn’t come. We would have loved to meet her.”
Tom at the Farm Page 1
