by Paula Vogel
In the center of the room, there is a crude work table with short benches. As the play begins, Desdemona is scattering items and clothing in the air, barely controlling a mounting hysteria. Emilia, dark, plump and plain, with a thick Irish brogue, watches, amused and disgusted at the mess her lady is making.
DESDEMONA: Are you sure you didn’t see it? The last time I remember holding it in my hand was last week in the arbor—you’re sure you didn’t see it?
EMILIA: Aye—
DESDEMONA: It looks like—
EMILIA: Like anybody’s handkerchief, savin’ it has those dainty little strawberries on it. I never could be after embroiderin’ a piece of linen with fancy work to wipe up the nose—
DESDEMONA: It’s got to be here somewhere—
EMILIA: After you blow your nose in it, an’ it’s all heavy and wet, who’s going to open the damn thing and look at the pretty stitches?
DESDEMONA: Emilia—are you sure it didn’t get “mixed up” somehow with your…your things?
EMILIA: And why should I be needin’ your handkerchief when I’m wearing a plain, soft shift which works just as well? And failing that, the good Lord gave me sleeves…
DESDEMONA: It’s got to be here!
(Returns to her rampage of the room) Oh—skunk water!
(A man’s undergarment is tossed into the air behind Desdemona’s shoulder) Dog piddle!!
EMILIA: I’m after telling you m’lady—
DESDEMONA: Nonsense! It’s got to be here!
(There is a crash of overturned chain. Desdemona’s shifts are thrown into the air) Goddamn horse urine!!!
EMILIA: It was dear, once upon the time, when m’lady was toddling about the palace, and all of us servants would be follerin’ after, stooping to pick up all the pretty toys you’d be scatterin’—
DESDEMONA: Emilia, please! I cannot bear a sermon.
EMILIA: There was the day the Senator, your father, gave you your first strand of pearls from the Indies—you were all of five—and your hand just plucked it from your neck. How you laughed to see us—Teresa, Maria and me—scrabbling on all fours like dogs after truffles, scooping up the rollin’ pearls—(There is a ripping noise)
DESDEMONA: Oh, shit.
(Two halves of a sheet are pitched into the air.)
EMILIA: But you’re a married lady now; and when m’lord Othello gives you a thing, and tells you to be mindin’ it, it’s no longer dear to drop it willy-nilly and expect me to be findin’ it—
DESDEMONA: Oh, piss and vinegar!! Where is the crappy little snot rag!
(She turns and sees Emilia sitting) You’re not even helping! You’re not looking!!
EMILIA: Madam can be sure I’ve overturned the whole lot, two or three times…It’s a sight easier hunting for it when the place is tidy; when all is topsy-turvy, you can’t tell a mouse dropping from a cow pie!
(Desdemona returns to the hunt; Emilia picks up the torn sheet) Now see, this sheet here was washed this morning. Your husband, as you know, is fussy about his sheets; and while it was no problem to have them fresh each night in Venice—I could open the window and dunk them in the canal—here on Cyprus it takes two drooling orderlies to march six times down to the cistern and back again.
(Regards the sheet carefully) It’s beyond repair. And now that your husband commands fresh sheets, my Iago has got it in his head to be the lord as well; he’s got to have fresh sheets each night for his unwashed feet.
DESDEMONA: Emilia, please—I may puke.
(Desdemona, in frustration, stamps on the clothes she’s strewn from the basket.)
DESDEMONA: It’s got to be here, it’s got to be here, it’s got to be here—Emilia—Help me find it!
EMILIA: You’re wasting your time, m’lady. I know it’s not here.
DESDEMONA (Straightening herself): Right. And you knew this morning that my husband wasn’t mad at me. Just a passing whim, you said.
EMILIA: Ah, Miss Desdemona…not even a midwife can foretell the perfidiosity of men.
DESDEMONA: Give me strength. Perfidy.
EMILIA: That, too.
DESDEMONA: It can’t have walked off on two feet!
EMILIA: Mayhap m’lady dropped it.
DESDEMONA: Oh, you’re hopeless. No help at all. I’ll find it by myself. Go back to your washing and put your hands to use.
EMILIA: Yes, m’lady.
2.
Emilia and Desdemona. Emilia scrubs sheets.
DESDEMONA: Will it come out?
EMILIA: I’ve scrubbed many a sheet, but this is the worst in my career…It’s all that Bianca’s fault. I paid her well for the blood, too. “And be sure,” I says, “it’s an old hen—one on its last gasp. Young chick blood’s no good for bridal sheets, it’s the devil to come out.” “Madam’s sheets,” I says, “are the finest to be had in Venice, and we don’t want them ruined and rotted from the stain.” And Bianca swore, “I’ve an old hen on crutches that will wash out clear as a maidenhead or a baby’s dropping.”
Ah, but that chick wasn’t a week old. And what with it bakin’ in the sun for a month now—but if anyone can, Mealy will scrub it virgin white again.
DESDEMONA: Oh, hush about it. I can’t stand to think on it…barbaric custom. And my best sheets. Nobody displays bridal sheets on Cyprus.
EMILIA: There aren’t any virgins to be had on Cyprus.
DESDEMONA: Half the garrison came to see those sheets flapping in the breeze.
EMILIA: Why did the other half come?
DESDEMONA: To pay their last respects to the chicken!
(They laugh.)
3.
We hear Emilia, in a good humor, humming “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” Another clatter of heavy metal things being tossed onto the floor.
DESDEMONA: JESUS! WHAT IS THIS?!
EMILIA (In disbelief): You didn’t find it!
(Desdemona crosses to Emilia, holding a long, crooked bit of iron with a wicked point.)
DESDEMONA: No—this!!
EMILIA: ’Tis a hoof-pick.
DESDEMONA: A hoof-pick? What is it used for?
EMILIA: After all your years of trotting m’lady’s bum over field and farrow, and you’ve never laid your eyes on the like? When your mount picks up a stone in its foot, and it’s deep, you take the pick and hold on tight to the hoof, and then you dig it in and down to the quick and pry it out—
DESDEMONA: You dig this in? Good lord—
EMILIA: Aye, takes a goodly amount of sweat and grease. It’s work for a proper man, it is.
(Desdemona, absorbed in fondling the hoof-pick, stretches out on the table.)
DESDEMONA: Oh me, oh my—if I could find a man with just such a hoof-pick—he could pluck out my stone—eh, Emilia?
(They laugh)
Emilia, does your husband Iago have a hoof-pick to match?
(Emilia turns and looks, then snorts.)
EMILIA: What, Iago?
(Desdemona puts her hand on the base and covers it.)
DESDEMONA: Well, then—this much?
EMILIA: Please, mum! It’s a matter o’ faith between man and wife t—
DESDEMONA: Ahh—not that much, eh?
(Covers more of the pick) Like this?
EMILIA: Miss Desdemona!
DESDEMONA: Come now, Emilia, it’s just us—
EMILIA: Some things are private!!
DESDEMONA: It’s only fair—I’m sure you know every detail about my lord—
EMILIA (Shrugging): When the Master Piddles, a Servant holds the Pot—
DESDEMONA (Persisting): This much hoof?
EMILIA: Not near as much as that!
DESDEMONA: This much?
(Pause.)
EMILIA (Sour): Nay.
DESDEMONA: Good God, Emilia, I’m running out of—
EMILIA: The wee-est pup of th’ litter comes a’bornin’ in the world with as much.
(Desdemona laughs)
There. Is m’lady satisfied?
DESDEMONA: Your secret’s
safe with me.
4.
Emilia, scrubbing. Desdemona lies on her back on the table, feet propped up, absentmindedly fondling the pick, and staring into space.
5.
We hear the sound of Emilia, puffing and blowing. Lights up on Desdemona getting a pedicure.
DESDEMONA: Where is she? It’s getting late. He’ll be back soon, and clamoring for me. He’s been in a rotten mood lately… Headaches, handkerchiefs, accusations—and of all people to accuse—Michael Cassio!
EMILIA: The only one you haven’t had—
DESDEMONA: And I don’t want him, either. A prissy Florentine, that one is. Leave it to a cuckold to be jealous of a eunuch—
EMILIA (Crowing): Bianca would die!
DESDEMONA: Then we won’t tell her what I said, will we?
(Emilia becomes quiet)
What Bianca does in her spare time is her business.
(Emilia’s face clearly indicates that what Bianca does in her spare time is Emilia’s business, too. Desdemona watches Emilia closely.)
DESDEMONA: You don’t much like Bianca, do you, Mealy?
(No response. Emilia blows on Desdemona’s toes)
Come on, now, tell me frankly—why don’t you like her?
EMILIA: It’s not for me to say…
DESDEMONA: Emilia!
EMILIA: It’s just that—no disrespect intented, m’lady—but you shouldn’t go a’rubbin’ elbows with one o’ her class…Lie down with hussies, get up with crabs…
DESDEMONA: Her sheets are clean.
(Pause)
You’ve been simmering over Bianca for some time, Mealy, haven’t you?
EMILIA (Rancorously): I don’t much like to see m’lady, in whose em-ploy I am, traipsing about in flopdens, doin’ favors for common sloppots—Bianca! Ha! She’s so loose, so low, that she’s got to ad-ver-tise Wednesday Night Specials, half price for anything in uniform!
DESDEMONA: Well, purge it out of your blood; Bianca will soon be here—
EMILIA: Here! Why here? What if someone sees her sneaking up to the back door? What will the women in town say? A tart on a house call! How can I keep my head up hanging out the wash and feedin’ the pigs when her sort comes sniffin’ around—
DESDEMONA: She’s coming to pay me for last Tuesday’s customers who paid on credit. And to arrange for next Tuesday—
EMILIA (Horrified): Not again! Once was enough—you’re not going there again! I thought to myself, she’s a young unbridled colt, is Miss Desdemona—let her cool down her blood—but to make it a custom! I couldn’t let you go back again—risking disease and putting us all in danger—
DESDEMONA: Oh, tush, Mealy—
EMILIA: You listen to me, Miss Desdemona: Othello will sooner or later find out that you’re laying for Bianca, and his black skin is goin’ to blister off with rage!! Holy Jesus Lord, why tempt a Venetian male by waving red capes? My Iago would beat me for lookin’ at the wrong end of an ass!
(VERY WORKED UP) Your husband will find out and when he does! When he does!! (Makes the noise and gesture of throat cutting) And then! And then!! AIAIaiaiaiahhh!! My lady!! What’s to become of me! Your fateful handmaid! Where will I find another position in this pisshole harbor!
DESDEMONA: Stop it, Mealy! Don’t be…silly, nothing will happen to me. I’m the sort that will die in bed.
EMILIA (Beseechingly): You won’t leave your poor Mealy stranded?
DESDEMONA: You’ll always have a position in this household…Of some sort. (Mealy’s face turns to stone)
Oh, come now, Mealy, haven’t I just promoted you?
EMILIA: Oh, m’lady, I haven’t forgot; not only your scullery maid, but now your laundress as well! I am quite sensible of the honor and the increase in pay—of two pence a week…
(Suddenly turns bright and cheery) And whiles we are on the subject—
DESDEMONA: Oh, Christ, here it comes.
EMILIA: But m’lady, last time an opening came up, you promised to speak to your husband about it in Venice. I suppose poor old Iago just slipped your mind—
DESDEMONA: Look, I did forget. Anyway, I recommended Cassio for my husband’s lieutenant. An unfortunate choice. But that subject is closed.
EMILIA: Yes, mum.
(Emilia starts to return to her laundry. There is a knock at the door, and Desdemona brightens.)
DESDEMONA: There she is! Emilia, let Bianca in—No, no wait—(To Mealy’s annoyance, Desdemona arranges herself in a casual tableau)
(The knock repeats. Desdemona signals Emilia to go answer the door. Emilia exits through the door to the palace, and then quickly returns.)
EMILIA: M’lady, it’s your husband. He’s waiting for you outside.
DESDEMONA (Frightened): Husband?…Shhhittt…
(Desdemona pauses, arranges her face into an insipid, fluttering innocence, then girlishly runs to the door. She flings it open, and disappears through the door.)
DESDEMONA (Offstage; breathless): Othello!
(And then, we hear the distinct sound of a very loud slap. A pause, and Desdemona returns, closes the door behind her, holding her cheek. She is on the brink of tears. She and Emilia look at each other, and then Emilia looks away.)
6.
Desdemona and Emilia. Desdemona frantically searches.
DESDEMONA: It’s got to be somewhere!!—Are you quite sure—
EMILIA: Madam can be sure I overlooked the whole lot several times.
DESDEMONA: Um, Emilia…should, should you have “accidentally” taken it—not that I’m suggesting theft in the slightest—but should it have by mistake slipped in with some of your things, your return of it will merit a reward, and all of my gratitude.
(Tries to appear casual) Not that the thing itself is worth anything—it’s a pittance of musty linen—but still…
EMILIA (With dignity): I’ve never taken a thing, acc-idently or not. I don’t make no “acc-idents.” Mum, I’ve looked everywhere. Everywhere.
(Quietly) Is m’lord clamoring about it much?
(They eye each other. Pause.)
DESDEMONA: Which position, Mealy?
EMILIA (Puzzled): Which position?
DESDEMONA: For your husband.
EMILIA: Oh, Miss Desdemona! I won’t forget all your—
DESDEMONA: Yes, yes, I’m sure. What opening?
EMILIA: It’s ever so small a promotion, and so quite equal to his merits. He’s ensign third-class, but the budget’s ensign second-class.
DESDEMONA: Very well, the budget office. Can he write and account and do—whatever it is that they do with the budget?
EMILIA: Oh, yes—he’s clever enough at that.
DESDEMONA: I really don’t understand your mentality, Emilia. You’re forever harping on how much you detest the man. Why do you beg for scraps of promotion for him? Don’t you hate him?
EMILIA: I—I—
(With relish) I despise him.
DESDEMONA: Then?
EMILIA: You see, Miss, for us in the bottom ranks, when man and wife hate each other, what is left in a lifetime of marriage but to save and scrimp, plot and plan? The more I’d like to put some nasty rat-ridder in his stew, the more I think of money—and he thinks the same. One of us will drop first, and then, what’s left, saved and earned, under the mattress for th’ other one? I’d like to rise a bit in the world, and women can only do that through their mates—no matter what class buggers they all are. I says to him each night, “I long for the day you make me a lieutenant’s widow!”
7.
Emilia and Desdemona. We hear the sounds of scrubbing between the scenes.
DESDEMONA: Please, my dear Emilia, I can count on you, can’t I? As one closest to my confidence?
EMILIA: Oh, m’lady, I ask no greater joy than to be close to your ladyship—
DESDEMONA: Then tell me—have you heard anything about me? Why does Othello suspect Cassio?
EMILIA: Oh, no, m’lady, he surely no longer suspects Cassio. I instructed Iago to talk him out of th
at bit of fancy, which he did, risking my lord’s anger at no little cost to his own career; but all for you, you know!
DESDEMONA: You haven’t heard of anything else?
EMILIA: No Ma’am.
(But as Desdemona is to Emilia’s back, Emilia drops a secret smile into the wash bucket. Emilia raises her head again, though, with a sincere, servile face, and turns to Desdemona.)
EMILIA: But if I did know anything, you can be sure that you’re the first to see the parting of my lips about it—
DESDEMONA: Yes, I know. You’ve been an extremely faithful, hardworking servant to me, Emilia, if not a confidante. I’ve noticed your merits, and when we return to Venice…well—you may live to be my fille de chambre yet.
EMILIA (Not quite sure what a fille de chambre is): I’m very grateful, I’m sure.
DESDEMONA: Yes, you deserve a little reward, I think. (Emilia’s face brightens in expectancy)
I’ll see if I can wheedle another tuppence out of my husband each week. (Emilia droops)
EMILIA (Listlessly): Every little tiny bit under the mattress helps, I always says to myself.
(A pause. Desdemona paces, comes to a decision.)
DESDEMONA: Mealy—do you like the dressing gown you’ve been mending?
EMILIA: It’s a lovely piece of work, that is, Miss. I’ve always admired your dresses…
DESDEMONA: Yesss…yes, but isn’t it getting a bit dingy? Tattered around the hem?
EMILIA: Not that anyone would notice; it’s a beautiful gown, m’lady…
DESDEMONA: Yes, you’re right. I was going to give it to you, but maybe I’ll hang on to it a bit longer…
(Emilia, realizing her stupidity, casts an avaricious, yet mournful look at the gown that was almost hers.)
EMILIA: Oh, m’lady…It’s…it’s certainly a lovely cloth, and there’s a cut to it that would make one of them boy actors shapely…
DESDEMONA (Peeved at the analogy): Hmmmm—though, come to think of it, it would fit Bianca much neater, I think…
EMILIA: Bianca! Bianca! She’s got the thighs of a milch cow, m’lady!
DESDEMONA (Amused): I’ve never noticed.
(Emilia, sulking again, vigorously scrubs.)
DESDEMONA (In conciliation): No, come to think of it, I believe you are right—it’s not really Bianca’s fashion. It’s all yours. After tonight.
