LANDLADY: How long have you had that suitcase?
LITTLE MAN: Since I started traveling.
LANDLADY: You must be Gulliver, then! You’ve stood up under the strain a lot better than it has.
LITTLE MAN: (straightening) I don’t know.
LANDLADY: You ain’t held together by such old worn-out ropes.
LITTLE MAN: (smiling shyly and sadly) I don’t know.
LANDLADY: (crossing to raise the window-blind) About this room—I hope you ain’t superstitious.
LITTLE MAN: Why?
LANDLADY: This room is one that a man lived in who had a bad run of luck.
LITTLE MAN: Oh. What happened to him? (The Landlady suddenly observes the cat on the bed.)
LANDLADY: Now how did that cat get in here? A little mystery, huh? She must’ve got up the pear tree, dropped on the roof of the porch, an’ climbed in th’ window. (The Little Man sets down his valise and crosses gently smiling to the cat. He picks her up with great tenderness.) She used to occupy this room with the Russian.
LITTLE MAN: The who?
LANDLADY: The fellow I mentioned who had the bad run of luck. I used to say I thought she brought it on him.
LITTLE MAN: They loved each other?
LANDLADY: I never seen such devotion.
LITTLE MAN: Then she couldn’t have brought the bad luck on him. Nothing’s unlucky that loves you. What’s her name?
LANDLADY: Nitchevo.
LITTLE MAN: What?
LANDLADY: Nitchevo. That’s what he called her. He told me once what it means but I’ve forgotten. It used to give me a pain.
LITTLE MAN: What?
LANDLADY: I’d come in here to talk. The circumstances I’ve got to live under are trying. I have a good deal of steam I need to blow off. He was a good listener.
LITTLE MAN: The Russian?
LANDLADY: Sympathetic, but silent. While I talked he was only watching the cat.
LITTLE MAN: (smiling a little) And so you don’t like her?
LANDLADY: NO. (She sits comfortably on the bed.) I’ll tell you the story. He was a Russian or something. Polacks I usually call ‘em. Occupied this room before he took sick. He’d found the cat in the alley an’ brought her home an’ fed her an’ took care of ‘er an’ let ‘er sleep in his bed. A dirty practice, animals in the bed. Don’t you think so? (The Little Man shrugs.) Well—the work at the plant is unhealthy for even a strong-bodied man. The Polack broke down. Tuberculosis developed. He gets an indemnity of some kind and goes West. The cat—he wanted to take her with him. I set my foot down on that. I told him she’d disappeared. He left without her. Now I can’t get rid of the dirty thing.
LITTLE MAN: The cat?
LANDLADY: Twice today I thrown cold water on her when she come slinking around here looking for him. See how she stares at me? Hatred. Withering hatred. Just like one jealous woman looks at another. I guess she’s waiting around for him to come home.
LITTLE MAN: Will he?
LANDLADY: Never in this world.
LITTLE MAN: Dead?
LANDLADY: The sixteenth of January I got the notice. Wasn’t nobody else to be informed. (The Little Man nods with a sad smile and strokes the cat.) Some people say an animal understands. I told her this morning, He ain’t coming back, he’s dead. But she don’t understand it.
LITTLE MAN: I think she does. She’s grieving, (holding her against his ear) Yes, I can hear her—grieving.
LANDLADY: You’re a funny one, too. How does this bedroom suit you?
LITTLE MAN: It’s a beautiful room.
LANDLADY: Who’re you kidding?
LITTLE MAN: You. How much?
LANDLADY: Three-fifty—in advance.
LITTLE MAN: I will take it, provided—
LANDLADY: What? Provided?
LITTLE MAN: I can do like the Russian and keep the cat here with me.
LANDLADY: (grinning) Oh, so you want to do like the Russian.
LITTLE MAN: Yes.
LANDLADY: (fixing her hair at the cracked mirror) My husban’s a chronic invalid. An injury at the plant.
LITTLE MAN: Yeah? I’m sorry.
LANDLADY: Codein every day. Fifty cents a pill is what it costs me. I wouldn’t mind if only he wasn’t such a pill sometimes himself. But who can look at suffering in a person?
LITTLE MAN: Nobody.
LANDLADY: Yes. That’s how I feel. Well . . . the Russian used to help me out with man’s work in the house.
LITTLE MAN: I see.
LANDLADY: How old are you? I bet I can guess! Thirty-five?
LITTLE MAN: Uh-huh. About.
LANDLADY: Eyetalian?
LITTLE MAN: Uh-huh.
LANDLADY: Wouldn’t you think that I was a fortune-teller? My father was a Gypsy. He taught me a lot of the Zigeuner songs. He used to say to me, Bella, you’re nine parts music—the rest is female mischief! (She smiles at him.) That instrument on the wall’s a balalaika. Some night I’ll drop in here to entertain you.
LITTLE MAN: Good. I heard you singing as I came up to the house. That’s why I stopped. (She smiles again and stands as if waiting.)
LANDLADY: I’ll call you Musso. Musso for Mussolini. You got a job?
LITTLE MAN: Not yet.
LANDLADY: Go down to the plant an’ ask for Oliver Woodson.
LITTLE MAN: Oliver Woodson?
LANDLADY: Tell him Mizz Gallaway sent you. He’ll put you right on the pay-roll.
LITTLE MAN: Good. Thanks.
LANDLADY: Linen’s changed on Mondays. (She starts to turn away.) I got to apologize for the condition the walls are in.
LITTLE MAN: I noticed. Who did it?
LANDLADY: Every man who lived here signed his name.
LITTLE MAN: There must have been a lot.
LANDLADY: Birds of passage. You ever try to count them? Restlessness—changes.
LITTLE MAN: (smiling) Yeah.
LANDLADY: You’d think a man with pay-money in his pocket would have something better to do than sign his name on the walls of a rented bedroom.
LITTLE MAN: Is the Russian’s name here, too?
LANDLADY: Not his name, he couldn’t write—but his picture. There! (She points to a childish cartoon of a big man.) Right beside it, look—tail—whiskers—the cat! (They both laugh.) Partners in misery, huh?
LITTLE MAN: A large man?
LANDLADY: Tremendous! But when the disease germ struck him, it chopped him down like a piece of rotten timber . . . Statistics show that married men live longest. I’ll tell you why it is. (She straightens her blouse and adjusts the belt.) Men that—live by themselves—get peculiar ways. All that part of their lives that was meant to be taken up with family matters is all left over—empty. You get what I mean?
LITTLE MAN: Yeah?
LANDLADY: Well . . . They fill it with make-shift things. I once had a roomer who went to the movies every night of the week. He carried a brief-case with him all of the time. Guess what he carried in it!
LITTLE MAN: What?
LANDLADY: Sanitary paper toilet-seats. (The Little Man looks away in embarrassment.) A crank about sanitation. Another I had, had a pair of pet bedroom slippers.
LITTLE MAN: Pet—bedroom—?
LANDLADY: Slippers. Plain gray felt, nothing the least bit picturesque about them. Only one thing—the odor! Highly objectionable, after fifteen years—the length of time I reckon he must ‘ve worn ‘em! Well—the slippers disappeared—accidentally on purpose, as they say! Heavens on earth! How did I know he would die of a broken heart? He practickly did! (She laughs.) Life was incomplete without those bedroom slippers. (She turns back to the walls.) Some day I’m going to take me a wire scrubbing-brush an’ a bar of Fels-Naphtha an’ leave them walls as clean as they was before the first roomer moved in. (The door is pushed open. The Old Man enters. He looks like Walt Whitman.)
OLD MLAN: You mustn’t do that, daughter.
LANDLADY: Aw. You. Why mustn’t I?
OLD MLAN: These signatures are their little claims
of remembrance. Their modest bids for immortality, daughter. Don’t brush them away. Even a sparrow—leaves an empty nest for a souvenir. Isn’t that so, young man?
LITTLE MAN: Yes.
OLD MLAN: Cataracts have begun to— (He waves his hand in front of his nearly sightless eyes.) I’m not sure where you are.
LITTLE MAN: (stretching out his hand) Here.
OLD MLAN: Be comforted here. For the little while you stay. And write your name on the wall! You won’t be forgotten.
LANDLADY: That’s enough, now, Father.
OLD MLAN: I’m only looking for some empty bottles. Have you any empty bottles?
LANDLADY: How would he have empty bottles? He just moved in.
OLD MLAN: I trade them in at the Bright Spot Delicatessen. I’ll drop in later to finish our conversation. (He goes out.)
LANDLADY: My father-in-law. Don’t encourage him, he’ll be a nuisance to you. (She taps her forehead.) Alcoholic—gone!
LITTLE MAN: (sinking down on the bed and lifting the cat again.) I’m—tired.
LANDLADY: I hope you’ll be comfortable here. I guess that’s all.
LITTLE MAN: Oliver Woodson?
LANDLADY: (at the door) Oh, yes—Oliver Woodson. (She goes out. The Little Man rises and removes a stub of pencil from his pocket. Smiling a little, he goes to the wall and beneath the large and elliptical self-portrait of the Russian, he draws his own lean figure, in a few quick pencil scratches. Beneath the cat’s picture, he puts an emphatic check-mark. Then he smiles at the cat and stands aside to survey.)
CURTAIN
SCENE II
It is late one night that winter. The furnished room is empty except for the cat. Through the frosted panes of the window in the left wall a steely winter moonlight enters. The window in the right wall admits the flickering ruddy glow of the plant and its pulse-like throbbing is heard faintly. The Little Man enters and switches on the suspended electric globe. He carries a small package. He smiles at Nitchevo and unwraps the package. It is a small bottle of cream which he brandishes before her.
LITTLE MAN: Just a minute. (He lowers the window shade that faces the plant.) Now. We forget the plant. (He pours the cream in a blue saucer.) There. Supper. (He sets it on the floor by the bed and sits to watch her eat.) Nitchevo, don’t be nervous. There’s nothing to worry about. In winter my hands get stiff, it makes me clumsy. But I can rub them together, I can massage the joints. And when the weather turns warmer—the stiffness will pass away. Then I won’t jam up the machine any more. Today Mr. Woodson got mad. He bawled me out. Because my clumsy fingers jammed the machine. He stood behind me and watched me and grunted—like this! (He utters an ominous grunt.) Oh, it was like a knife stuck in me, between my ribs! Because, you see, I . . . have to keep this job, to provide the supper. Well . . . I began to shake! Like this! (He imitates shaking.) And he kept standing behind me, watching and grunting. My hands went faster and faster, they broke the rhythm. All of a sudden a part was put out of place, the machine was jammed, the belt conveyor stopped! SCR-E-E-ECH! Every man along the line looked at me! Up and down and all along the line they turned and stared—at me! Mr. Woodson grabbed me by the shoulder! “There you go,” he said, “you clumsy Dago! Jammed up the works again, you brainless Spick!” (He covers his face.) Oh, Nitchevo—I lost my dignity—I cried. . . . (He draws his breath in a shuddering sob.) But now we forget about that, that’s over and done! It’s night, we’re alone together—the room is warm—we sleep. . . . (He strips off his shirt and lies back on the bed. There is a knock at the door and he sits up quickly. He makes a warning gesture to the cat. But the caller is not to be easily discouraged. The knock is repeated, the door is thrust open. It is the Landlady in a soiled but fancy negligee.)
LANDLADY: (resentfully but coyly) Oh—you were playing possum.
LITTLE MAN: I’m—not dressed.
LANDLADY: Nobody needs to be bashful on my account. I thought you’d gone out and left on the light in your room. We got to economize on electric current.
LITTLE MAN: I always turn it off when I go out.
LANDLADY: I don’t believe you ever go out, except to the plant.
LITTLE MAN: I’m on the night-shift now.
LANDLADY: The grave-yard shift, they call it. What is the trouble with you and Oliver Woodson?
LITTLE MAN: Trouble? Why?
LANDLADY: I met him in the Bright Spot Delicatessen. “Oh, by way,” I said to him, “how’s that feller I sent you getting along, that Eyetalian feller?” “Aw, him!” said Mr. Woodson. “Say, what’s the matter with him? Isn’t he doing okay?” “Naw, he jams things up!” “Well,” I said, “give him time, I think he’s nervous. Maybe he tries too hard.”
LITTLE MAN: What did he say?
LANDLADY: He grunted. (She smiles. The Little Man pours the rest of the cream in the cat’s saucer. He is trembling.) You must try an’ get over being so nervous. Maybe what you need is more amusement. (She sits on the edge of the bed, with the balalaika.) Sit back down! There’s room for two on this sofa! (She pats the space beside her. He gingerly sits back down at a considerable distance. His hands knot anxiously together. She plays a soft chord on the balalaika and hums with a sidelong glance at the nervous roomer.) Tired?
LITTLE MAN: Yes.
LANDLADY: Some nights I hear you—talking through the door. Who is he talking to, I used to wonder. (She chuckles.) At first I imagined you had a woman in here. Well, I’m a tolerant woman. I know what people need is more than food and more than work at the plant. (She plays dreamily for a moment.) So when I heard that talking I was pleased. I said to myself—"That lonely little man has found a woman!” I only hoped it wasn’t one picked up—you know—on the street. Women like that aren’t likely to be very clean. Female hygiene’s a lot more—complicated. Well . . . (The Little Man looks down in an agony of embarrassment.)
LITTLE MAN: It wasn’t—a woman.
LANDLADY: I know. I found that out. Just you. Carrying on a one-sided conversation with a cat! Funny, yes—but kind of pitiful, too. You a man not even middle-aged yet—devoting all that care and time and affection—on what? A stray alley-cat you inherited just by chance from the man who stayed here before you, that fool of a Russian! The strangest kind of a romance . . . a man—and a cat! What we mustn’t do, is disregard nature. Nature says—"Man take woman or—man be lonesome!” (She smiles at him coyly and moves a little closer.) Nature has certainly never said, “Man take cat!”
LITTLE MAN: (suddenly, awkwardly rising) Nature has never said anything to me.
LANDLADY: (impatiently) Because you wouldn’t listen!
LITTLE MAN: Oh, I listened. But all I ever heard was my own voice—asking me troublesome questions!
LANDLADY: You hear me, don’t you?
LITTLE MAN: I hear you singing when I come home sometimes. That’s very good, I like it.
LANDLADY: Then why don’t you stop in the parlor and have a chat? Why do you act so bashful? (She rises and stands back of him.) We could talk—have fun! When you took this room you gave me a false impression.
LITTLE MAN: What do you mean?
LANDLADY: Have you forgotten the conversation we had?
LITTLE MAN: I don’t remember any conversation.
LANDLADY: You said you wanted to do just like the Russian.
LITTLE MAN: I meant about the cat, to have her with me!
LANDLADY: I told you he also helped about the house!
LITTLE MAN: I’m on the night-shift now!
LANDLADY: Quit dodging the issue! (There is a pause and then she touches his shoulder.) I thought I explained things to you. My husband’s a chronic invalid, codein, now, twice a day! Naturally I have—lots of steam to blow off! (The Little Man moves nervously away. She follows ponderously, reaching above her to switch off the electric globe.) Now—that’s better, ain’t it?
LITTLE MAN: I don’t think I know—exactly.
LANDLADY: You ain’t satisfied with the room?
LITTLE MAN: I like the ro
om.
LANDLADY: I had the idea you wasn’t satisfied with it.
LITTLE MAN: The room is home. I like it.
LANDLADY: The way you avoided having a conversation—almost ran past the front room every night. Why don’t we talk together? The cat’s got your tongue?
LITTLE MAN: You wouldn’t be talking—to me.
LANDLADY: I’m talking to you—direckly!
LITTLE MAN: Not to me.
LANDLADY: You! Me! Where is any third party?
LITTLE MAN: There isn’t a second party.
LANDLADY: What?
LITTLE MAN: You’re only talking to something you think is me.
LANDLADY: Now we are getting in deep.
LITTLE MAN: You made me say it. (turning to face her) I’m not like you, a solid, touchable being.
LANDLADY: Words—wonderful! The cat’s let go of your tongue?
LITTLE MAN: You’re wrong if you think I’m—a person! I’m not—no person! At all . . .
LANDLADY: What are you, then, little man?
LITTLE MAN: (sighing and shrugging) A kind of a—ghost of a—man . . .
LANDLADY: (laughing) So you’re not Napoleon, you’re Napoleon’s ghost!
LITTLE MAN: When a body is born in the world—it can’t back out. . . .
LANDLADY: Huh?
LITTLE MAN: But sometimes—
LANDLADY: What?
LITTLE MAN: (with a bewildered gesture) The body is only—a shell. It may be alive—when what’s inside—is too afraid to come out! It stays locked up and alone! Single! Private! That’s how it is—with me. You’re not talking to me—but just what you think is me!
LANDLADY: (laughing gently) Such a lot of words. You’ve thrown me the dictionary. All you needed to say was that you’re lonesome. (She touches his shoulder.) Plain old lonesomeness, that’s what’s the matter with you! (He turns to her and she gently touches his face.) Nature says, “Don’t be lonesome!” (The curtain begins to fall.) Nature says—"Don’t—be lonesome!”
CURTAIN
SCENE III
It is again late at night. The Little Man enters with snow on his turned-up collar and knitted black wool cap.
27 Wagons Full of Cotton and Other Plays Page 12
