by Rajiv Joseph
You want me to kill you tomorrow morning? Is that what you want?
BABUR: I don’t want Tajmahal to be the last beautiful thing ever made.
HUMAYUN: If the King decrees that Beauty is dead, then Beauty is dead.
BABUR: (in Huma’s face) Then fuck the King. Beauty shall live.
Babur walks away from Humayun, repeating this, getting louder, as if to proclaim this to the kingdom.
BABUR: Fuck the King! Beauty shall live!
FUCK THE KING! BEAUTY SHALL LIVE!
(at top of his lungs)
FUCK THE KING! BEAUTY SHALL LIVE!
Humayun jumps on Babur to stop him, quiet him, and throws him to the ground, stunning Babur.
HUMAYUN: You are under arrest for . . . for . . . you are arrested for BLASPHEMY! BLASPHEMY!
BABUR: What are you talking about?
HUMAYUN: (quietly to Babur) Listen, bhai . . . it’s just “blasphemy”. Three days in jail. That’s it. You go to jail, you cool your head, you stop this crazy talk.
BABUR: Get OFF, stop, Huma!
HUMAYUN: If they hear what you’re saying they will have an elephant trample you to death! It’s treason, bhai!
BABUR: Let me go . . . Damnit, Humayun!
HUMAYUN: (quietly) You’ll do three days and then you’ll come out and it’ll be just me and you.
You and me. No more talk of beauty. No more talk of killing the king.
Okay? Okay. Okay. Guards! Guards! GUARDS!
SCENE 4.
A prison cell. Babur is chained to the wall.
BABUR: This is bullshit.
Humayun enters. He looks changed . . . he may have just been crying.
BABUR: There he is. Traitorous bastard. You throw your own bhai into jail?! Is that what you do?! Remind me to never tell you anything ever again.
(beat)
I should have never opened my mouth around you, O son of the Big Boss on High.
(beat; Babur takes a new approach)
You really thought I would have gone along with it? You thought me, Babur, was going to kill the emperor?!
(beat)
I just needed to talk through it, was all, Huma. God, you overreact.
HUMAYUN: I overreact!?
(beat; quietly)
They would have put you to death for what you said!
BABUR: So now I’m in jail. Charged with blasphemy. Is that what happened?
HUMAYUN: You wouldn’t shut up!
BABUR: When have I ever shut up? What day since we were boys did I not blabber to you about this or that, about fancies and prophecies and inventions or what dreams I had . . .
(beat)
But now, today, out of the blue, you arrest me?
HUMAYUN: You never before plotted to murder the King.
BABUR: I wouldn’t have done it. I couldn’t. I don’t know if I can stand the sight of blood anymore.
HUMAYUN: Some guard you would make, then.
Humayun starts to cry.
BABUR: Are you goddamn crying?
Okay okay, I forgive you already, my good God, this I have never seen! Humayun crying like a little girl! Trust me on one point, mister, you will never hear the end of this. Never. Not from me. I will never let you forget that one night you cried your face off out of guilt for your poor sweet Babur.
Humayun now groans a terrible groan—haunted, awful.
An awkward beat follows it; something is up.
BABUR: I can swallow three days in here. This is a palace. I was raised in worse.
(beat)
What are you even doing here? You missed me so much you couldn’t let me languish in solitary fashion?
Is that it, boss?
Did you miss me?
HUMAYUN: You’re weak.
BABUR: I’m weak?
HUMAYUN: Since when do you love people so much you can’t bear to hurt them?
BABUR: I could never bear to hurt anyone.
You know this.
I apologize to a chicken before I snap his neck.
I’m weak.
I like being weak.
HUMAYUN: That doesn’t make any sense.
BABUR: Who knows?
HUMAYUN: Nobody wants to be weak. Nobody prefers to be weak.
BABUR: I appreciate what you did.
HUMAYUN: What?
BABUR: Arresting me. You probably saved my life.
You were right. I was all worked up.
I’m calm now. I’ll be good.
Humayun gets up and slowly.
HUMAYUN: (quietly) I’m sorry, bhai.
Humayun walks away from a bewildered Babur and, walking to an alcove, pulls out the wood chopping block.
BABUR: Humayun . . . what are you doing? What are you . . . why is THAT THERE!?
HUMAYUN: I’m sorry, bhai . . .
Humayun detaches Babur’s chains and suddenly and forcefully pulls Babur across the room to the chopping block, where he is able to chain Babur’s arms and hands down, across the block.
BABUR: No, no no no! Huma, what are you doing?! What are you . . . STOP! STOP HUMAYUN STOP!
Humayun backs away from Babur and the block and has to sit in against the wall again, holding his head in his hands.
BABUR: Huma, what’s going on . . . you said Blasphemy! You said three days in jail! What the fuck is this?! You’re not taking my hands, Huma! Come on!
HUMAYUN: I have to.
BABUR: NO! WHY!? NO!
HUMAYUN: Babu . . .
BABUR: What are you TALKING ABOUT?
HUMAYUN: Just QUIET, or it could get worse . . . Okay? Just QUIET PLEASE . . .
BABUR: You can’t take my hands. Huma, it’s me, it’s Babur, okay? You can’t chop off your bhai’s hands!
HUMAYUN: I thought blasphemy would be the best . . . charge . . . three days in jail.
BABUR: Yeah! That’s what you said!
HUMAYUN: I had to invent some story, so I did and I told the mansabdar my tall tale, and he believed it just fine . . . but then I had to go before my father . . .
And he knew I was lying.
He looks through me. He can read my mind . . .
And so I told him . . .
Everything about you, about what you said, and then I . . .
Babu . . .
I threw myself at his feet and begged him to not kill you.
I cried and I begged . . .
He was disgusted in me.
But he said you could live. But only if . . .
Only if I take your hands.
BABUR: No! No! No!
Humayun starts weeping. Babur just stares at him.
HUMAYUN: I have to do it.
Humayun goes and retrieves a large sword.
BABUR
(trying a gentler approach)
Listen, Huma, you don’t have to.
There’s nothing you have to do. You’re smart, you can figure something out.
(beat; he waits)
Just let me go. Say I escaped. I’ll run off. Nobody will ever hear from me again . . . Just don’t take my hands . . .
HUMAYUN: If I don’t they’ll kill you.
BABUR: No, they won’t. They won’t! I’ll escape! On my own . . . you don’t even have to help me, just let me out of these chains and . . . Humayun . . . Huma . . . come on . . .
Humayun readies himself to do it.
BABUR: NO! No, don’t you do this, Humayun, don’t you . . . you can’t do this. NO! Listen to me, I know you, Huma, this will fuck you up . . .
This is what we’re going to do. I’ll scream so everyone will think you did what you needed to do, and then I’ll—
Humayun brings his sword down on Babur’s wrists;
Babur tries to scream, but no sound comes out.
The hands don’t come off with one stroke. He brings down his sword again. Still not good enough. A third time, and blood sprays all over Humayun’s face.
Babur lies on the ground, handless, screaming. Humayun stares at him in shock for a moment, but then turns, g
rabs a cauterizing iron out of an oven, and walks to Babur and cauterizes his stumps. Then, with cloth, wraps them.
He walks back to the oven and throws the iron into it. He stands still, facing the wall for a long time, while Babur writhes on the floor, no longer screaming, silently gasping.
Humayun exits.
BABUR: Huma . . . ?
Huma . . .
(quietly)
Don’t go.
SCENE 5.
Night. Humayun stands guard outside the Taj, the same spot. It is ten years later.
HUMAYUN: Who’s there! Show yourself! There is a Royal Curfew presently imposed!
Nobody is there, but Humayun is convinced someone is hiding in the shadows . . .
HUMAYUN: In the name of his most supreme Emperor Aurangzeb Alamgir, show your face!
There really is nobody there.
Humayun lowers his swords. He almost has to look back – he could have sworn someone was there. He was almost hoping someone was.
HUMAYUN: (quietly, hopeful, almost as if he were still a boy) Hello?
He takes a moment, but then goes back to his guard stance.
He stands alone for a long moment.
The same bird call from the start of the play.
Humayun looks up at it, recognizing it, hearing it is salt in his terrible wound. The bird sings again
It’s almost as if Humayun is hearing the voice of Babur. He remembers his friend, he remembers everything.
Another bird calls. And another. A cacophony of birds fills the world. Humayun is suddenly afraid . . .
The deep rumble of a jungle . . . insects, wind, trees, the cry of an animal . . . and lightning bugs are everywhere.
An ivy begins to grow everywhere around Humayun, and trees grow out of the air, and surround him, as he finds himself between two worlds: the Taj in Agra, and a jungle.
HUMAYUN: Babur . . . ! Babur . . . !
What are those sounds . . .
They’re everywhere . . .
In the branches above him, there is nestled a wooden platform. From the branches of the trees, onto the platform, climbs Babur, several years younger, shirtless, bathed in sweat, standing proudly on his sandalwood raft in the trees. He’s buoyant.
BABUR: Creatures! Of the jungle!
HUMAYUN: Yeah, but what creatures . . . !
BABUR: Always worrying! Humayun the fretful!
HUMAYUN: We are LOST IN THE JUNGLE!
BABUR: We’re not “lost”! We just got separated from our troop.
HUMAYUN: That’s lost!
A distant roar . . .
HUMAYUN: What the hell is that?
BABUR: Probably a tiger.
HUMAYUN: A tiger!?
BABUR: That’s why we have this, that’s why we crafted this perfect little platform, our little sandalwood raft in the trees! I’d like to see some tiger climb up here and poke his nose.
HUMAYUN: Tigers can climb trees!
BABUR: I say let them! They’ll take one look at this . . .
Babur does a dance on the platform . . .
HUMAYUN: There’s other things that can get up here. Snakes. Insects. Snakes.
BABUR: Huma! This is fun! We got separated from our troop!
HUMAYUN: Yeah, and I would like to find them!
BABUR: And I would very much prefer to NOT find them. Those fellows are right cocksucking banditfuckers.
HUMAYUN: We’re really going to spend the night on this thing? In a tree? In the jungle?
BABUR: It’s sandalwood. It has this smell . . . Mosquitos won’t come near . . . and neither will snakes . . . The smell is distinct.
HUMAYUN: (sniffs the air) I do love that smell.
(beat)
Look at this platform! It is pretty good. We made this. We made this with our swords.
BABUR: It’s probably the greatest thing I’ve ever made.
HUMAYUN: Really?
BABUR: Yeah.
HUMAYUN: I don’t know about that. I once carved a piece of wood to look like a bird. It looked just like a bird. That was probably the best thing I’ve ever made. This is second.
BABUR: You carve wood into birds?
HUMAYUN: I used to. Not so much anymore. My Dad thinks it’s wasteful of my time. I dunno.
A loud shriek. Babur gets a little scared.
BABUR: What was that?!
HUMAYUN: (smiles) That was a bat.
They laugh a little together.
BABUR: Wouldn’t you rather be lost forever? Wouldn’t that be so much better than going back to the troop and the army and Agra and everything? Living out here? Away from everyone.
HUMAYUN: I don’t want to be lost forever!
BABUR: It might be more interesting, is all I’m saying.
(seeing something in the distance)
Hey, Humayun . . . Look!
Humayun doesn’t see.
HUMAYUN: What?
BABUR: Through these branches . . . Look at that . . . ! I can’t believe I didn’t see that . . . ! What is that?!
Humayun cranes his head, and then sees it.
HUMAYUN: Oh whoa . . . WOW.
BABUR: What is that, a lake?
HUMAYUN: Yeah, it’s a . . . pink lake.
BABUR: No, there’s gotta be something on it. What the hell is it?
HUMAYUN: It’s moving . . .
BABUR: Yeah, what is it . . . It’s something on the water . . .
Beat; they crane their necks, trying to see . . .
HUMAYUN: It’s birds!
BABUR: Birds?
HUMAYUN: Yeah, they’re birds, sitting on the water . . .
BABUR: The entire thing is birds . . . that entire lake, every inch, is covered by a bird?
HUMAYUN: Yeah . . . a pink and purple bird.
BABUR: And green too? Or is that the water . . . ?
HUMAYUN: Pink purple and green birds . . . look how beautiful, huh?
BABUR: There must be millions of them.
HUMAYUN: At least. What kind of bird is that . . . its . . . uhmmm . . . chiff-chaff? . . . Or maybe it’s a . . .
Suddenly the immense sound of wings fills the space, both men are startled by it, and they both watch a gargantuan flock of birds lift off the lake and fly directly over them. It lasts a long time. They keep flying, right over them. It’s a spiritual experience for both of them.
Over the beating of wings . . . Both men looking straight up . . .
BABUR: Huma . . .
HUMAYUN: Yeah . . .
BABUR: You see that . . . !?
HUMAYUN: Yeah! Yeah!
BABUR: You see that!?
HUMAYUN: Yeah! I see it! I see it!
They both laugh hysterically, and then almost cry.
BABUR: Wow.
HUMAYUN: Wow.
BABUR: Wow.
HUMAYUN: Wow.
Then all the birds are gone. It’s silent again.
The jungle disappears, Babur disappears, only Humayun is left, back in Agra, guarding, alone.
He takes a moment to hold on to his memory of Babur and the raft in the trees and the past—the only place, for him, where beauty might live.
And then he goes back into a proper guarding position. He stands there, in silence, for a long time.
END OF PLAY
MR. WOLF
PRODUCTION HISTORY
The world premiere of MR. WOLF was produced by South Coast Repertory with a grant from the Elizabeth George Foundation. It opened on April 12, 2015, in Costa Mesa, California. It was directed by David Emmes; the set design was by Nephelie Andonyadis; the lighting design was by Lap Chi Chu; the sound design was by Cricket S. Myers; the costume design was by Leah Piehl; and the production manager was Joshua Marchesi. The cast was as follows:
THERESA
Emily James
MR. WOLF
John de Lancie
JULIE
Kwana Martinez
MICHAEL
Jon Tenney
HANA
Tessa Auberjonois
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br /> MR. WOLF was subsequently produced by Cleveland Play House. The play opened on April 2, 2016, at the Outcalt Theatre in Cleveland, Ohio. It was directed by Giovanna Sardelli; the set design was by Timothy R. Mackabee; the lighting design was by Gina Scherr; the sound design was by Dan Kluger; the costume design was by Amy Clark; and the stage manager was John Godbout. The cast was as follows:
THERESA
Juliet Brett
MR. WOLF
John de Lancie
JULIE
Rebecca Brooksher
MICHAEL
Todd Cerveris
HANA
Jessica Dickey
ACT 1.
SCENE 1.
A chalkboard stands in a large living room in a home. Bookshelves with well-read books line the walls. A large old rug across the floor . . .
On a portion of the chalkboard, drawn meticulously, is our solar system. Random stars are also mapped out, well past our solar system, with notations and explanations written next to them.
Girl, 15, sits underneath the chalkboard, or to the side. Her hands, arms, shirt are covered with colored chalk dust. She seems deeply in thought, worried, she holds pieces of chalk in her hands and absently rolls them in her hands, or doodles on the floor . . .
She hears a sound—something magnified, otherworldly, although it could also just be a door slamming shut . . .
She gets up quickly.
Mr. Wolf, 55, enters. He has many large shopping bags. He looks exhausted and perhaps in despair.
MR. WOLF: (seeing the chalkboard) You were drawing.
GIRL: It’s a map.
MR. WOLF: It’s nice.
GIRL: It’s a map and it started with a question. Don’t answer, it’s rhetorical:
“Is the universe actually infinite, or is ‘infinite’ a generic designation we apply to whatever we don’t understand?”
MR. WOLF: Are you asking me?
GIRL: No, I said it was rhetorical.
MR. WOLF: Oh. So?
GIRL: So, for example, if the universe is infinite, it means there is no end to possibility. For example, there would be no question that there would be life outside of this planet, because with infinity . . . infinite possibilities . . . the exact same conditions for a planet and its relation to a star would be replicated infinite times, again and again, and so, for example, the answer to extraterrestrial life is YES, there are other living things on other planets, and there is infinite life in the universe. Because to say “no” to the question of life elsewhere, would be to assert limitations to the expanse of infinity.