HENRI: We don’t know that.
FELIX: What the hell are you talking about, the son of a bitch is not even Jewish!—Good god, Henri, with that kind of money I could put the police into decent shoes and issue every one of them a poncho. And real sewers . . . with pipes!—so the better class of people wouldn’t have to go up to the tops of the hills to build a house . . . we could maybe have our own airline and send all our prostitutes to the dentist . . .
HENRI: Stop. Please. Slight pause. Do you really want our country blamed for a worldwide suicide?
FELIX: What?
HENRI: A crucifixion lasting possibly hours on the screen—use your imagination! To a lot of people it will mean the imminent end of the world . . .
FELIX, dismissing: Oh that’s nonsense . . . !
HENRI: I can see thousands jumping off bridges in Paris, London, New York . . . ! And California . . . my god, California will turn into a madhouse.—And the whole thing blamed on us? —We’ll be a contemptible country! I know you’ll call it off now, won’t you.
Felix stares.
Felix, think of your children—their father will be despised through the end of time, do you want that stain on their lives?
Pause. Felix in thought.
FELIX: I disagree. I really do. Look at it calmly—fifteen or twenty years after they kicked Nixon out of the White House he had one of the biggest funerals since Abraham Lincoln. Is that true or isn’t it?
HENRI: Well, yes, I suppose it is.
FELIX: Believe me, Henri, in politics there is only one sacred rule—nobody clearly remembers anything.
HENRI: I’ve seen him.
FELIX: Really! How’d that happen?
HENRI: The police happened to have caught him in the street outside my window. Terrible scene; four or five of his . . . I suppose you could call them disciples stood there, weeping.
One of the cops clubbed him down and kicked him squarely in the mouth. I was paralyzed. But then, as they were pushing him into the van—quite accidentally, his gaze rose up to my window and for an instant our eyes met.—His composure, Felix—his poise—there was a kind of tranquility in his eyes that was . . . chilling; he almost seemed to transcend everything, as though he knew all this had to happen . . .
FELIX: I thank you for this conversation, it’s cleared me up . . .
HENRI: Let me talk to him. I take it you have him here?
FELIX: He won’t open his mouth.
HENRI: Let me try to convince him to leave the country.
FELIX: Wonderful, but try to feel out if we can expect some dignity if he’s nailed up? I don’t want it to look like some kind of torture or something . . .
HENRI: And what about our dignity!
FELIX: Our dignity is modernization! Tell him he’s going to die for all of us!
HENRI:. . . Because we need that money!
FELIX: All right, yes, but that’s a hell of a lot better than dying for nothing!
Felix opens the door; a blinding white light pours
through the doorway through which they are peering.
HENRI: What is that light on him?
FELIX: Nothing. He just suddenly lights up sometimes. It happens, that’s all.
HENRI: It “happens”!
FELIX, defensive outburst: All right, I don’t understand it! Do you understand a computer chip? Can you tell me what electricity is? And how about a gene? I mean what is a fucking gene? So he lights up; it’s one more thing, that’s all. But look at him, you ever seen such total vacancy in a man’s face? Pointing. That idiot is mental and he’s making us all crazy! Go and godspeed!
HENRI, takes a step toward doorway and halts: You know, when I saw him outside my window a very odd thought . . . exploded in my head—that I hadn’t actually been seeing anything . . . for most of my life. That I have lived half blind . . . to Jeanine, even to my former wife . . . I can’t begin to explain it, Felix, but it’s all left me with one idea that I can’t shake off—it haunts me.
FELIX: What idea?
HENRI: That I could have loved. Slight pause. In my life.
Henri, conflicted, exits through the doorway. Felix
shuts the door behind him.
FELIX: Odd—one minute I’d really love to blow that moron away. But the next minute . . .
He stares in puzzlement. He goes to his phone. Picks
up the letter.
Isabelle. Get me New York. 212-779-8865. Want to speak to a Mr. . . . Reads letter. Skip L. Cheeseboro, he’s a vice president of the firm.—Well, yes—if they ask you, say it’s in reference to a crucifixion. He’ll know what it means.
Blackout.
SCENE 2
Mountain top. Emily Shapiro enters with Skip L.
Cheeseboro. She is in jeans and zipper jacket and
baseball cap, he in bush jacket, carrying a portfolio and
a shooting stick.They bend over to catch their breaths.
Now she straightens up and looks out front, awed.
EMILY: My god! Look at this!
SKIP: Yeah!
EMILY: That snow. That sun. That light!
SKIP: Yeah!
EMILY: What a blue! What an orange! What mountains!
SKIP: What’s the date today?
EMILY: Seventeenth.
SKIP: Huh! . . . I think she’s getting the divorce today and I completely forgot to call her.
EMILY: Well maybe she’ll forgive you. Looking into distance.—This is absolutely awesome. How pure.
SKIP: A lot like Nepal—the Ivory Soap shoot.
EMILY: Like Kenya too, maybe . . . Chevy Malibu.
SKIP: The Caucasus, too.
EMILY: Caucasus?
SKIP: Head and Shoulders.
EMILY: Wasn’t that Venezuela?
SKIP: Venezuela was Jeep.
EMILY: Right!—No!—Jeep was the Himalayas.
SKIP: Himalayas was Alka Seltzer, dear.
EMILY: Oh right, that gorgeous bubbling fountain.
SKIP: I think the bubbling fountain was Efferdent in Chile.
EMILY, closing her eyes in anguish: God, what a mush it all is! Looking out again. Human beings don’t deserve this world. Spreading out her arms. I mean look at this! Look at this glory! ... And look at us.
The Captain enters.
CAPTAIN: Everything is fine?
SKIP: Beautiful, thank you very much, Captain. Our crew will be arriving shortly . . .
CAPTAIN: We will help them up . . .
Important news.
Mr. Schultz is already arriving.
EMILY: Mr. Schultz?
CAPTAIN: Very famous; his company is making the medicine for the feet.
EMILY AND SKIP, uncomprehending: Ah!
EMILY: Oh!—athlete’s foot!
CAPTAIN: And for the ears . . . to remove the wax.
SKIP: Really. And what connection does he have with . . . ?
CAPTAIN: He is cousin to General Barriaux . . . very important. A wide gesture front. This is the perfect scenery, no?—for the crucifixion?
EMILY, laughs: For the what?
SKIP: Thank you, Captain . . .
CAPTAIN: Yes! I must go down; I am speaking English?
SKIP: Oh yes, you speak very well.
CAPTAIN: How you say “lunch”?
SKIP: Lunch? Well . . . lunch.
CAPTAIN: We also. You say lunch and we say lunch.
EMILY: That’s really remarkable.
CAPTAIN, pleased with himself: Thank you, Madame.
He leaves.
EMILY: That wonderful?—a great spot for a crucifixion!
SKIP, empty laugh: Yes . . . Darling, what exactly did Atcheson tell you?
Captain reenters with Henri.
CAPTAIN: Ah, here is Mr. Schultz!! To Henri: Here is our director!
HENRI, to Emily and Skip: How do you do?
CAPTAIN: I am honored, sir. My wife and daughter are taking “Schultz’s” every month!
HENRI, trying to get back to Emily: . . . Thank y
ou, but I have very little to do with the company anymore.
CAPTAIN: You also have very good pills for the malaria.
HENRI, turning to Skip: I am Henri Schultz . . .
EMILY: Emily Shapiro. Director. This is my producer, Mr. Cheeseboro. We’re making a commercial up here.
HENRI: So I understand. I believe the General will be coming up; I have something I’d like to say to you both if you have a moment . . .
EMILY: We’re just laying out possible backgrounds . . . Turning to Skip. . . . Although I still haven’t been told what exactly we’re shooting . . .
SKIP: . . . May I ask your involvement, sir? Or should I know?
HENRI: Well let me see—my involvement, I suppose, is my concern for the public peace or something in that line.
SKIP: I don’t understand.—If you mean good taste, Miss Shapiro has given the world some of its most uplifting commercial images. And luckily, the beauty of this location practically cries out for a . . . ah . . .
HENRI: A crucifixion, yes. But if you can give me five minutes, I’d like to speak to you about . . .
EMILY: What is he talking about?
SKIP, to Henri, walking her away: Excuse us, please. To Emily: What exactly did Atcheson tell you?
EMILY: Practically nothing.—Phoned from his limo and said to get my crew right over to Kennedy and the company jet and you’d fill me in when I got here . . .
SKIP: That’s all?
EMILY: Wait a minute—yes; he sort of mentioned some kind of execution, but I didn’t get the product . . .—What is it, somebody making an execution movie, is that it? And I grab some footage?
HENRI: Candidly, I wouldn’t rule out a certain danger . . .
SKIP: There is no danger whatsoever; they have troops all over the mountain.
CAPTAIN: . . . Everything is absolutely covered.
EMILY: Why?
SKIP: Well, let’s see. There is this sort of revolutionary terrorist.
EMILY: Terrorist? A real one?
HENRI: Actually, he himself is apparently not a . . .
SKIP: The man is totally vicious! His gang have killed some cops and blown up government buildings. And he goes around claiming to be the . . . like, you know, the son of god. Turning on Henri nervously.—Is there something I can help you with, sir . . . I mean, what is it you want?
EMILY: I’m confused—what’s the product? To Henri: What are all those soldiers doing down below?
SKIP: They always have soldiers . . . even around weddings . . . rock concerts . . . anything.
HENRI: This is a bit different, they are there in case of a protest.
EMILY: Protest about what?
SKIP: Sir? We are here under an agreement with General Barriaux, and you are interfering with our work; I’m afraid I really must ask you to leave . . .
Soldiers enter, dark local men; two carry spades, and a
long beam which they set down. One carries a submachine
gun and a chainsaw—he stands guard.
EMILY: What’s this now?
SKIP: They’re putting up a little set. To the soldiers: Very good, gentlemen, but don’t do anything yet, okay? Just sit down and wait a few minutes, okay? We’ll be with you in a few seconds, okay?
The soldiers nod agreeably but begin unpacking tools—
an electric drill, bolts. One of them lays a beam across
another.
HENRI: You know it’s to be a crucifixion?—
EMILY: A crucifixion. Really. But what’s the product? Calling to the soldiers: Wait gentlemen! Don’t do anything till I tell you, okay?
The soldiers nod agreeably and one of them begins
digging a hole. Skip grasps the shovel handle.
No, wait, fellas; for one thing, I’ve got to decide on the camera angle before you build anything, okay?
The guard shifts his gun nervously.
Oh well, go ahead.
They proceed with the digging as she turns to Skip
with beginning alarm.
Will you kindly explain what the hell is going on here? And what am I shooting, please?
SKIP: . . . It’s a common thing with murderers here . . . they attach the prisoner . . .
EMILY: Attach? What do you mean? To what?
A very short burst from an electrical drill interrupts.
Please stop that!
Drill cuts out and in the momentary silence the
Captain, to Henri . . .
CAPTAIN, patting his own stomach: Also you have the best for the gas . . . “Schultz’s”!
HENRI: Captain, please—I inherited the company but I have very little to do with running it. I am a philosopher, a teacher . . .
SKIP: Darling, you must understand—this fellow has blown up a number of actual buildings, so they’re quite angry with him . . .
EMILY: Wait, Skip—I don’t know where I got the idea but I thought somebody was shooting a movie and we were just hitchhiking onto it . . .
SKIP: There’s no movie.
EMILY: So . . . is that a cross?
SKIP: Well . . . Takes a fortifying breath. In effect.
EMILY: It’s really a crucifixion?
SKIP: Well . . . in effect, yes, it’s very common here . . .
EMILY: “In effect”—you mean like with nails?
HENRI: That’s correct.
SKIP: It is not! I was told they’ll most likely just tie him onto it! To Emily: They do that quite a lot in this country. I mean with death sentences.
EMILY: But he’s not actually going to like . . . die . . .
SKIP, frustration exploding: I cannot believe that Atcheson . . . !
EMILY: Atcheson told me to get here, period! He didn’t say “die”! Nobody dies in a commercial! Have you all gone crazy?
SKIP: We’re only photographing it, we’re not doing it, for god’s sake!
EMILY, clapping hands over ears: Please stop talking!
A soldier starts up a chainsaw. She rushes to him,
waving her arms.
Prego, Signor . . . No, that’s Italian. Bitte . . . not bitte . . . stop, okay? What’s Spanish for “stop”?
HENRI: Stop.
EMILY: Yes. To the men: Stop!
They stop.
Resurrection Blues Page 3