Plays 1

by Kwame Kwei-Armah

  Maria Alfred you telling story? What happened?

  Alfred What happened? Nothing.

  Maria Nothing?

  Alfred Harold was so taken by the woman, so ’fraid of this beautiful thing before him, he mash it up.

  Maria (falls out) How, he abuse her?

  Alfred Abuse? Who tell you anything about abuse?

  It’s as if Alfred, having pulled another story from the sky, switches and continues.

  Alfred He wouldn’t service.

  Maria Service?

  Alfred (frustrated) Sex, Maria!

  Maria Ah, service. She no have sex toys?

  Alfred Decent women wouldn’t do that in those day.

  Maria Sad days.

  Alfred Dey say she really love him, but a woman has she needs! Eventually, she find a next man and bam, she gone . . . But twos-twos she nes man dead and his he funeral in Tottenham we arrive at. When Harold see Rosemarie in she funeral blacks, it was like Portsmouth Harbour all over again.

  Maria He so sweet?

  Alfred When Rosemarie see him, she eyes light up and she come and she hug him and hug him and hug him up you see. From that day forward, we never see Harold again. I hear they married and living somewhere in the Caribbean.

  Maria Ahhh, that is lovely story. Like fairy tale.

  Alfred No, it’s not. Harold was the only one of us wid a car, so that was the last funeral I went to. Last time I really went out and had some fun.

  Maria Do you think he service now?

  Alfred That was seven years ago.

  Maria You said five.

  Alfred Five, seven, what’s the difference . . .

  Maria You right, they probably too old for that now.

  Alfred What?

  Maria They are old people, what need they of . . .

  Alfred Young lady, there’s always a need. The flesh might not be willing but there are prescription drugs for that these days.

  Maria So because you no have Harold you stay in house all time?

  Alfred I don’t like going out, Maria, because West Indians are run mouth people . . . Before you know it they telling everyone I have this, I have dat, and they be cleaning their suits for my funeral. I don’t have time for that.

  Maria (stares at him, asks directly) What is illness you have, Alfred?

  Alfred You ever think about death, Maria?

  Maria Sometimes.

  She makes her way towards the gram.

  Alfred You ever wished for death?

  Maria Nearly, but no.

  Alfred That’s my illness, Maria. I wish for death.

  Maria Why?

  Alfred The question is, what’s a young woman like you is doing thinking about death?

  Maria Only once or twice – everybody does, no?

  Alfred When you asked me for the days off last week but you wanted me to sign. You know where you stood? Right there. Right by Lillie. Now you standing there again.

  She doesn’t answer. Alfred just stares at her. He spots something.

  Alfred Come here.

  Eventually she does.

  Bend over.

  She does. He looks at her face.

  I haven’t seen this before. When did you get this?

  Maria (trying to move away) It’s nothing. I just . . . The boys stopped me on way home from here on Monday. I had good phone. Wouldn’t let go, so they . . . hit me till I did. Is fine now.

  Alfred You wasn’t here on Monday . . . Did you call the police?

  Maria What is point?

  Alfred (flushing her out) What is the point? I’m going to call them right now.

  Maria No . . . don’t.

  Alfred You have to report these things, Maria, or else –

  Maria Please, Alfred. Please do not.

  Alfred No no, I have to. It’s very important that we –

  Maria I want no trouble. It wasn’t boys, OK? Was accident.

  Alfred What kind of accident does bruise up you head like if you run into a man’s fist?

  Maria Alfred, can this we forget . . .

  Alfred No Maria, this is serious tings. What is going on?

  Maria You wouldn’t understand.

  Alfred Wouldn’t understand?

  Maria No, you don’t, can’t understand feelings of (woman).

  Alfred Maria, nothing in the world insults as much as people thinking I can’t understand any or everything . . . What, you and Tomas was fighting? You provoke him or something? You seeing a next man?

  Maria Me! Me . . . provoke?

  She grabs her phone from bag and shows Alfred picture text. It is of a naked woman bent over a sofa snapped from behind on camera phone.

  Maria You want to see provoke? This is provoke? I forward from his phone. Naked woman bent over settee – is landlady.

  Alfred Oh!

  Maria This, Mr Morriss, they do when I go to work. I read you this . . .

  Alfred It’s fine . . . the picture gives me all the information I need (thank you).

  Maria (ignoring) Roughly translate . . . ‘You love my beautiful pussy from behind?’ Here is it. Next one . . .

  Alfred There really isn’t a need to – I quite understand . . .

  Maria ‘I bend over and open up for you to . . . ’

  Alfred Maria!

  Maria When I ask him why, how you say, bam in face.

  Alfred Why didn’t you talk to me about . . . ? I could have told you (what to do).

  Maria What you want me to say? Hello, Mr Alfred, my boyfriend just punch hell from me today? What you then think of Polish people? I prefer lie, OK.

  Beat.

  Alfred How often does this (happen)?

  Maria Is why I no work last week. I go look for other room to rent. But I cannot afford. I need to get out of there, Alfred, or I will . . .

  Alfred You damn right.

  Maria But where I go?

  Alfred Anywhere. Do you have any friends that live locally?

  Maria No.

  Alfred How about . . .

  Maria I have no one anywhere, OK. Tomas is all I know. Why you think I stay here till late or go to IKEA, or Brent Cross or my Whiteleys in Queensmarket.

  Alfred Way . . . Queens-way . . .

  Maria That’s right. That way he and she can finish and maybe he leave me alone.

  She breaks down a little.

  I don’t know what to do. I think as you say, Alfred, it will either go away or I get use to. But it is not. And I cannot go home, all my village expect me to return rich, like everyone else. I can’t do it alone and I cannot return with nothing. Why men do this, Alfred? Why men so bad?

  Beat.

  Alfred I, I, um, don’t know. He probably doesn’t mean to . . .

  Maria What that mean? I tell you for sure one of these nights one of us three die for sure. I am father’s child, I cannot take. How long you take shit for, eh, Alfred? In house I live?

  Alfred (thinks) What time he get home?

  Maria Tonight late. He work east London.

  Alfred OK. Go home and get you tings! Go on, then come right back here.

  Maria What?

  Alfred You move in here till we find you somewhere safe to live.

  Maria Why you do that for me, Alfred – you no know me? No, no, no.

  Alfred I’m not doing it for you I’m doing this for me. Who knows, if it does works out, maybe there’s a little something you can help me with. A little something you can do for me. Go get your stuff.

  Maria Really?

  Alfred Go get your tings.

  She slowly leaves. When she has left he walks up to the gram and places the needle on a record. Out blasts Nat King Cole’s ‘Lets Face the Music and Dance’.

  Alfred What you think, King?

  Nat

  There may be trouble ahead . . . (Etc.)

  Act Two

  Scene One

  Two months later. Maria is dancing to Nat King Cole’s ‘Orange Coloured Sky’. She is singing along as if performing for Alfred, who is in his c
hair. He is looking a lot weaker and more frail than he was, but is still joining in with the song. She sings a couple of lines and he joins in the refrains. They fall about laughing.

  Alfred Good choice, girl, good choice! I’m exhausted just looking at you.

  Maria Come and dance then. You haven’t got out that chair in three days.

  Alfred Let me tell you – in me young days when I enter the dance hall all the young ladies would bwal ‘Fire in the house’.

  Maria What that mean, fire?

  Alfred It mean I would burn up the dance floor with me hot moves.

  He coughs for a little. Maria gets him a drink.

  Maria I can believe it. Tell me a story about you and the dance floor, Alfred.

  Alfred Girl, you take me for poppyshow? And before you ask, it’s West Indian for puppet show. As in amusement – Punch and Judy. Never mind.

  Maria I know Punch and Judy?

  Alfred You do?

  Maria Yes. I read all about England before I come, you know. Anyway, tell me a story.

  He waves her off.

  I know, tell me one of when you first come England, I get food out.

  He looks at her and smiles.

  Alfred Oh, girl, I done forget most ah dem . . . or more frightening, I don’t remember whether they are in fact my stories or other people’s! I don’t want to eat, Maria. I told you, it hurts.

  Maria I went all way to Shepherd’s Bush, you know how many times I had to change bus to get you favourite chicken roti and sorrel juice?

  Alfred Who tell you to go and do that?

  Maria You refuse to drink doctor nutrition shake – you won’t take tablet. I think maybe if I get favourite food like mother cook, you don’t have to send for girlfriend from Grenada and I get to stay here.

  Alfred (smiles) Take out the chicken, just leave the juice in the skin. Let me try that.

  Maria Only if you tell me story. I like your stories, Alfred.

  Alfred (stares at her) You making me want to change me mind, girl . . . You like it here, Maria?

  Maria In your house?

  Alfred Yes.

  Maria You save me, Alfred. For two month I sleep properly at night. I warm, you find me social security number and citizenship test booklet to make me better citizen. You make so that Tomas cannot find where I live. You are my angel, I very happy.

  Alfred Don’t go too far now.

  Maria I am not going to ask you again!

  She leaves for the kitchen.

  Alfred I didn’t really want to come to England . . .

  Maria Yeahhh . . .

  Alfred I was very happy tending my goats and writing the odd poem or story while I watch them, but one day I went in search of my friends and it suddenly hit me that all of them had gone to England. So I sold two of my goats – big money that, you know, cos dem was fat – jumped on a boat and, man, by the time I arrived in Puerto Rico via Jamaica and Barbados, I was ready to come home. I had seen so much of the world I couldn’t take any more. Like being in an art museum, and you can’t take it all in. But I stayed on till England. I had never felt cold like that in my life. I couldn’t stop writing home. Each time the chill hit me – I go for me pen. Each time a damp lick – I dash for me paper.

  Maria (off) Who were you writing to if all your friends were here?

  Alfred My mother! The only letter I ever got back from her – I don’t know who she found to write it – was to tell me how surprised she was to read that I had seen a white man pushing a trash van.

  He laughs in remembrance.

  Twenty-second of May 1960. Still remember the day. I laughed – I rounded up all we new boys to the cold and we just stood there laughing.

  Maria (off) Why you laugh?

  Alfred We had never seen a white man do lowly labour like that. Always thought they were better than us – always acted like they was better than us . . . dem white man. Huh!

  Maria enters with food.

  Maria I don’t like when you talk like that.

  Alfred Is that so, Ms Maria?

  Maria Yes, is so, Mr Alfred.

  Alfred And what you going to do about it?

  Maria Not give you your chicken roti!

  Alfred Ha! Girl, you think I give a damn about eating?

  Maria Then, when you in pain I make you take tablet.

  Alfred To make me feel worse ten minutes later.

  Maria Your wife – was she white?

  Alfred Why do you ask that?

  Maria I just wonder sometimes if she is one that hurt you. So you think all is same . . .

  He takes a small bite of the roti and Maria helps him take a sip of the juice.

  Alfred Ummm, nice.

  Maria (looks at him) Alfred, what is really wrong with you? You lose too much weight and you don’t go to doctor? I worry is me, no look after you properly.

  Alfred I don’t need to go doctor, and you have cured my main illness . . .

  Maria Which is?

  Alfred Do you know the last time someone asked me anything other than – ‘Does this hurt?’ – ‘Can you loan me some money?’ – ‘Can you sell you house?’ Truth is I can’t remember, and then – (Sings.) ‘Wham! bam! alakazam! Wonderful you came by.’

  Maria I said what is wrong with you, Alfred? Not why you enjoy telling me stories.

  Alfred If nobody don’t care about how you get here, how you suppose to feel? Your journey has been of no consequence – that you have achieved nothing in your life.

  Maria You have achieved much. You have big house, two beautiful daughters.

  Alfred (vexed) Those jinals. They born here born with all the advantage and like me they achieved nothing? One is a born-again nut – the other, think I don’t know she’s a lesbian. No matter how much I provoke her, you know she won’t tell . . .

  Maria Maybe she scared you will –

  Alfred Scared of what? You think I care about ting like that, Maria? Who she want to sleep with is she business. I care that she left she child and she husband. Do what you have to do on the side, but don’t, don’t ever leave your child. She of all people should know that.

  Maria Alfred, you are doing again. I ask what is matter with you?

  He stares at her.

  Alfred Go upstairs under my bed. You’ll see two boxes. One is an old shoebox, the other green. Bring both of them down with you. Go.

  Maria gets up and leaves. Alfred wheels himself to gram.

  She returns. Alfred looks at her. Everything he says is calm and collected, even warm maybe.

  Alfred Open the white shoebox, you will see the letter the hospital sent to my GP and myself after my last scan. And then the one I sent back.

  She opens the box and the letter and begins to read. Her eyes suddenly flash up. Her tone very serious.

  Maria What is this word oso . . . ?

  Alfred Oesophagus.

  Maria What that mean?

  Alfred It means I had a scare with cancer of the throat, Maria, a few years ago. They operated and we thought that was dealt with.

  Maria Other long word?

  Alfred Ah, that, my friend, is Latin for saying they were wrong, it wasn’t dealt with and now has spread to my bones.

  Maria Your bones? Why you not go back in for new operation? I see letters come from hospital and doctor all the time, you just put them in bin.

  Alfred Because Maria – it is incurable. The boney tumour is on my pelvis and I am terminal. I asked how long I had – years, months, weeks – they said . . . months, without too many ‘s’s. Maybe three months, top. That was two months ago.

  Maria You have month left?

  Alfred Calm down.

  Maria Do children know?

  Alfred No. No one does. Only you.

  Maria When did you find this out?

  Alfred IKEA day.

  Maria Alfred, oh my God.

  Alfred I need you to be calm, Maria.

  Maria I am calm.

  Alfred OK . . . I worked in a hospital for many years of
my life, Maria, I saw grown men die horrible humiliating deaths simply cos they wanted to cling onto this thing we call life. I’d watch them as they shat themselves and had to be changed by their children because nurses were too busy. I’d watch as their eyes began to pop out of their head as the smell of death descended. I’d listen to their children cry and wives plead with doctors to do something, as if they were gods. I would watch as the doctors got into character before having to tell a loved one that they were not the deities they thought they were. I would see the nurse as she put two sugars in a cup of tea regardless of whether the person receiving the news of their mortality took sweeteners or not. I heard as they cried in the night, through the night – fearful, weak, scared. I saw all of this, Maria, and I promised myself, that will never be me.

  Maria So?

  Alfred The last few days I have reached a new threshold of pain, Maria.

  Maria Then take painkiller . . .

  She gets up to get them. He stops her with his hand.

  Alfred . . . This, they tell me, is the beginning of the swift descent. I will soon stop being able to use parts of my limbs. I will lose the ability to talk and without the use of industrial strength painkillers I will probably lie in excruciating pain till I pass through to the next world.

  Maria stares at him, waiting for him to continue.

  Alfred That is unless . . .

  The door bell rings. Maria looks a little afraid.

  Alfred Don’t open it . . . that is, unless you help me – as I have helped you.

  Maria I do anything for you, Alfred, you know that, how you mean help?

  Alfred I can’t go like that, Maria. One ting I ’fraid is pain. I need someone to assist me, Maria. If I asked you to assist, to help me, would you?

  Maria How you mean, help?

  Alfred Not gun or knife or pillow over my face, I ain’t brave enough for that, no, no . . .

  The bell rings again.

  Maria I can’t talk this now, I go answer door, Alfred.

  She dashes out of the room and opens the front door. It’s Gemma.

  Gemma What took you lot so long, if I didn’t know better I would say all you was doing something you shouldn’t.

  Alfred Who tell you we weren’t?

  Looks at Maria.

  Gemma Isn’t it a bit past your working hours?

  Alfred Maria lives here.

  Gemma You’re a live-in now?

  Alfred No, she – now – lives – here.

  Gemma What?