by Tony Kushner
HARPER: There isn’t anyone . . . Maybe an Eskimo. Who could ice-fish for food. And help me build a nest for when the baby comes.
MR. LIES: There are no Eskimo in Antarctica. And you’re not really pregnant. You made that up.
HARPER: Well all of this is made up. So if the snow feels cold I’m pregnant. Right? Here, I can be pregnant. And I can have any kind of a baby I want.
MR. LIES: This is a retreat, a vacuum, its virtue is that it lacks everything; deep-freeze for feelings. You can be numb and safe here, that’s what you came for. Respect the delicate ecology of your delusions.
HARPER: You mean like no Eskimo in Antarctica.
MR. LIES: Correcto. Ice and snow, no Eskimo. Even hallucinations have laws.
HARPER: Well then who’s that?
(The Eskimo appears.)
MR. LIES: An Eskimo.
HARPER: An Antarctic Eskimo. A fisher of the polar deep.
MR. LIES: There’s something wrong with this picture.
(The Eskimo beckons.)
HARPER: I’m going to like this place. It’s my own National Geographic Special! Oh! Oh! (She holds her stomach) I think . . . I think I felt her kicking. Maybe I’ll give birth to a baby covered with thick white fur, and that way she won’t be cold. My breasts will be full of hot cocoa so she doesn’t get chilly. And if it gets really cold, she’ll have a pouch I can crawl into. Like a marsupial. We’ll mend together. That’s what we’ll do; we’ll mend.
Scene 4
Same day as Scene 2. Snowfall. An abandoned lot in the South Bronx. Trash around. A Homeless Woman is standing near an oil drum in which a fire is burning; she’s sipping soup from a cloudy plastic container.
Hannah enters, frightened, angry and cold, dragging two heavy suitcases.
HANNAH: Excuse me? I said excuse me? Can you tell me where I am? Is this Brooklyn? Do you know a Pineapple Street? Is there some sort of bus or train or . . .?
(The Homeless Woman looks at Hannah but doesn’t respond. Hannah continues, trying to get through to her.)
HANNAH: I’m lost, I just arrived from Salt Lake. City. Utah?
(The Homeless Woman sips some soup. Hannah tries again.)
HANNAH: I took the bus that I was told to take and I got off—Well it was the very last stop, so I had to get off, and I asked the driver was this Brooklyn, and he nodded yes but he was from one of those foreign countries where they think it’s good manners to nod at everything even if you have no idea what it is you’re nodding at, and in truth I think he spoke no English at all, which I think would make him ineligible for employment on public transportation. The public being English-speaking, mostly. Do you speak English?
(The Homeless Woman nods. Hannah, realizing that the woman is crazy, looks around; seeing no one else in the desolate vicinity, she forges ahead.)
HANNAH: I was supposed to be met at the airport by my son. He didn’t show and I don’t wait more than three and three-quarters hours for anyone. I should have been patient, I guess, I . . . Is this—
HOMELESS WOMAN: Bronx.
HANNAH: Is that—The Bronx? Well how in the name of Heaven did I get to the Bronx when the bus driver said—
(The Homeless Woman turns to the empty air beside her and begins to berate it.)
HOMELESS WOMAN: Slurp slurp slurp will you STOP that disgusting slurping! YOU DISGUSTING SLURPING FEEDING ANIMAL! Feeding yourself, just feeding yourself, what would it matter, to you or to ANYONE, if you just stopped. Feeding. And DIED?
(Pause.)
HANNAH: Can you just tell me where I—
HOMELESS WOMAN (To Hannah): Why was the Kosciuszko Bridge named after a Polack?
HANNAH: I don’t know what you’re—
HOMELESS WOMAN: That was a joke.
HANNAH: Well what’s the punchline?
HOMELESS WOMAN: I don’t know.
HANNAH (Looking around desperately): Oh for pete’s sake, is there anyone else who—
(The Homeless Woman turns again to the person she’s hallucinating:)
HOMELESS WOMAN: Stand further off you fat loathsome whore! You can’t have any more of this soup, slurp slurp slurp you animal, and the—I know you’ll just go pee it all away and where will you do that? Behind what bush? It’s FUCKING COLD out here and I—
Oh that’s right, because it was supposed to have been a tunnel!
That’s not very funny.
Have you read the prophecies of Nostradamus?
HANNAH: Who?
HOMELESS WOMAN: Some guy I went out with once somewhere, Nostradamus. Prophet, outcast, eyes like—Scary shit, he—
HANNAH: Shut up. Please! (Taking a step closer to the Homeless Woman) Now I want you to stop jabbering for a minute and pull your wits together and tell me how to get to Brooklyn. Because you know! And you are going to tell me! Because there is no one else around to tell me and I am wet and cold and I am very angry! So I am sorry you’re psychotic but just make the effort. (Another step closer) Take a deep breath. DO IT!
(Hannah and the Homeless Woman breathe together.)
HANNAH: That’s good. Now exhale.
(They do.)
HANNAH: Good. Now how do I get to Brooklyn?
HOMELESS WOMAN: Don’t know. Never been. Sorry. Want some soup?
HANNAH: Manhattan? Maybe you know . . . (Giving up: hopelessly) I don’t suppose you know the location of the Mormon Visitors’—
HOMELESS WOMAN: 65th and Broadway.
HANNAH: How do you—
HOMELESS WOMAN: Go there all the time. Free movies. Boring, but you can stay all day.
HANNAH: Well . . . So how do I—
HOMELESS WOMAN: Take the D train. Next block make a right.
HANNAH: Thank you.
(Hannah hoists her suitcases and starts to leave.)
HOMELESS WOMAN: Oh yeah.
In the new century I think we will all be insane.
Scene 5
Same day. Joe and Roy in the living room of Roy’s brownstone. Joe has just come in and is still in his coat. Roy wears an elegant bathrobe.
JOE: I can’t. The answer’s no. I’m sorry.
ROY: Oh, well, apologies.
I can’t see that there’s anyone asking for apologies.
(Pause.)
JOE: I’m sorry, Roy.
ROY: Oh, well, apologies.
JOE: My wife is missing, Roy. My mother’s coming from Salt Lake to . . . to help look, I guess. I’m supposed to be at the airport now, picking her up but . . . I just spent two days in a hospital, Roy, with a bleeding ulcer, I was spitting up blood.
ROY: Blood, huh? Look, I’m very busy here and—
JOE: It’s just a job.
ROY: A job? A job? Washington! Dumb Utah Mormon hick shit!
JOE: Roy—
ROY: WASHINGTON! When Washington called me I was younger than you, you think I said, “Aw fuck no I can’t go I got two fingers up my asshole and a little moral nosebleed to boot!” When Washington calls you my pretty young punk friend you go or you can go fuck yourself sideways ’cause the train has pulled out of the station, and you are out, nowhere, out in the cold. Fuck you, Mary Jane, get outta here.
JOE: Just let me—
ROY: Explain? Ephemera. You broke my heart. Explain that. Explain that.
JOE: I love you. Roy.
There’s so much that I want, to be . . . what you see in me, I want to be a participant in the world, in your world, Roy, I want to be capable of that, I’ve tried, really I have but . . . I can’t do this. Not because I don’t believe in you, but because I believe in you so much, in what you stand for, at heart, the order, the decency. I would give anything to protect you, but . . . There are laws I can’t break. It’s too ingrained. It’s not me. There’s enough damage I’ve already done.
Maybe you were right, maybe I’m dead.
ROY: You’re not dead, boy, you’re a sissy.
You love me; that’s moving, I’m moved. It’s nice to be loved. I warned you about her, didn’t I, Joe? But you don’t
listen to me, why, because you say Roy is smart and Roy’s a friend but Roy . . . well, he isn’t nice, and you wanna be nice. Right? A nice, nice man!
(Little pause)
You know what my greatest accomplishment was, Joe, in my life, what I am able to look back on and be proudest of? And I have helped make presidents and unmake them and mayors and more goddamn judges than anyone in NYC ever—AND several million dollars, tax-free—and what do you think means the most to me?
You ever hear of Ethel Rosenberg? Huh, Joe, huh?
JOE: Well, yeah, I guess I . . . Yes.
ROY: Yes. Yes. You have heard of Ethel Rosenberg. Yes. Maybe you even read about her in the history books.
If it wasn’t for me, Joe, Ethel Rosenberg would be alive today, writing some personal-advice column for Ms. magazine. She isn’t. Because during the trial, Joe, I was on the phone every day, talking with the judge—
JOE: Roy—
ROY: Every day, doing what I do best, talking on the telephone, making sure that timid Yid nebbish on the bench did his duty to America, to history. That sweet unprepossessing woman, two kids, boo-hoo-hoo, reminded us all of our little Jewish mamas—she came this close to getting life; I pleaded till I wept to put her in the chair. Me. I did that. I would have fucking pulled the switch if they’d have let me. Why? Because I fucking hate traitors. Because I fucking hate communists. Was it legal? Fuck legal. Am I a nice man? Fuck nice. They say terrible things about me in the Nation. Fuck the Nation. You want to be Nice, or you want to be Effective? Make the law, or subject to it. Choose. Your wife chose. A week from today, she’ll be back. SHE knows how to get what SHE wants. Maybe I ought to send her to Washington.
JOE: I don’t believe you.
ROY: Gospel.
JOE: You can’t possibly mean what you’re saying. Roy, you were the Assistant United States Attorney on the Rosenberg case, ex-parte communication with the judge during the trial would be . . . censurable, at least, probably conspiracy and . . . in a case that resulted in execution, it’s . . .
ROY: What? (Challenging) Murder?
(Pause.)
JOE: You’re not well is all.
ROY: What do you mean, not well? Who’s not well?
(Pause.)
JOE: You said—
ROY: No I didn’t. I said what?
JOE: Roy, you have cancer.
ROY: No I don’t.
(Pause.)
JOE: You told me you were dying.
ROY: What the fuck are you talking about, Joe? I never said that. I’m in perfect health. There’s not a goddamn thing wrong with me.
(He smiles)
Shake?
(Joe hesitates. He holds out his hand to Roy. Roy pulls Joe into a close, strong clench.)
ROY: It’s OK that you hurt me because I love you, baby Joe. That’s why I’m so rough on you.
(Roy releases Joe. Joe backs away a step or two.)
ROY: Prodigal son. The world will wipe its dirty hands all over you.
JOE: It already has, Roy.
ROY: Now go.
(Roy shoves Joe, hard. Joe turns to leave. Roy stops him, turns him around. He smooths the lapels on Joe’s coat, tenderly.)
ROY: I’ll always be here, waiting for you . . .
(Then with sudden violence, Roy grabs Joe’s lapels and pulls him close, shaking him violently.)
ROY: What did you want from me?! What was all this?! What do you want, treacherous ungrateful little—
(Joe grabs Roy by the front of his robe, and propels him across the length of the room, slamming him against a bookcase. Joe holds Roy at arm’s length, the other arm ready to hit.)
ROY (Laughing softly, daring Joe): Transgress a little, Joseph.
(Joe releases Roy.)
ROY: There are so many laws; find one you can break.
(Joe hesitates, then turns and hurries out.
Roy doubles over in great pain, which he’s been hiding while Joe was in the room. As he sinks to the floor:)
ROY: Ah, Christ . . .
Andy! Andy! Get in here! Andy!
(The door opens, but it isn’t Andy. A small Jewish woman dressed modestly in a fifties hat and coat enters the room. The room darkens.)
ROY: Who the fuck are you? The new nurse?
(The figure in the doorway says nothing. She stares at Roy. A pause. Roy forces himself to stand, then he crosses to her. He stares at her closely. Then he crosses back to a chair, and sits heavily.)
ROY: Aw, fuck. Ethel.
ETHEL ROSENBERG (Her manner is pleasant; her voice is ice-cold): You don’t look good, Roy.
ROY: Well, Ethel. I don’t feel good.
ETHEL ROSENBERG: But you lost a lot of weight. That suits you. You were heavy back then. Zaftig, mit hips.
ROY: I haven’t been that heavy since 1960. We were all heavier back then, before the body thing started. Now I look like a skeleton. They stare.
ETHEL ROSENBERG: The shit’s really hit the fan, huh, Roy?
(Roy nods.)
ETHEL ROSENBERG: Well the fun’s just started.
ROY: What is this, Ethel, Halloween? You trying to scare me?
(Ethel says nothing.)
ROY: Well you’re wasting your time! I’m scarier than you any day of the week! So beat it, Ethel! BOOO! BETTER DEAD THAN RED! Somebody trying to shake me up? HAH HAH! From the throne of God in Heaven to the belly of Hell, you can all fuck yourselves and then go jump in the lake because I’M NOT AFRAID OF YOU OR DEATH OR HELL OR ANYTHING!
ETHEL ROSENBERG: Be seeing you soon, Roy. Julius sends his regards.
ROY: Yeah, well send this to Julius!
(He flips the bird in her direction, stands and moves toward her, intending to slam the door in her face. Halfway across the room he collapses, in terrible abdominal pain.)
ETHEL ROSENBERG: You’re a very sick man, Roy.
ROY: Oh God . . . ANDY!
ETHEL ROSENBERG: Hmmm. He doesn’t hear you, I guess. We should call the ambulance.
(She goes to the phone)
Hah! Buttons! Such things they got now.
What do I dial, Roy?
(Pause. Roy looks at her, then:)
ROY: 911.
ETHEL ROSENBERG (Dials the phone): It sings!
(Imitating dial tones) La la la . . .
Huh.
Yes, you should please send an ambulance to the home of Mr. Roy Cohn, the famous lawyer.
Beats me. A pain in his gut. Bad. A bad pain.
What’s the address, Roy?
ROY (A beat, then): 244 East 87th.
ETHEL ROSENBERG: 244 East 87th Street. No apartment number, he’s got the whole building.
My name? (A beat) Ethel Greenglass Rosenberg.
(Small smile) Me? No I’m not related to Mr. Cohn. An old friend.
(She hangs up)
They said a minute.
ROY: I have all the time in the world.
ETHEL ROSENBERG: You’re immortal.
ROY: I’m immortal. Ethel. (He wills himself to his feet)
I have forced my way into history. I ain’t never gonna die.
ETHEL ROSENBERG: History is about to crack wide open. Millennium approaches.
Scene 6
That night, Prior’s bedroom. Prior, in bed, even more frightened than before. Prior 1 stands before him, wearing a weird hat and robes ornamented with strange signs over his coarse farmer’s tunic. He carries a long palm-leaf bundle.
PRIOR 1: Tonight’s the night! Aren’t you excited? Tonight She arrives! Right through the roof! Ha-adam, ha-gadol . . .
PRIOR 2 (Appearing, similarly attired): Lumen! Phosphor! Fluor! Candle! An unending billowing of scarlet and—
(Prior flings off his covers. He’s prepared.)
PRIOR: Look. Garlic. A mirror. Holy Water. (He squirts water at Prior 1 from a small plastic squirt bottle) A crucifix. FUCK OFF! Get the fuck out of my room! GO!
PRIOR 1 (Leering a little; to Prior 2): Hard as a hickory knob, I’ll bet.
PRIOR 2: We all tu
mesce when they approach. We wax full, like moons.
PRIOR 1 (A barked command): Dance.
PRIOR: Dance?
PRIOR 1: Stand up, damnit, give us your hands, dance!
PRIOR 2: Listen . . .
(A lone oboe begins to play a little dance tune.)
PRIOR 2: Delightful sound. Care to dance?
PRIOR: Please leave me alone, please just let me sleep.
PRIOR 2: Ah, he wants someone familiar. A partner who knows his steps. (To Prior) Close your eyes. Imagine . . .
PRIOR: I don’t—
PRIOR 2: Hush. Close your eyes.
(Prior does.)
PRIOR 2: Now open them.
(Prior does.
Louis appears. He looks gorgeous. The dance tune transitions into a lovely instrumental version of “Moon River.”)
PRIOR: Lou.
LOUIS: Dance with me.
PRIOR: I can’t, my leg, it hurts at night.
Are you . . . a ghost, Lou?
LOUIS: No. Just spectral. Lost to my self. Sitting all day on cold park benches. Wishing I could be with you. Dance with me, babe . . .
(Prior stands, gingerly putting weight on his bad leg. He’s surprised there’s no pain. He walks to Louis.
They begin to dance. The music is beautiful.)
PRIOR 1 (To Prior 2): Hah. Now I see why he’s got no children. He’s a sodomite.
PRIOR 2: Oh be quiet, you medieval gnome, and let them dance.
PRIOR 1: I’m not interfering, I’ve done my bit. Hooray, hooray, the messenger’s come, now I’m blowing off. I don’t like it here.
(Prior 1 vanishes. Prior 2 watches Louis and Prior dance.)
PRIOR 2: The twentieth century. Oh dear, the world has gotten so terribly, terribly old.
(Prior 2 vanishes. Louis and Prior dance.
Louis vanishes.
Prior dances alone, his arms holding empty air, as if not realizing that Louis has gone.
The lights return to normal.
Then suddenly, the sound of the beating of enormous wings.
Prior opens his eyes. The pain in his leg returns.)
Scene 7
Same night, continuous with Scene 6. Split scene: Prior alone in his apartment; Louis alone in the park.
Again, the sound of beating wings.
PRIOR (Looking up in terror at the ceiling): Oh don’t come in here don’t come in—