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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
The Last Carnival
Beef, No Chicken
A Branch of the Blue Nile
By Derek Walcott
Copyright
TO NORLINE
THE LAST CARNIVAL
The Last Carnival was produced by The Group Theatre Company, Seattle, Washington, June 1–26, 1983, directed by Reuben Sierra, with the following cast:
AGATHA/CLODIA
Helen McCardle
VICTOR/ANTOINE
Wesley Rice
OSWALD
Scott Caldwell
GEORGE
Frederick Charles Canada
JEAN
Joanne Kilgour
SYDNEY
Reuben Renauldo Dumas
BROWN
William Hall, Jr.
ARMY MAJOR
J. Lee Cook
YOUNG SYDNEY
Daniel Turner
AGATHA (Act II)
Marilyn Olson
This play was first produced by Warwick Productions at the Government Training Center, Port of Spain, Trinidad, on July 1, 1982, directed by the author, with the following cast:
AGATHA/CLODIA
Frances MacDormand
VICTOR/ANTOINE
Cotter Smith
OSWALD
Maurice Brash
GEORGE
Fred Hope
JEAN
Jean Maynard
SYDNEY
Charles Applewhaite
BROWN
Errol Roberts
AGATHA (Act II)
Mavis Lee Wah
CHARACTERS
AGATHA WILLETT, an English governess, aged twenty-five at opening
VICTOR DE LA FONTAINE, a painter, French Creole, aged thirty-five at opening
OSWALD DE LA FONTAINE, planter, his brother, aged thirty-two at opening
GEORGE, a servant, black, aged forty-two at opening
JEAN BEAUXCHAMPS, a maid, black, aged twenty-two at opening
ANTOINE (TONY) DE LA FONTAINE, carnival designer, Victor’s son, aged twenty-eight
CLODIA DE LA FONTAINE, Victor’s daughter, aged twenty-nine
SYDNEY, a revolutionist, black
BROWN, a journalist, black, aged thirty
AN ARMY MAJOR, black, aged thirty-two
SYDNEY, as a child, aged ten
VINCENT, a servant
SETTING: Trinidad, 1948–1962 in Act I; 1970 in Act II
ACT I
SCENE 1
A Sunday, before sunrise. The docks, Port of Spain, January 1948. A green wooden shed marked H.M. CUSTOMS, NO TRESPASSING. Dim sounds off the dock. A steel band in the distance. Grey light. AGATHA WILLETT, with a suitcase, coat over one arm, is seated on a crate, her eyes closed. VICTOR DE LA FONTAINE, in white suit, carrying linen hat, enters, waits.
VICTOR
Miss Willett?
AGATHA
… What is that wonderful smell?
VICTOR
The sea?
You can smell the sea on Sundays when the wharf is quiet.
AGATHA
It’s something to do with England, with the war … but what is it?
VICTOR
Is it cocoa? On the dock over there?
It’s from one of our warehouses on the wharf.
Those beans there in the sun?
AGATHA
[Rising]
Ah! Of course!
Is all of Trinidad going to smell so fragrant,
Mr. De La Fontaine?
VICTOR
The cocoa valleys, yes.
AGATHA
In the war, you know,
when the buzz bombs started, and we were evacuated,
and they carted us off to some bleak town in Wales,
I looked forward to a good hot cup of powdered cocoa.
Just think of it. It might have come from here …
VICTOR
It probably did. We grow the world’s best cocoa.
AGATHA
The light’s astonishing. So clear! All this.
It’s as if the world were making a fresh start.
VICTOR
Glad you feel so. Damned hard to paint.
Where’s all your luggage. This all you have?
AGATHA
All me worldly. Shabby old thing, isn’t she?
Look at ’er. Cowerin’ from embarrassment.
[Bends, talks to the suitcase]
Say “Hello” to the gentleman. He’s come to fetch us.
VICTOR
[To the suitcase; stooping, shaking the handle]
Hello. I hope you’ll be at home here. She’s very shy.
AGATHA
She’s absolutely no idea why you hired me.
If I pinch meself I’ll wake up back in Putney.
I just hope your children take to me, that’s all.
VICTOR
I’m an Impressionist. I believe in first impressions.
AGATHA
When you had me round to tea for the interview?
In Regent’s Park? I didn’t know what to wear.
I walked round and round the park in the rain.
Then, when we sat down in that morgue of a hotel,
my heart was rattling like a teacup, couldn’t you hear it?
VICTOR
Your hair was wet, your cheeks were shining.
You looked like a Watteau shepherdess.
All the other applicants had faces like prams!
AGATHA
I felt like the dog’s dinner. How was your exhibition?
I never got round to see it.
VICTOR
A vanity show.
I rented the gallery myself. Your watch, Miss Willett.
[Holds out his hand]
AGATHA
Me watch? Whatever for?
VICTOR
Please, may I have it?
[AGATHA unstraps her watch, gives it to him]
Miss Willett, we’re going to hold a ceremony here.
Your cute little watch is going to be buried at sea.
AGATHA
Oh, hold on, mate, that’s a gift from the office.
Can I have it back?
VICTOR
Only if you swear.
AGATHA
Bugger, bum!
VICTOR
[Laughs]
No. Swear: “I’m here for good.”
AGATHA
I’m here for good.
VICTOR
Again?
From now on, time must mean nothing to you.
AGATHA
I’m here for good. Now, can I have it back?
[VICTOR gives it to her]
VICTOR
Christ, where is Oswald? What time is it?
AGATHA
[Looking at her watch]
It’s ah …
[Laughs]
Very good!
What a tease you are for such an artist.
Are your kids bright? I’m terrified of bright children.
VICTOR
Bright? No. Getting spoilt. No, they’re average.
During the holidays they get
a bit too wild.
Also, I told you, I need more time to paint.
AGATHA
Clodia and Antoine. They’re very pretty children.
I studied their photographs all across the Atlantic.
VICTOR
They’re pretty. They’re their mother’s masterpieces,
not mine. I just supplied some brush strokes.
Yes, she left me with quite a bequest.
AGATHA
I’m sorry.
And what about your masterpieces, your paintings?
Oh, I saw a rather favorable mention in The Times.
I nearly nudged my neighbour on the train
and said: “I know that man…”
[OSWALD, in khaki, enters, followed by GEORGE]
OSWALD
Where the arse you been, Victor?
I over the whole blasted wharf looking for all you,
and two of you on your arse here like the King and Queen?
Customs and Immigration want to see you, girl.
Pardon my language: I’m just a cocoa planter.
I’m the manure side of the family. Oswald.
[Kisses her. To VICTOR]
Victor got taste. I say she drowng.
She take one look at Trinidad and threw herself overboard!
Give George your passport. And give me a hug.
The children are scrubbed and dressed at Santa Rosa.
[Embraces her]
VICTOR
Don’t paw my property, Ozzie.
[To AGATHA]
Do you know Paris?
AGATHA
[Searching her bag]
Wait a sec. Paris?
GEORGE
Is this your bag, ma’am?
AGATHA
[Handing OSWALD her passport]
Here.
OSWALD
Give it to George.
AGATHA
Here you are, George. I’m flattered, I must say.
I wasn’t expecting such an entourage.
OSWALD
You ain’t exactly in some African outpost.
Is a British colony; we have some manners left.
VICTOR
Then you’ve never been? I was just wondering
how much was changed by the war? I studied there.
AGATHA
Studied there? Oh, Paris! No, I don’t know it.
But it wasn’t bombed. That make you happy?
VICTOR
We’re French, but we abhor the bloody French.
It’s the hatred of the colonial for the metropole.
AGATHA
Is there much of that here?
OSWALD
All right! All you move! The sun hot!
Ay, George!
GEORGE
Eh?
OSWALD
Move your fat, black
Trinidadian arse! We going.
GEORGE
It black, but it ain’t fat.
OSWALD
Listen, boy, if I say your arse fat, it fat, you hear me?
GEORGE
You’se de boss, boss. But respect that white lady.
You come from a high-class family! So, behave!
AGATHA
I’ll carry it. Did you bring this poor man out on Sunday to lift one bag?
OSWALD
Well, George strong.
VICTOR
Miss Willett, please.
GEORGE
It’s a privilege.
OSWALD
[To GEORGE]
Where Sydney? He wanted to come for the drive.
GEORGE
Sometimes I feel that boy want to leave the island.
Once he come in town, he always watching boats.
[Shouts]
SYDNEY, GET YOUR LITTLE BLACK TAIL OVER HERE!
AGATHA
He certainly runs fast. Is he your son, George?
[SYDNEY arrives, GEORGE hugs him]
GEORGE
Me nephew. Me worthless brother’s child. Ay!
You want to take off on that big white boat, eh?
You nearly fall down in your new shoes, big man!
Come help the lady with she luggage. Take this one.
[SYDNEY grabs the small suitcase]
AGATHA
No! I can manage, love. It’s heavy.
[SYDNEY waits for a decision]
OSWALD
It go make him stronger. You worried? Wait.
[Searches his pockets, extracts a shilling, offers it to SYDNEY]
Bet you a shilling you can’t carry this grip.
[SYDNEY grabs the money. The others, not AGATHA, laugh]
Children, they all little savages. You can buy them
with a few trinkets. The boy make a cool shilling.
AGATHA
You want to carry this, do you, Sydney?
VICTOR
Miss Willett. Please.
[SYDNEY hides the shilling behind his back quickly]
We’re driving directly to the Santa Rosa valley.
We’ll pass our town house around the savannah,
and if Oswald wants to stop by the paddock,
to show you his horses, tell him no, quite firmly.
But be sure to stroke the flanks of his Humber,
which Sydney spent half of yesterday polishing.
AGATHA
Humber?
OSWALD
A vintage car.
It’ll be pleasant with the hood down. Come on.
AGATHA
In that case, Sydney can sit on my lap.
GEORGE
Sydney will sit where I put him, that’s where.
[All leave. Except AGATHA. VICTOR returns]
VICTOR
Miss Willett?
AGATHA
Having a last quick look.
[Silence]
Is it bad luck to feel happy so soon?
VICTOR
No. Not at all. Look. There’s a good sign. See them? Pelicans. [He takes her arm] Now let’s go home. [They exit]
SCENE 2
Seven months later. A Saturday afternoon. VICTOR’s studio, a converted shed on the estate. AGATHA changing behind a screen, VICTOR arranging his easel.
VICTOR
You’re in, Miss W. The children love you. So do I. I’ll tell you why. You’ve kept your innocence. I don’t mean virtue, but … Here it is, August in Trinidad, and your complexion stays as cool as porcelain. My own Watteau shepherdess. You know, no matter where an Englishwoman’s from, once they come out here to the colonies, they suddenly become royalty. It takes about a year, just a year, before they start talking about difficulties with the servants, how lazy their garden boys are, how the heat is crushing their roses. Don’t wind up affected. They all wind up affected, like that prime bitch who lives down the road on the next estate, shot up into the gentry! Constance. Constance Holley! She’ll be in to tea someday to test your credentials. And you’ll have to play governess, oh-la-dee-da. God, I’d give up my life to be there. They used to take the Underground—now they teach their children to ride ponies. You’d better watch out, Miss W. You don’t want to wind up at the Queen’s Park Savannah, or the Queen’s Park Cricket Club, being crisp to velvet-footed waiters. You don’t want to become one of the De La Fontaines, love. You’ve seen our cousins. Thick-ankled, thickheaded French Creoles. Have you fallen asleep back there, Miss Willett? I feel I’m talking to a bloody screen!
AGATHA
I’m not coming out there half naked.
Besides, I’m hungry. You’ll starve me to death.
VICTOR
Do you miss English cooking?
AGATHA
I do miss it.
[She comes out in a large orange skirt, bodice, bits of a Watteau costume, carrying a book]
Too much?
[Indicates her face]
VICTOR
Miss it? Yorkshire pud? Bangers? Marmite?
I’m copying a shepherdess, not a Hogarth wh
ore.
[Wipes off some of her makeup]
AGATHA
Gin Lane’s where I’m from, guv’nor.
[Wipes her face. She goes to a window. Women’s voices, a chant, heard in the distance]
It’s Saturday afternoon, why’re they still working?
VICTOR
Why’re who working?
AGATHA
Those estate women,
the ones in rags there working in the cocoa.
They look tired enough to drop.
VICTOR
Ask Oswald.
AGATHA
Your brother’s off to the races with the kids.
That’s hard work.
VICTOR
Are you sorry for me?
It’s Saturday and I’m working bloody hard.
[The women’s voices rise in rhythm, dancing the cocoa]
AGATHA
God, it’s like a treadmill.
VICTOR
That’s how they press grapes.
That’s how we dance the cocoa. Besides, they’re singing
to keep the rhythm up. Don’t start pitying them.
Don’t stand there mesmerized. Jesus, come on!
[He shuts the window, draws her away, seats her]
AGATHA
Do they get bonuses for overtime?
[VICTOR places a book of prints on her lap]
VICTOR
Come on! Specky-speckies! Glasses! Don’t be vain!
Open your eyes now. They’re perfectly happy.
[AGATHA opens her eyes]
AGATHA
[Groans again, puts on glasses]
Crikey, I don’t …
[Softly]
Manet? MONET? Oh, crikey …
VICTOR
Manet. Monet stipples! Manet, solid light!
AGATHA
Right! RIGHT! Thought it was a Mooney for a sec.
Irish sign painter, Mooney? Very obscure.
VICTOR
Wrong! Pissarro.
AGATHA
And the sime to yew, guv!
VICTOR
And now, ladies and gentlemen, un moment!
Un moment, si’vous plaît!
[He draws the curtains, switches on a projector: Watteau’s Embarkation to Cythera]
I named my son after him; no brush in the world
ever pleated cloth like that, those silks and taffetas.
Those fiery, fading silks, see? He painted
Three Plays: The Last Carnival; Beef, No Chicken; and A Branch of the Blue Nile Page 1