Three Plays: The Last Carnival; Beef, No Chicken; and A Branch of the Blue Nile
Page 3
bathing the horses. Childhood is a paradise
for most children here. Then you grow up. Besides,
Victor go be vex. He likes things as they are.
AGATHA
Oh rubbish! Are you jealous?
OSWALD
Of Victor?
Who Victor’s screwing isn’t my concern. Look, Aggie . .
Why you don’t go back if you hate things here?
AGATHA
Because I don’t hate things here. I love the place.
I love the people.
OSWALD
And the privileges.
AGATHA
No, no, mate!
OSWALD
Victor is your mate.
[AGATHA laughs]
AGATHA
Not the privileges, the chances
to make things better. The challenge.
OSWALD
And Victor, of course.
AGATHA
Quite possibly.
OSWALD
“Quite possibly” what? You’re crazy about him.
You stare at him over dinner like you tout-t’oublay.
That’s cocoa-French for gaga. I wish you luck!
[Toasts her]
AGATHA
I think he’d like to marry me. Would you mind?
[Silence]
I don’t have to get your bloody vote, you know.
[Silence]
Oswald?
OSWALD
I thought you Communists believed in free love?
AGATHA
For the last time, I am not a fucking Communist!
OSWALD
No, that’s you. A fucking Communist, dear!
He won’t. Forget it. No way, Willett.
It’s not because of Brierly. Do you want more gin?
He won’t, that’s all.
AGATHA
It’s class, isn’t it?
Who am I? Your Cockney char?
OSWALD
Here’s your gin.
AGATHA
Fuck off. You drink it.
[She starts down the steps. A figure, tall, made of dry leaves, masked, with a feathery headpiece, leaps out of the dark into the lamplight on the lawn. AGATHA gasps]
THE FIGURE
[Laughing. He removes his headpiece]
Is me, Miss Aggie. George. Don’t frighten.
Carnival next month. I playing African.
Mr. Victor design me costume. It good?
AGATHA
Oh, piss off, George! Move! You bloody kaffir!
Is that more or less it, Mr. De La Fontaine?
[Strides off across the lawn]
GEORGE
What happen, Mr. Oswald?
OSWALD
Nothing. Nothing.
Just white people stupidness, George. Nothing.
SCENE 4
Next day. GEORGE’s quarters, spare and neat. JEAN at a mirror, uniformed, making up. GEORGE fixing a breakfast tray.
JEAN
I know my place, Mr. George. Nobody go throw me down on a floor and juck me like some old cock toppling a fowl. I ain’t here for that. I ask her why she forcing me read all them books. She say she grooming me for Village Council elections. Me? Who prefer my Carnival to politics.
GEORGE
Well, you remember that no matter how much o’ books all you read, t’ain’t have no book to beat this one: the Bible. Keep that in your young head no matter what you become. Now hurry up and take up this coffee, you late already. And if you pass Sydney, tell that rapscallion I waiting. To cut his arse. [AGATHA enters. JEAN has picked up the tray] Morning, Miss Agatha.
AGATHA
Morning, George. It’s seven-thirty, Jean. Oh, Jean,
who told you to put on your housemaid’s uniform?
JEAN
Mr. Victor, Miss Agatha. What now, take it off?
AGATHA
I’ll have a word with him. No, wear it.
Jean?
JEAN
Miss Agatha?
AGATHA
Stay right there.
Now, you hold that tray very steady.
[She takes a napkin from the tray]
Hold the tray, girl. I said to hold the tray.
You’re going to stop playing the village harlot, hear?
JEAN
Miss Agatha …
AGATHA
If you drop it, you’ll pay for it.
[She uncovers the coffeepot, dips the napkin into the coffee]
You see, Jean, when Mr. Victor
has his cup in the morning,
[She begins deliberately to wipe off JEAN’s lipstick]
as we agreed, he doesn’t …
want to be greeted by something
that looks as if it stayed up all night
in a brothel. You agree, dear?
You leave all the painting to Mr. Victor.
JEAN
Yes, Miss Agatha.
[AGATHA replaces the napkin]
AGATHA
Let me have the tray.
You’re going to learn to take work seriously.
[JEAN gives her the tray]
Let me see your hands, please. No,
not your palms, love. Your nails, please.
[JEAN shows her fingernails]
I’m very pleased. You’re learning.
You’re a very good girl, Jean.
You remembered about the nail polish,
but you forgot about the lipstick, didn’t you?
You’ve very pretty, very delicate hands.
There’s no need to gild the lily, is there, love?
Here’s the tray. Take Mr. Victor his coffee.
And if you’re going to cry, please wash your face.
[JEAN nods, exits]
I’m determined to make something of that girl.
GEORGE
Come in, Miss Willett.
AGATHA
So this is where you are. I feel privileged.
After a year you’ve finally let me in.
GEORGE
This is it. I have nothing to offer.
AGATHA
It’s pleasant, George.
GEORGE
It’s very pleasant—Money brings miseries.
[Sound of horse’s hooves passing. He shouts]
Sydney!
Jesus Christ, I can’t control that rebel!
His mother in town working in some Chinee nightclub,
his father somewhere else, and the two of them
ain’t give a damn for their child. Excuse me.
Sydney! Sydney! That worthless little nigger!
Sydney! Refuse to know his place … SYD …
[He steps outside]
SYDNEY’S VOICE
Yes, Uncle?
GEORGE’S VOICE
Pick a tamarind switch, boy!
I go give you your biggest cut-arse this Sunday!
A horse too big for you to hide, you hear?
SYDNEY’S VOICE
What the hell it is I do now, Uncle George?
GEORGE’S VOICE
You fetch that tamarind rod and I go tell you.
And wait right there for me. I just hope it ain’t you
who teach him rudeness is independence, miss.
[GEORGE reenters, shouts out the door]
Wait! You bloody kaffir!
[To AGATHA]
Excuse my manners, you hear, Miss Willett?
But I best correct him in the heat of my temper
or not at all. I tired warning him, man. Tired!
But he had to pass here to put it back in the stable.
AGATHA
What did he do? Calm down.
GEORGE
Nothing. Look, Miss Aggie,
if this going upset you, perhaps you best go.
Mr. Ozzie told him not to pick any more cocoa.
Not to go troubling the blasted horses.
He went riding one this morning. He just came back.
When he bring this switch, I go beat him like a jockey.
I ain’t want my nephew called a thief.
And is not this alone. Sydney! You reach?
AGATHA
Oh, come on, George. Can’t I beg pardon for him?
GEORGE
I ain’t cutting his arse for your sake, Miss Aggie,
but for his. Let him learn disobedience don’t pay.
Let him respect his elders. Shouldn’t he respect his elders?
AGATHA
[Withholding a scream]
You can’t ask me that! He’s just a boy!
GEORGE
Boy does turn man. Not true? This ain’t England.
This is how we live. By we own principles.
You can’t come here and change my principles.
AGATHA
What? Beating?
[She holds his hand]
GEORGE
We used to beating.
We come from a long history of beating.
Let go my hand, Miss Willett.
[Calmly]
Miss Willett. I am asking you
to let go my hand. Miss Willett? Thank you.
[He goes outside]
See what you cause, Mr. Man? The white English lady come down from the house and making ME look I doing wrong. Now I don’t go England and tell them how to bring up their children, but my father cut my arse when I touch what ain’t belong to me, and I sure is the same way in England. So, come, boy. COME! You! You come! You come! Leave! The people! Horses! Alone! Leave! Them! Alone!
[Screams from SYDNEY, sounds of the switch. AGATHA winces with every lash]
SCENE 5
A month later. A side room at Santa Rosa, rarely used. Dusk approaching. The sound of a steel band practicing. VINCENT, a servant, in breeches, pink coat, wig, brings in a tray, sets it down. JEAN, in white kerchief, white bodice, large white ruffled skirts, with white makeup and wig, is on a ladder, hanging streamers. The room is festooned with balloons. VINCENT runs his hand up JEAN’s skirt. She screams with laughter. OSWALD, dressed as Toulouse-Lautrec, enters.
OSWALD
All you behave yourself, no freshness, please! Vincent, it have two more painted screens outside by the steps, Mr. Victor want them on the verandah. Where George?
VINCENT
He putting on his costume.
[He moves to the door]
OSWALD
So what the arse, is I one must work to have this fête going? Jean, get your bam-bam off that stepladder, it have enough balloons, people thirsty. Vincent, wait! Mr. Victor say he want them streamers to reach out quite to the pavilions on the lawn, so the light could catch them at sunset, and tell them damn steel-band men no focking drinks till they play more tune. [VINCENT exits] Jean! Come here! Now show me this new step, girl. I SAY SHOW ME! You feel I too white to dance like all you black people or what? Eh, eh! Check this out. [Dances] A-one, a-two, a-pang-alangalang. [JEAN laughs but shows him the steps] Eh, eh, no more! You have a educated waist, girl. Le’ we fire one.
JEAN
I don’t drink, Mr. Oswald.
OSWALD
I forget, you’re a socialist. You does wine, though. Keep the children upstairs in bed, hear? I ain’t want no damn children tripping up people. This is big-people fête.
[AGATHA arrives in a costume as Jane Avril]
JEAN
Ay, look Miss Agatha, man!
AGATHA
Where’s Victor?
OSWALD
Me you asking? You looking sexy, Willett.
Now, wah kin’ o’ Mas dat is? Who you playing, gyal?
AGATHA
[In Trinidadian]
Boy, I ain’t too sure, nuh, yer bredder tell me is some lady name Jane Avril. As yer too well must know, is heself whey design me costume.
OSWALD
Corstume!
AGATHA
Corst-ume, child! And I ain’t know how much the corstume corst him. You must be Toulouse-Lautrec, nuh? Ah right? Ah cooreck?
OSWALD
Is Too-Loose-L’Auto Wreck, girl. I was driving this Bentley, you know, the one that belong to them French Creole shit-hounds, nuh, the La Fontaines, and the steering wheel was too-loose so, gyurl, I was in this big auto wreck. Who the hell is Jane Avril?
AGATHA
[Her own voice]
I had to look it up myself, love. She was this English singer in Paris during Lautrec’s period.
OSWALD
Ay, ay! Watch your language, girl!
[Runs to the door]
Tony! Clodia! Back into bed!
Come on! Up! Upstairs! Hip, two, three!
Where the arse is Victor?
[GEORGE, dressed as Pierrot, enters, spinning, cracking an imaginary whip]
[Dialect voice]
George. What a Pierrot!
GEORGE
No. Watt-eau Pierrot!
[Laughs]
OSWALD and AGATHA
Watt-eau Pierrot!
[SYDNEY, in turban, frock coat, pantaloons, enters, shyly]
GEORGE
Syd! Syd, come here!
And Sydney here, this is his first Costume Mas!
Turn round then, let them see you. Look, Mr. Oswald.
Miss Aggie? He go help me serve drinks and chip the ice.
You should see this boy dance when the steel band playing.
And he can play pan already, not true, Sydney?
AGATHA
You like Carnival, Sydney?
[SYDNEY nods, moves away]
GEORGE
This boy born for dat.
Run upstairs and show Miss Clodia and Mr. Tony
your costume. But don’t touch anything upstairs, eh!
[SYDNEY runs off upstairs. VICTOR enters, in Watteau costume]
OSWALD
And look, Monsieur Watteau himself! Victor, oh, God. Carnival is Carnival and art is art. And never shall the twain fucking meet. Two brothers. Same family. Different temperament. But I don’t think we should do this …
VICTOR
Temperament. Every damned year we do the same thing. Everybody off the estates in the valley comes here, gets pissing drunk, hustle their friends’ wives, wear chamber pots for hats, wear these corny obscene signs. [Hands him a book] “What is this sad, dark island? Cythera.” Here’s the poem. You stand behind those panels, in silhouette, you and Aggie, then step out when …
OSWALD
[Reads] “What is this sad, dark island? Cythera…” [Throws book away] Give art a rest. This ain’t theatre, is Carnival, Mas! Oh, God. That is the tradition, Victor. People been driving up from Port of Spain for donkey years, now, to come to this fête. Who you trying to impress? Willett? We can’t stop the fête to put on this little play, and have me reading a fucking poem, eh? You going mad, you know. I convince.
VICTOR
[Picks up the book, dusts it off] It is just a moment. I am only asking for one moment of stillness, one moment of meaning, in all the noise. Two minutes of silence to remind us of our origins. I ask the steel band to stop.
OSWALD
You brave, boy!
VICTOR
In the silence, a parang band in Watteau costume comes out. You recite the poem by Baudelaire. As Toulouse-Lautrec, you see? George is a Pierrot. Aggie comes out like a Bal Musette dancer, and somehow, it is touching, sad, a moment, a moment …
OSWALD
Sad? Your plan is to make people sad? That ain’t news. Don’t stop the fête, Victor, I begging you. Please! On my knees. [Kneels]
AGATHA
What do I do? I mean, really, what do I do?
VICTOR
You? You’ll do what you’re told. Get up, Toulouse!
AGATHA
[Curtsies]
As always. I shall do what I’m told.
VICTOR
[Touches her]
Joke, Aggie! After you read the Baudelaire poem, Ozzie,
Aggie comes out, slow …
OSWALD
S
ad…?
VICTOR
Just beautiful. Jane Avril died of consumption …
OSWALD
Wow! This go be a fête, boy! You ain’t got nobody playing Cancer, or Diphtheria? Sorry, Victor, sorry.
VICTOR
So did Watteau …
OSWALD
So did Watteau what?
AGATHA
Die of consumption, Oswald, don’t be so dumb. Then I cross the stage. Behind, or with Oswald?
VICTOR
And George sings this folk song … Under the trees there, under the Chinese lanterns, just that moment … Come, that’s it. The music has stopped. Go on, go on …
AGATHA
You mean now? No rehearsal? Now?
VICTOR
On. Go on!
OSWALD
Boy, the things I do for you …
[VICTOR kisses AGATHA, then pushes her onstage. OSWALD is already on. The lights dim. Behind the translucent panels, in silhouette, are the profiles of Lautrec and Jane Avril, lit by the lamps. A shadow play. OSWALD’s voice, after a while, reciting. Laughter begins. OSWALD’s voice rises. More laughter. Then music. Drowning out the poem. Laughter, screams, as the stage appears to turn and we see AGATHA, as Jane Avril, crossing the stage. OSWALD, as Lautrec, has his head buried under her skirts. Screams, applause. JEAN crosses the stage, screaming with shocked laughter. VICTOR returns, pulling AGATHA by the hair, OSWALD close behind them]
VICTOR
You bitch! You vulgar little Cockney bitch!
As for you, boy! Anything you see worthwhile,
you think is your duty to coarsen and vulgarize,
or jeer it to shreds, to creolize quality,
and not recognize it. You don’t hate art—
you hate me! You envy your own brother!
It’s not my fault that God gave me this gift.
I don’t envy your talent at arithmetic.
But from the time she came here, simply because
I was the one who chose her, because
she’s my property …
[Hurls AGATHA away]
AGATHA
Property? Property?
I’m nobody’s property! I did it because they were jeering.
It’s the only kind of art your friends understand!
VICTOR
Shoving your crotch up in his face and leering?
While all those pigs are howling? As for this one!
His whole envy, his whole sick consumption
has been to bring you down to his level.
To mock you when you read, to jeer at your aspirations.
And you know what? Do you know where his heart is, Aggie?
I’m telling you, it’s against his own brother!
That’s why he’s out there on their side. Envy! Envy!
Those drunken white swine, those hogs,
those “friends”! Deny it, go on. Deny it.