by Jim Grimsley
PAUL. But what you lose in immediacy you gain in convenience. Look at the beauty of it. From our perspective. I’m just asking you to listen with an open mind. You write the pamphlets, sign them, we do a little picture. Maybe you sitting on the bed looking haggard and divine, something like that. Light from the window, this beam, we can rig something. I’ll call Aaron. You do a few tracts. You write down some of your favorite sayings, the really great cryptic stuff. Then, when you’re—when this whole thing is over with—we don’t have the usual documentation crisis. Everything you want remembered is right down there on paper, black and white, crystal clear. See?
J. You’ll let me write anything I like.
PAUL. Of course. I’ll edit. Nothing major. A few doctrinal corrections here and there.
(Enter SOL HEIFFER, with a small electronic typewriter or a computer on a rolling cart.)
J. You’d like to begin this at once, I see.
PAUL. Well we might give it a start. (To SOL HEIFFER.) Do you have a report for me?
(SOL HEIFFER produces a crumpled parchment with perforations, indicating it was computer generated.
PAUL lets her bring it to him and reads it.)
PAUL. Food fights in your name in major restaurants all over the city. Chaos spreading to the malls in the outlying areas of Palestine. The police are helpless. Your closest disciples have gone into hiding. The major television stations are doing live reports and preparing special analyses. Your photograph as we dragged you from the New Arcade will be on the cover of every weekly newsmagazine, as well as periodicals devoted to various types of personality cults. (Pause.) Your first pamphlet, once you compose it, will simply help the massive wave of publicity to crest and wash us all to sea. Your triumph. Complete.
J. I can’t write.
PAUL. You mean, I suppose, that you consider yourself to be morally and ethically incapable of writing.
J. I can’t read either.
PAUL (after silence). I see I am to be frustrated in all my choices. Well, perhaps we can obtain dictating equipment for you.
J. (to SOL HEIFFER). Come here.
(SOL HEIFFER checks with PAUL, who agrees that she can do as asked.
SOL HEIFFER approaches J.
He touches her jaw, frames it with his open hand.)
J. I am sorry for what happened to you.
(She embraces him slowly, gradually realizing he is not making fun of her.)
J. (to PAUL). She likes you, I think.
PAUL. Does she? How nice.
J. She’s very devoted to you. She thinks you’re a good man.
PAUL. I’m certain I’m all the better for her good opinion.
J. I’d be glad about it, if I were you.
PAUL (dismissing SOL HEIFFER with a gesture). I am glad. I am always glad for the faith of simple people. Their simple love magnifies me. Immensely. Do you think my connection with Sol is any less deep or instinctive than yours?
J. Perhaps you could simply write down what I tell you.
PAUL. I beg your pardon.
J. To get your pamphlets done.
PAUL. We were discussing the peasant class. The poor. Which ye shall have with ye always, to coin a phrase.
J. There’s some doubt as to whether I ever actually said that.
PAUL. There you have it. The value of documentation in a nutshell. (Pause.) Sol is already looking for a Dictaphone. She’s very efficient. As for the transcription, Jerusalem is full of young transcriptionists this time of year. (Pause.) Have I told you the horrible story of the poor woman’s tongue? Ripped out by ravening tax collectors when she professed that a love of Christ had led her to vow poverty, and that she had no money for taxes. Since tax collectors have to collect something, they took her tongue. She was left for dead in an alley behind a stock brokerage. I found her and with my prayers moved the face of heaven to restore her to health. No one could restore her tongue, poor thing. We sued, of course. Her case was very famous, defended by F. Lee Bailey. The settlement was generous, and of course Sol Heiffer donated all of it to our work. She has devoted her life to good works here in the chambers of the Inquisitentiary. (Pause.) She would be embarrassed if she knew I had told you her story. Since her sufferings are so paltry, compared to yours.
(J. produces a cigarette from his flowing garment and lights it.)
PAUL. Do you have another?
J. No. Sorry.
PAUL. That’s quite all right.
(PAUL produces a cigarette from his own robe and lights it.
They smoke for a few moments in silence.
Then J. grinds the cigarette carefully out, putting the butt back into his flowing garment.)
PAUL (continuing to smoke). Frugal. Do your followers know about this nasty habit?
J. Some. We used to smoke cigarettes in the desert.
PAUL. Forty days and forty nights, what could you do? (Pause.) I often think my own desert journey was akin to yours. My blindness. The awful terror of your voice. The cold fear in my heart. After all, why was I persecuting you? What could the answer be? (Laughs in gentle revelation.) I suppose Satan was also behind me. Whispering in my ear. Showing me great towers and kingdoms. Do you suppose?
J. I’m sure the two events were very similar.
PAUL. I knew, I understood at once. Even before you spoke to me out of that blinding cloud. The message was already there, in my heart. Or so I thought. For a long time. Traveling through the whole world, telling people about you, about what I thought you meant, about the whole picture, love, faith, healing, the power of forgiveness, the need for good works. Everything. Then you returned and you went shopping for an orange in the market and you spoke to the people impromptu, standing on a melon cart, and what you said is anybody’s guess. And now, chaos everywhere. Riot in the streets. People are drinking beer and dancing with their clothes loose. Breaking windshields and stringing fiber-optic cable in the trees. Killing mosquitoes with their bare hands in the night. Such things had been outlawed, and now chaos has returned. You decreed this by proclamation extempore from the top of a fruit cart in downtown Jerusalem. (Pause.) This is not what we wanted, not what we expected. This is not the glorious silver station wagon sailing down on a cloud of radiance from the east. This is not one thousand years of peaceful shopping in the mall. So I wonder who you really are and what you really wanted that day in the desert.
J. I’ve told you, it’s hard for me to remember.
PAUL. Try.
J. I’m sorry.
(Silence.)
PAUL. You have no idea how important this is to me.
J. It was a long time ago. What difference can it make, what I remember or what I don’t remember?
PAUL. Challenges. Oh I know you don’t think much of this sort of thing. But there are certain challenges. Dogmatic and otherwise. To my current authority. And I have rested much of my authority on the miracle of my conversion. Along with impeccable scholarship, worldwide vision and a letter-writing talent second to none. The David O. Selznick of religion. But I have my enemies. I know you have little sympathy. But it would be such a help if you could substantiate my story. Lay claim to some of my works. Paul, my good and faithful servant, that kind of thing. You have no idea how valuable such a reference would be. In certain circles.
J. I had no idea your circumstances were so difficult.
PAUL. Part of it’s your fault. You’ve taken your sweet time with this return trip.
J. One makes no promises where one’s timetable is concerned. I go to prepare a mansion for you. Remember? Mansions take time.
PAUL. Well that’s very nice. I know what you mean. You think you leave me behind when you get cryptic like that, but I follow you. But I have some news for you. Mansions or not, we nearly lost this one. You and me. We nearly lost this place. Listen to that mob. (They listen.) Another couple of centuries and even you couldn’t have quieted them. Listen to that howling. Listen.
J. Plowshares.
PAUL. Pardon?
J. Plowshar
es. Into swords. Remember? (Pause.) Oh. You weren’t there for that.
PAUL. I read about it.
J. It isn’t the same.
PAUL. Why not? Tell me. Tell me what you said, tell me a parable.
J. It’s no use, Paul.
PAUL. Why not?
J. I can’t remember. And even if I could. A parable is born out of its peculiar fold of space and time, specific to a particular moment-place complex. A parable is for wherever you are, your personal space. You can’t just recite it. Anywhere you like.
PAUL. Tell me a parable. For this moment.
J. I wish it were that simple.
PAUL. But it is. For you. It is.
J. (thoughtfully). I shouldn’t even consider this.
PAUL. I’m begging you. Just once. Just once, tell me something.
J. You’re not recording this.
PAUL. No. I swear.
J. You promise not to write this down.
PAUL. I promise.
J. Not even afterward. When all this stuff is finished. (Pause.) Because I’d like to tell you one of the parables from the B list. We usually stick to the A list.
PAUL. I swear. I’ll never write this down. Never.
J. (thinking of a parable). Well. (Still thinking.) Well, in a certain country there lived a man with sons by three different wives, and the youngest of these sons was very fair, and his name was Emur. And the father loved Emur more than he loved his other sons, even though by rights he should have shown favor to his eldest son, Nathan. He also had thirteen daughters but they don’t figure into this parable. Well, Nathan became jealous of his youngest brother, Emur, and one day when they were hunting, Nathan led Emur astray down a sidewise path, away from the hunting party that his father was leading. And this was a woeful and a dark path down which Nathan led Emur. And because it was hot, Emur removed his outer garments and revealed his splendid young muscular body, tawny gold colored and rippling with strength. Nathan was wroth with rage at the sight of his near-naked brother, and his lips trembled, and his blood boiled, and he saith to himself, “Woe will be done here on this sidewise path where I have lured my youngest brother, for verily I say, he is a pretty boy.” And Nathan fell on Emur and had his way with him and afterward slew him, for he could not bear to have his brother look at him. Even though they had just enjoyed themselves very much. And Nathan looked down at the body of his slain dead brother whom he had killed, and Nathan cried out in horror and said, “O Lord, I have murdered my brother which did love me truly.” And he ran to his father where his father was hunting, and he fell down at his father’s feet and clung to them and said, “O Father, I have slain my brother Emur.” And the father said, “Why son have you slain your brother Emur?” And Nathan answered, “Because when my member was in his mouth I became racked with guilt and did repent having lured him down that sidewise path.” And the father raised up Nathan and said, “That’s okay my son. You didn’t mean any harm. And because you are my flesh I forgive you.” Then they buried Emur amid great feasting and weeping which was attended by many tribes and peoples. And among these peoples was the fair Naomi. The fair Naomi came to Nathan in the garden beyond the market gate, being a poor daughter of a distant male relative, but very fair, and Nathan knew not Naomi, but Naomi knew Nathan. And Nathan took one look at the fair Naomi and his eyes popped out. And soon they were married. Then a great plague came and wiped out the whole grape crop for seven years, and Nathan one day looked at Naomi, who was barren also, and said, “Accursed are you among women, for you were fair to me when I first saw you, but now you are as a seedless seed and a grapeless grape, and I despise you and I spit on you. For you have brought bad crops to my father.” And Nathan slew Naomi in a great rage. And then he looked at her pitiful body in the dust and said, “Woe. Woe.” And he fled to his father where his father was hunting and he clung to the feet of his father and said, “O Father, pity me and spare me from iniquity, for I have just slain my wife, Naomi, who was barren.” And the father raised him up and said, “That’s okay my son. For you are a basically good boy with a sudden temper, and you have to expect this kind of thing.” And Nathan was waxed happy and said joyfully, “My father is a good guy and knoweth all things well.”
PAUL. This is very interesting.
J. There’s more. In his twenty-fifth year Nathan had a son, Norris, by his concubine Edna. And Edna was a beefy, chunky woman whom Nathan feared somewhat, so that after a time he chained her in the basement. For she wished him to make her his wife and he was content that she should remain his concubine as before. So therefore Nathan raised Norris without any knowledge that his mother was chained steadfastly in the basement. And Norris grew fair and fat, eating many doughnuts and cookies. Till one day God appeared to Norris in the form of a jelly glazed and said unto Norris, “Norris. Your mother languishes in the basement bound steadfastly and still you do nothing. Wherefore have you forsaken your mother who bore you in her womb?” And Norris reached for the jelly glazed and his hand was wrought numb, and he fell to his knees in wonder. For he had never been so treated by a doughnut before, and he was sore amazed. And he said to the doughnut, “Wherefore do you chastise me concerning my mother, whom I do not know? And if she is in the basement, why has she never spake to me?” Whereupon God answered from the voice of the jelly glazed, saying, “Verily your mother is in the basement and you should do something about it.” Whereupon the jelly glazed vanished and God spake no more. So Norris hauled himself up by his fat thighs and hastened to the basement, which he found to be locked. Norris fell down weeping in frustration, until a shining angel appeared before him, and the angel said, “Norris, fear not. For I am the angel Anthony, and I have brought the key to the basement door.” And Norris fell down in wonder as the shining angel unlocked the door, and Norris entered the basement in great fear and trembling. The angel vanished at once. In the basement he found a beefy, chunky woman in chains and he fell at her knees and said, “Are you my mother, the fair Edna?” And Edna wept with joy at the sight of her son, and bathed his feet with her hair, and trimmed his nose hairs with a pair of clippers she carried in her skirt.
(Silence.)
PAUL. What a touching story.
J. It’s actually not finished yet. I’m just getting my breath. (Breathes.) So Norris returned to his father, Nathan, and asked, “Father. Why do you have my mother chained steadfastly in the basement and why do you refuse to make her your legitimate full-fledged wife?” And Nathan answered, “The fair Naomi was my wife, whom I slew in a terrible rage, and I shall never have another. And your mother is a slough-pot of foulness.” At which Norris became enraged and raised his hand to strike his father. But because he was fat and weak, the blow had no effect, and thereafter Nathan slew his son in a great rage. And then he ran to Edna and fell weeping at her feet and said, “Forgive me Edna, for I have slain our son in a great rage when he raised his hand against me.” And Edna was sore with sorrow and cradled the head of Nathan and said, “Foul is your house with a great foulness, Nathan of Bermuda. We are accursed of God.” And Nathan freed Edna, and gave her some money, and sent her to his cousin in Pasadena. And so Nathan descended into old age and slumber, with his father dead and the vineyards bearing less fruit than in his youth. And he was thankful for this time of peaceful contentment that had come to him in his old age. Till finally one day into his courtyard walked a young man bearing a cage in which a lizard sat.
PAUL. Again, the reptile.
J. And the lizard was calmly eating flies and watching Nathan, and the young man was very beautiful, and his name was Rodney. And Rodney said, “I come from your beautiful wife, Naomi, in the Land of the Place beyond the River, and she sends you greetings and asks that you accept this Lizard as a token of her affection, and that you feed it all your life, flies and other insects and whatever else you may find that pleases the Reptile, for this Reptile is the Son of God, born of the Outcast in the desert heat, and He has come to die for the sins of the world.” Nathan accepted the lizard
with great reverence and did as he had been asked to do. The lizard grew and waxed in sheen and glory and appearance of ancient wisdom.
PAUL (after he realizes J. has stopped). Go on.
J. That’s it.
PAUL. What happened to the lizard?
J. Nothing.
PAUL. I don’t understand.
J. The lizard is a figure in a parable. Nothing happens to figures in parables, actually. They are just figures. In parables.
PAUL. Whereas the lizard on the wall outside . . .
J. Is simply a lizard. Doing what lizards do. Without regard for our current religious crisis.
PAUL. I shall have to think about this.
(Enter SOL HEIFFER, with PAUL’s prayer cloth.)
PAUL (noting her presence). Is it time already? (With an air of grave responsibility, taking the prayer cloth in the beginning gesture of a somewhat smug ritual; to J.) This is the hour of prayer. The hour when the humble kneel and bow their heads in the presence of the Almighty, subjugating themselves to the power of the Father in the name of the Son in the presence of the Holy Shadow. You will forgive me if I pray here, before you, in order to save time.
J. As you wish.
PAUL. I feel so privileged doing this in front of you. And yet, at the same time, so self-conscious.
J. There’s no reason to be shy.
(Exit SOL HEIFFER.
She returns immediately with a cassette recorder and a tray covered with a cloth.
She waits quietly, holding the objects.
The dialogue does not pause for her movement.
If necessary she may make separate trips offstage to retrieve these objects.
PAUL does not note her presence until so noted in the stage directions.)
PAUL. Perhaps I shall pray silently today. Usually I pray aloud and record the prayer electronically. These prayers are transcribed and published in quarterly volumes as Paul’s Daily Walks in the Garden and they do very nicely. Sales have declined somewhat from an astonishing postwar peak. Not a sharp decline; a moderate, tapering sort of decline which could probably be reversed if I were to agree to another world tour. (Pause.) At any rate, I could, today, pray silently and forgo the usual procedure.