by Norm Sibum
Judicial at the Blue Danube
Cast:
Hanging Judge—Eglinton aka Eggy
Jury—Blind Musician, the Whistler, Joe Smithers aka Too Tall Poet, Eleanor R, Mrs Petrova
Defendant—Randall Q Calhoun
Prosecution Team—Gentleman Jim, Allecto and the Furies
Defense Team—Robert Dubois, Emma MacReady aka Moonface
Officer of the Court—Edward Sanders aka Fast Eddy
Disinterested Spectators—Gregory the Cook, Elias, Cassandra, Anna the redheaded waitress, Serge, Hag, assorted irregulars
Witnesses—Billy Bly, Sally McCabe, Gareth and Clare Howard, Karl and Vera Klopstock, Minnie Dreier, Jack Swain, Lindsey Price
Setting:
Le Grec aka the Blue Danube, a café. Eggy sits alone at a table. He wears an American battle helmet of the Korean War. A dish of strawberries is set before him. Chairs are arranged against a wall which seat jury members. A table each for the prosecution and defense. Gentleman Jim wears Bermuda shorts and is sockless. The Furies are dressed conventionally but smartly; one of them, Allecto perhaps, sports a tattoo of a snake somewhere on her person. Spectators are seated at various tables. Cooks and waitresses migrate between them and the kitchen or galley. Fast Eddy stands by the café entrance. As it is a small café, the place is crowded. Randall Q Calhoun has his chair in the middle of all this.
Scene I: Reading the Charges
Eggy, irritated: Well, I don’t know what to say. Court’s in session, I guess. O Mortals, blind in fate, who never know to bear high fortune, or endure the low. Well, I’ll bet our prisoner in his dock doesn’t recall that bit from Virgil, and he’s an expert. On what shall man found the order of the world which he would govern? I’ll bet his lawyer doesn’t recognize those words as Pascal’s? No matter. Bloody effing hell. Hoo hoo. Officer of the Court, I direct you to read out the charges. (To Gregory the cook): Gregory, these strawberries won’t do. Miserably small.
Gregory, dubious: We’re having fun, yes?
Fast Eddy, with insufferable gravitas: The charges against one Randall Q Calhoun, our defendant, are as follows. This could take a while. (Clears his throat.) I hardly know where to begin. Well, homicidal negligence, for starters. Ran over his kitten when he was a boy. Pretty heinous, if you ask me. Paterphobia. I think we’re to understand by this he disrespected his father. He doesn’t respect any authority we know of. This would make him an un-patriot. Bad literary taste. It’s not so bad he retains affection for the works of Robert Browning and other authors about whom no one much cares, but that he should write his own claptrap, this is criminal. (Hisses from among the spectators.) Womanizer. Oh yes. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He gets them all excited, then he abandons them. They weep in all the pizzerias. Lacks purpose, lacks ambition. He’s a fantasist. He dabbles in religiosity. He mouths specious generalities about evolution. His wife of long ago threw herself out a window. Surely, he drove her to it. Drinks too much, has too many bad habits. Takes girls to art movies and expects them to like it. What, Fellini? Kurosawa, Bergman? No James Bond? Ummm, there’s more, much more, but this ought to get us started. He’s a walking catastrophe. The sooner we settle his hash, the better.
Dubois and Moonface in unison: Objection, your honour.
Eggy, dismissive: Shut your cakeholes. I’ll have no faux procedurals in my court. These strawberries really are a travesty. He’s guilty. We know he’s guilty. What we’re doing here is making it official. One for the books. The rain in Spain. Hoo hoo. Rise, defendant, and tell the court how you plead. (Calhoun rises, looks around. Murmurings among the spectators. The Whistler whistles and stamps his feet. Calhoun waits until he calms down.)
RQC: I am innocent of the charges you have been pleased to bring against me. You are of course a hanging judge and this is a show trial.
Eggy, thundery: Yes, I’m a hanging judge. What else would I be? It isn’t worth my while, otherwise. Now get on with it. Or have you pleaded?
RQC: I am a reasonable man. I don’t lord my opinions over others. I am entitled to the court’s mercy. I ask for the truth. I’ve broken no law of the land so far as I know.
Eggy, incredulous: Law of the land? This isn’t about the laws of the land. You’re on trial because we’re not sure you’re one of us. You think you have a case? You haven’t got a hope in hell, not with Dubois there and Moonface arguing it. Truth? Be careful what you wish for.
Dubois and Moonface in unison: Your honour. (Dubois separately): This is irregular. (Moonface separately): See if I ever come visit you again.
Eggy: Ungrateful wench.
RQC: Anyway, I thought this was to be a private affair among Traymoreans only. Ological experiment. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have agreed to play the offending party.
Eggy, raising his forefinger: Jahcooz. Oh I accuse you, Randall Q Calhoun, of beating me about the shoulders with a baseball cap. Abusing an octogenarian, how shabby. I accuse you of boffing Moonface behind my back. What say you to these charges?
RQC: Slander. Nothing but slander. That I whacked you a couple of times is a demonstration of my affection. Moonface? She threw herself at me. Nothing happened. A few kisses. It was all quite ridiculous, really.
All the women in the café, in unison: Ridiculous?
RQC: I am accused, it seems, of being human.
Eggy: Don’t flatter yourself.
All the women in the café, in unison: Don’t flatter yourself.
Eggy: Order. Order in the court. Don’t I get one of those pounding things, a whatdoyoucallthem?—
Fast Eddy: I believe you mean a gavel, your honour.
Eggy: Gavel. Thank you. My kingdom for a gavel. The rain in Spain. Hoo hoo. Order. Order in the court. (Eggy pounds an imaginary gavel to comic effect. Fast Eddy steps forward, clears his throat. Silence. All except the Whistler who whistles and stamps his feet.)
Eggy, to the Whistler: You ought to take that show on the road.
Whistler: Sticks and bones, you know. Watch what you say.
Eggy: Don’t watch what you say me. I’m the judge. A hanging one, too.
Whistler, pretending to be mollified: Yes, your honour.
Eggy: Officer of the court, where were we? Ah yes, the list of charges. Surely, you haven’t exhausted them. Take a look.
Fast Eddy: Yes, your honour, there’s more, much more. But it could take all day.
Eggy: Get on with it.
Fast Eddy: Yes, your honour. Toot sweet, your honour. Ummm. Perverse. This item appears here with nine question marks attached.
Dubois: Objection.
Eggy: Well?
Dubois: I object to the use of the word perverse. It is open to interpretation.
Eggy: Point taken. We are, after all, a perverse society, and everyone’s a poet. Sustained. (From everyone assembled a murmuring of assent.) Proceed.
Fast Eddy: The defendant refuses to believe in American Utopia. The defendant suspects the Truman Diaries of specious reasoning. The defendant worships some god unknown to the rest of humankind. The defendant lives in the past. The defendant is exceedingly judgmental of other persons. The defendant has failed love. (General hissing.)
Eggy: Alright, that’s enough. Defendant, what say you? Are you innocent or guilty of these charges?
RQC: I am in somewhat of a quandary, your honour. Innocent, guilty—these are awfully limiting terms. We are all of us guilty of failing love to some extent. And what do we mean by love?
Eggy: Don’t get pedagogical. Besides, we’re not on trial here, you are.
RQC: The technologies of the Fifties released my mother from the drudgeries. She had too much time to sit around and drink and brood, to realize just what a monster her husband was. No, he didn’t beat her. He was married to his work. Biological and chemical agents. Weaponry. It made him rich. He was cold, ruthless, dedicated. My mother died a lonely lush. She never stood a chance. Truman? He may have closed one door in the name of cessation of hostilities but you can’t deny he opened up anot
her which might lead, one day, to our extinction. God? There are no gods but shadows. I can’t deny that those shadows are an inalienable part of my mind, whether I choose to recognize them or not. Love? But I have already addressed the issue. You may as well put a flower in the dock for withering. Oedipus acted in good faith and look where it got him. Selena Cross in Peyton Place acted in good faith and look what it drove her to do. Offed her stepfather because he raped her. Judgmental? I don’t believe I must always apologize for my sensibility. As for living in the past, I don’t live in it so much as I’m curious about it. I read books of history. I read ancient poems. I would like to know what remains of the ancients in our mentality. I suppose it’s impossible to quantify.
Eggy: Well, that’s straightforward enough. The human condition. I think Malraux had some words on the subject. He was an uneven writer, to be sure. But Peyton Place? Are you serious? You know the authoress used to go about in furs with nothing underneath. She drank herself to death. I don’t know about you writers, not that you’re much of a writer, Calhoun. I approve of history books. I’m a bit of an historian myself, amateur, of course. I am in need of wine. Court is adjourned for fifteen minutes.
Scene II: Plea and Arguments
Eggy, pounding an imaginary gavel: We’re back. Settle down everyone. I don’t believe we’ve yet had a plea entered. Will someone please enter one?
Moonface: Innocent, your honour.
Eggy, irritated: How many ways can you have it? The defendant has already acknowledged the possibility of his guilt. I think he’s guilty. We all of us think he’s guilty.
Dubois: Seeing as we have to start somewhere, we start by saying our man is innocent.
Eggy: Fair enough. Well, what do we do now? I suppose the prosecution should have its say.
Gentleman Jim: I should think so, your honour. May it please your honour, I shall leave it to Allecto, a member of my team, to present our case. She’s really quite something.
Eggy, narrowing his eyes: No doubt. Not someone I would want to tangle with in a back alley.
Allecto: Your honour. We have been amused by the proceedings thus far. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defendant has said it himself: he’s on trial here for being merely a human being. How quaint of him. We Furies, we are daughters of Gaia, which is to say, of the earth. And we are daughters, too, of Night. It is to say we do most of our research after sundown. We are avengers of every transgression against the natural order. We were feminists even before the women of Athens went on strike, withholding sexual favours from their men because of their silly addiction to silly wars. You might think we have some points of sympathy with the defendant here, on account of his objection to the war in Iraq, but nothing could be further from the truth.
Eggy, interrupting: The court doesn’t require your bona fides.
Allecto: In case you missed it, I am your worst nightmare.
Eggy, tittering: Don’t think I don’t know that. But try and keep to the matter at hand before this thing becomes even more of a farce than it already is.
Allecto, mock-bowing: Yes, your honour. Well then, here it is. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we will endeavour to show that the defendant is a man and is, ipso facto, guilty of maleness. And then we will show that—
Eggy, interrupting: What will you do? Offer up his balls as Exhibit A?
Allecto, continuing: That even in his maleness, he’s not much of a male. He has contributed nothing to society, much less the gene pool. Times have changed and he refuses to acknowledge it so. He refuses, as well, to accede to the authority of the academically-trained. In fact he believes we are not innately moral creatures, that it’s all a game, the rules made up by whoever talks the loudest for the longest. He is a cynic. We have not gone through the genocides of the not so distant past just to let cynics strut about. Furthermore, the reasons he gave for not boffing Moonface are disingenuous. He was more for being self-involved than he was for that bimbo’s happiness—
Moonface, rising: I beg your pardon.
Allecto: Cool your heels, sister.
Eggy: I’m the judge here the last time I checked. No one but me gives out orders.
Allecto, smirking: My apologies, your honour. (Turning to the jury) We will show you what a little hypocrite it is. That’s a line, you may remember, from Dr Zhivago the movie that we will turn on its head. I have nothing more to say, may it please your honour.
Eggy: It most certainly pleases me that you’ve nothing else to say. Bloody effing hell. Now for the defense. And, dear God, what next?
Dubois: I am a business man, not a lawyer. But somebody’s got to do it, speak for the defendant. He’s almost a classic in that he’s a boulevardier, although I must say he doesn’t look the part, he just behaves like it. And it’s on this basis, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that I defend him. Without him and his like, there would be no Blue Danube, no society. There would be even less discussion of the issues that confront us than there is.
Allecto: Objection. The defendant may be a drunkard, but Socrates he isn’t.
Eggy: Overruled. I’m a drunkard, myself, and it doesn’t keep me from speaking my mind now and then. Which reminds me. Counsel, are you going to wind this thing up? It’s getting late. I’m thirsty again.
Dubois: But, your honour, I’ve hardly begun.
Eggy: It’s neither here nor there, all this to do with the man’s vocation. He’s a self-obsessed sot with pretensions to literary grandeur. The third kind is the madness of those who are possessed by the muses, speaking of Socrates. Good poet, bad versifier—I think Montaigne allowed for the distinction. Of forests, and inchantments drear where more is meant than meets the ear. Enough. Only wine can cure this. Court is adjourned. Back in fifteen.
Scene III: Eggy’s Ruling and His Finest Hour
Fast Eddy prods Eggy, who has fallen asleep, his chin nestled against his chest.
Fast Eddy to no one in particular: I think he’s with the virgins in Paradise. Your honour, it’s show time. Come on, wake up.
Eggy: What? What’s that you say? What I hate is the girl who gives with a feeling she has to. Ovid. In case you’re wondering.
Fast Eddy: Everyone’s waiting.
Eggy: Waiting for what? Bloody effing hell.
Eggy raises his hand like a man wishing to get someone’s attention. Cassandra scoots to his table, troubled.
Eggy: Wine, and don’t stint. None of the watery vintage.
Cassandra: Wine? Water?
Eggy, thundery: Yes, you know, the blood of Jesus, woman.
Cassandra, comprehending: Oh.
Gregory, to no one in particular: How’s it going, guys?
Eggy to Calhoun: I’ve got Moonface reading Etruscan Places, you know.
Calhoun: That ought to expand her horizons.
Eggy: Don’t get cheeky. Now where was I? Oh, I guess I get to execute you. Hoo hoo.
Calhoun: So it would seem.
Witnesses rise en masse to indicate their pleasure, which it is they wish to see the defendant hang. Some jerk on an imaginary rope; some pass their forefingers along their throats; others assume the position of a firing squad.
Eleanor R, calling out: How much longer is this going to take? I’ve got better things to do than hang a man.