Les Blancs

by Lorraine Hansberry

  (He hands his glass to CHARLIE and turns to go. CHARLIE slams it down)

  CHARLIE You know even less about American Negroes than you think you know about me!

  TSHEMBE Perhaps my obsessions have made me myopic! In this light, for instance, I really cannot tell you from Major Rice! (Peering close into the other’s face, he grins) You all really do look alike, you know … (He starts out) There, I have given you a first sentence for your notebooks!

  CHARLIE (Rather shouting) What—will happen if we cannot … talk to one another, Matoseh? (TSHEMBE halts and their eyes meet. CHARLIE grins disarmingly) You know, I really cannot shoulder my father’s sins … I have quite enough of my own to contend with. (TSHEMBE comes back and sits. A beat) Did you know Kumalo?

  TSHEMBE Know him? I worked as his second-in-command for a year … until they kicked me off the committee. I know him well.

  CHARLIE Oh? Why were you kicked off?

  TSHEMBE (Leaning back, blowing smoke rings) They said that I lacked—ah—“passion” … for “freedom”! And other things. (With amused pride) There were several large reports drafted about me. (Then, turning his eyes on the other) I am so sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Morris.

  CHARLIE (The American) Oh, come on now, to hell with all this “Mister” stuff. You call me Charlie and I’ll call you Tshembe.

  TSHEMBE No.

  CHARLIE What?

  TSHEMBE I said “No.” I prefer to be addressed formally. And if we decide to change it you won’t decide by yourself. (Smiling) We will have to hold a referendum which includes me!

  CHARLIE Now, isn’t that silly!

  TSHEMBE (Knowing it is) Of course.

  CHARLIE But is has something to do with a principle?

  TSHEMBE I’ll think of one.

  CHARLIE (Mystified, but accepting it) About Kumalo—

  TSHEMBE (Sighs, looking off) Kumalo … is a scholar, a patriot, a dreamer and a crazy old man. If you ask him the time of day he looks at you without seeing you and says with passion glistening at the corners of his lips (Cruelly, mockingly) “Independence!” If you ask him the weather he says, “Freedom, now!” If you ask him has he a woman, he says (Raising his hand in the salute) “AHFREEKA!” They are all like that, the sincere ones. And the others, those for whom it is all a pose—drive themselves just as hard to ensure a position when the day comes!

  CHARLIE (Intently) Then it really doesn’t matter, does it, once you get under the skin? White rule, black rule—they’re not so very different?

  TSHEMBE I don’t know, Mr. Morris. We haven’t had much chance to find out.

  CHARLIE Oh, come on, Matoseh. You’ll get your chance. We both know that. The question is will you do any better than the rest of us with it? (Crossing up he refills his drink) Look, let me tell you something. (Confidentially) Have you ever been to—Twin Forks Junction?

  TSHEMBE (Dryly) Somehow, Mr. Morris, I missed it.

  CHARLIE (Tongue-in-cheek) Twin Forks Junction, Nebraska.

  TSHEMBE (Amused) Oh. That Twin Forks Junction!

  CHARLIE (Playing it big) Twin Forks Junction, Nebraska, is the fifth-largest town in Boone County—except at harvest time when the influx of farm laborers swells the population to … twenty! It has the largest silo east of Albion. An all-year movie house. A jim-dandy Federal Agricultural Station. And there’s something else about Twin Forks Junction—

  TSHEMBE I can’t wait, Mr. Morris!

  CHARLIE When I was a boy the two darkest faces within sixty miles were … a “black Irishman” and a sunburned Greek! And one day (He sits on the edge of the veranda, looking off) a contingent of colored troops came through—and you know what? Some of us played hookey so we could go down and see—don’t laugh, Matoseh—what a black man looked like. I’ll never forget it. They marched along in perfect formation, their eyes looking straight ahead, and it was the damnedest thing: I could feel their eyes on me, even though it was I who was watching them. And then they were gone and it was too late … and I kept wanting to call them back, to reach out and say, “Hey! … Lookit me! I never knew you were. Did you know I was …?”

  (He sits silently: for a moment he is in that other time)

  TSHEMBE Yes?

  CHARLIE (Turning to him as if the point should be self-evident) Well, don’t you see—? (But TSHEMBE merely waits, blankly) Matoseh, we cannot spend our lives like this! Sometime, the contingents have got to stop—and look at each other. Tshembe, if we can’t find ways to build bridges—to transcend governments, race, the rest of it—starting from whatever examples we have—then we’ve had it. (Smiling thoughtfully) Which, in fact, is why I came here.

  TSHEMBE To this Mission …?

  CHARLIE To this Mission. Do you know where I am really supposed to be right now? Geneva—the Summit Conference on Disarmament. Fifty new ways to talk peace—and plan war! The world likes its cynicism in heavy doses these days and my editors wanted my own inimitable version. But, you see, I took a different airplane. I walked into that airport and realized that I had had it, that my insides were up for grabs—that from here on in, well, no matter what, I had to find the other part. This part. Nobody believes it even exists anymore. And you know something? Until I came chugging down that river, I didn’t know that I had stopped believing it either. That they would actually be here—the Reverend, Dr. Gotterling, DeKoven, Mme. Neilsen—doing—being—what most of us think is impossible. (A beat. Shrugs) “Confession of the Week.” (He gets up and crosses to the liquor cabinet. They are silent for a moment)

  TSHEMBE (Sincerely) Mr. Morris, I am touched, truly. But tell me, when you passed through Zatembe, did you just happen to see the hills there and the scars in them? (CHARLIE stares at him uncomprehendingly) The great gashes from whence came the silver, gold, diamonds, cobalt, tungsten? (Charlie nods) Then answer me this: are there scars in the hills of Twin Forks Junction—cut by strangers? Well, that, you see, is the difference: we know you are, and we have known it for a very long time! I like your glistening eyes, dear man, and your dream of bridges, but the fact is those great gashes have everything to do with this Mission—and the “other part” virtually nothing!

  CHARLIE (Incredulous) Matoseh, I don’t believe it—that you can sit here, under this very roof where you learned to read and write—and deny the dedication of those who came here—

  TSHEMBE (Utter dismissal) I do not deny it. It is simply that the conscience, such as it is, of imperialism is … irrelevant.

  CHARLIE (Clutching his head in despair) Oh, for Christ’s sake, man! “Imperialism!” Can’t we, even for five minutes, throw away yesterday’s catchwords?! The sacrifice that these people—

  TSHEMBE (Jumping up, afire) “Sacrifice!” There, you see, it is impossible! You come thousands of miles to inform us about “yesterday’s catchwords”? Well, it is still yesterday in Africa, Mr. Morris, and it will take a million tomorrows to rectify what has been done here—

  CHARLIE (Intently) You hate all white men, don’t you, Matoseh?

  TSHEMBE (A burst of laughter. Casting his eyes up) Oh, dear God, why? (He crosses down and away) Why do you all need it so?! This absolute lo-o-onging for my hatred! (A sad smile plays across his lips) I shall be honest with you, Mr. Morris. I do not “hate” all white men—but I desperately wish that I did. It would make everything infinitely easier! But I am afraid that, among other things, I have seen the slums of Liverpool and Dublin and the caves above Naples. I have seen Dachau and Anne Frank’s attic in Amsterdam. I have seen too many raw-knuckled Frenchmen coming out of the Metro at dawn and too many hungry Italian children to believe that those who raided Africa for three centuries ever “loved” the white race either. I would like to be simpleminded for you, but—(Turning these eyes that have “seen” up to the other with a smile)—I cannot. I have—(He touches his brow)—seen.

  CHARLIE (An inspired stab) And you are something of—a Communist?

  TSHEMBE (Roars with laughter) You demand respect, and then return with your own simpleminded—

&
nbsp; CHARLIE Don’t patronize me, answer me! You have studied Marx, Lenin—

  TSHEMBE I am of my century, Mr. Morris!

  CHARLIE (Hot on the scent) How do you feel about Russia?

  TSHEMBE (With a sigh) I’ve not been there.

  CHARLIE Don’t evade, Matoseh. If you’re above the panaceas, answer me. Would you be with them?

  TSHEMBE Sometimes.

  CHARLIE Aren’t you afraid of them—they’re white men?

  TSHEMBE (Gesture of futility, staring at him) You do not listen at all. You really do not want to hear beyond a point at all. (Sighing) In any case, I did not say that I was not afraid of them or that I would be with them. To know more than that—(Slyly, a wide slow grin)—you shall have to do what the rest of the world will have to do: Wait and see. (Suddenly, wearily, closes his eyes) Mr. Morris, mostly I am tired. I came home for sentimental reasons. I should not have come. (Smiling with his own thoughts) My wife is European, Mr. Morris … a marvelous girl. We have a son now. I’ve named him Abioseh after my father and John after hers. And all this time I have, mainly, been thinking of them. In the future when you tell some tale or other of me, will you take the trouble to recall that as I stood here, spent and aware of what will probably happen to me, most of all I longed to be in a dim little flat off Langley Square, watching the telly with my family …

  CHARLIE Then all this talk about freedom and Africa is just that … talk?!

  TSHEMBE Isn’t that what you wanted, Mr. Morris, to “talk”?

  CHARLIE Yes, but I thought …

  TSHEMBE You thought! You thought because I am a black man I have answers that are deep and pure. I do not!!

  (NGAGO runs on and without breaking his speed hurls a piece of bark at TSHEMBE’s feet and exits into the darkness)

  CHARLIE (Dryly) This is some curfew.

  (TSHEMBE does not reply. He stands rigid. CHARLIE moves to retrieve the bark)

  TSHEMBE NO! (He picks it up but does not look at it) It is for me.

  (The distant, haunting strains of a chant are heard. TSHEMBE listens. The lights begin to assume a surreal quality)

  CHARLIE What the devil is it? (There is a flicker of drums)

  TSHEMBE (A quizzical smile on his lips) It’s an old problem, really. (Looks, at last, at the writing on the bark) … Orestes … Hamlet … the rest of them … (He puts it away. Wistfully) We’ve really got so many things we’d rather be doing …

  (The drums throb. It is as if he has been awaiting something all along and now at last she appears: the WOMAN as in the Prologue, majestic and motionless, spear in hand. TSHEMBE is instantly transfixed, his senses alerted, eyes far away, though she is upstage and he cannot see her. The Mission begins slowly to dim. The drums throb and recede, throb and recede)

  CHARLIE What’s the matter with you?

  TSHEMBE Ssh! … Soon she will come for me …

  CHARLIE “She?” “She,” Matoseh?

  TSHEMBE Ssh! … She will materialize out of the bush; she will waft up from the savannahs. (The WOMAN begins to dance, slowly, hypnotically, relentlessly) She will rise from the smoke outside the huts. I have known her to gaze up at me from puddles in the streets of London; from vending machines in the New York subway. Everywhere. And whenever I cursed her or sought to throw her off … I ended up that same night in her arms!

  CHARLIE Who?

  TSHEMBE (Possessed, fighting her) Even when I held my bride, she lay beside me, her arms on my thighs caressing!

  CHARLIE Who, Matoseh?

  TSHEMBE (Passionately, crying out) Who! Who! When you knew her you called her Joan of Arc! Queen Esther! La Pasionara! And you did know her once, you did know her! But now you call her nothing, because she is dead for you! She does not exist for you! (The WOMAN dances closer. The drums build) Will you go now, Mr. Morris?

  CHARLIE Matoseh—

  (But TSHEMBE can no longer hear him, as her movements quicken. CHARLIE dims out; the Mission darkens into silhouette)

  TSHEMBE (Addressing the WOMAN directly—but still without ever turning to look at her, for there is no need to: she has overrun the terrain of his mind) NO! I WILL NOT GO! It is not my affair anymore! (She circles in movements symbolic of the life of the people, binding him closer) I have a wife and son now! I have named him Abioseh after my father and John after hers. (She signifies the slaughter, the enslavement) I know all that! But it is not my affair anymore! (He sinks to his knees) I don’t care what happens here—anywhere! (She drops and writhes in agony) I am not responsible! (She rises: a warrior summoning him urgently, insistently, unrelenting) It is not my affair! (Abruptly silence, as she sweeps up the spear and halts, holding it vertical before her. TSHEMBE turns to face her. She holds it rigid for an instant, then tosses it, still vertical, to him, and he catches it instinctively. Screaming as he clutches it) I HAVE RENOUNCED ALL SPEARS!!!

  Blackout

  ACT TWO

  SCENE I

  Two days later, mid-morning. Outdoors, in the shade of a building or tree.

  CHARLIE is emptying the last of a case of drugs onto a table upon which is a stack of great banana leaves. MARTA stands wrapping the bottles in the leaves and placing them in a large low-slung box. About her waist is a holstered pistol.

  MARTA And so you see, Mr. Morris, it’s quite simple really. For my father—in those times—medicine just wasn’t enough. (CHARLIE joins her in the wrapping) And so Papa took those stubby, miraculous hands of his to Spain—and died there, fighting Franco. (Smiling wistfully) I was twelve years old.

  CHARLIE (Gently) You loved him very much. (She nods) Hey—how’m I doing?

  MARTA (Critically surveying his handiwork) As a mission doctor, Mr. Morris, I’d say you make a first-rate interviewer! (Leaning over to demonstrate) There—tuck in the edges a bit more here …

  CHARLIE Mmm-hmm.

  MARTA … to make sure that the bottle is covered completely.

  CHARLIE (With appreciation) Aha! Yes, that does help … Please go on.

  MARTA But what else is there to say? Years later, when I’d finished my residency, I heard about the Reverend, and just packed up and came. (Suddenly anxious) I do wonder what’s keeping him. He should have been back well before now.

  CHARLIE You’ve never regretted it?

  MARTA Not at all. Oh, I get irritated sometimes, infuriated even, but regret? No …

  CHARLIE (Suddenly struck again by the wonder of where he is and what he is doing, moves his hands sweepingly over the leaves and drugs) Tell me, Doctor, does this really work?

  MARTA (Eyeing his efforts with amusement) Well, it has until now, Mr. Morris …

  CHARLIE Incredible. And to think that all these years hospitals in the States have been wasting all that money on refrigeration … when they could have been storing their drugs under the buildings in banana leaves!

  MARTA You’re laughing at us, Mr. Morris—

  CHARLIE (Genuinely) No, Dr. Gotterling. Not laughing. Marveling … (She says nothing) And the fact is—it really …

  MARTA (Finishing it for him) Yes, Mr. Morris, I assure you, it really works. Well, that is, for most drugs.

  CHARLIE And the others?

  MARTA Those we don’t stock. (He looks at her) As I told you, it’s a question of choices—

  (PETER enters)

  PETER You called, Dr. Gotterling.

  MARTA They go under Ward Six. (PETER picks up the box) Thank you, Peter.

  PETER (Nods. To CHARLIE) Bwana. (He exits)

  MARTA And thank you, Mr. Morris. (Looks at her watch) And now I really must get back.

  CHARLIE Oh, please, we haven’t finished—

  MARTA Oh, but we have—that’s it. “My life.” (A slight satisfied shrug) There just isn’t any more.

  CHARLIE Not anywhere? There’s never been … another part?

  MARTA (Looking up quizzically) Another part? Oh … I see. “The Man.” (Smiling impudently) Well, I hadn’t thought my life was over!

  CHARLIE (Meeting her eyes) I hadn’t thought so e
ither, Doctor …

  MARTA (Returning the look) Am I still being interviewed?

  CHARLIE Yes, but if I play my cards right it may turn into—a conversation.

  (He motions her to sit on the ground. She does, and he joins her)

  MARTA The question, then, is what do I do for love—for romance? (Smiles) It has a way, Mr. Morris, of coming wherever one is.

  CHARLIE Good.

  MARTA If one doesn’t work at it too hard.

  CHARLIE (Grins) I’ll make a note of that. I take it that Dr. DeKoven isn’t …

  MARTA (Smiling) Dr. KeKoven isn’t. Look, Mr. Morris, I know it’s the tradition in your country to publish the most extraordinary personal details of—

  CHARLIE Oh, it’s not for publication.

  MARTA Ah? Then I am not still being interviewed?

  CHARLIE Let’s say we are gently sliding into a conversation.

  MARTA Then I’ll tell you a secret: (Leaning forward very confidentially) I’ve lived without a confidant for years: it isn’t the strain it’s painted to be!

  CHARLIE I see.

  (He opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, then closes it again, then opens it—just enough to begin chewing on his pencil)

  MARTA Yes?

  CHARLIE I didn’t say anything—

  MARTA Oh. Sorry. My error.

  CHARLIE Well, actually—you don’t ever feel that your life is in some ways wasted here?

  MARTA Wasted—?!

  CHARLIE Well, as far as I can see, this place isn’t exactly exploding with appreciation.

  MARTA I can only give you a professional answer.

  CHARLIE And the professional answer is, of course, that you didn’t come here to be appreciated.