Bees
By D. C. Pesci
C2020
All the events in this play occur in 1982. We hear
strains of Sinatra’s 1956 version of “I’ve Got You Under My
Skin.” Both Beta and Paula were married in 1957. Lights
up. Beta is seen dancing to the song, a glass of wine in her hand. Alpert,
dressed in jeans with a bee veil, appears in the living room. Hoping to
escape his wife's withering gaze, he makes an unsuccessful attempt to pass by
unnoticed. His wife, who does not miss much, notices him.
Act I Scene 1
Beta: (Without turning to see him, dancing alone) I
wonder if you know how ridiculous you look in that outfit. (Alpert does not
respond. They have had this discussion before) Can I help you find
something? It must be difficult to navigate with that mask on. (Alpert
removes his headgear and sits down disconsolately on the couch. Beta scans him
with a critical eye. She turns off the record).
Alpert: (Indicating the wine, a bit snippy) It may be
early for that.
Beta: It’s twelve o’clock, noon -- high noon. (Sensing
something is wrong) What’s the matter?
Alpert: This trip you have planned is unsettling.
Beta: You said you didn’t want to go. Have you changed your
mind? I could…
Alpert: No. I’m no longer interested in Europe. I thought we
had agreed our last trip would be our last to Europe.
Beta: Alpert, we haven’t agreed upon anything for
the last twenty years. You’re afraid of bees and Europe. I can’t imagine what
will incapacitate you next. Clouds? Air? I won’t ask you why you think you
must wear that burqa when you cut the lawn. I just hope when our neighbors see
you in that contraption, you have the presence of mind to pretend you are
beekeeping. (Unknown to Beta, he actually is beekeeping.)
Alpert:
“I create my verses
In the manner of a humble Matinian bee, that goes
Gathering pollen from all the pleasant thyme,
And labors among the many groves, on the banks
Of flowing Tiber.”
(Triumphantly) Horace.
Beta: Would you like some wine?
Alpert: No.
Beta: Horace did not dress in a burqa, and you do not keep
bees. For some reason, likely irrational, you are deathly afraid of them. But
then irrational fear has always been what sets you apart from the toiling
masses, and I suppose if one must be irrationally fearful of anything, a bee
will do the job. (The doorbell rings) Oh, oh, go, go, go, go… (He
scampers out)
Beta: (To the audience) That will be Paula, my cousin
and travel agent. She was our travel agent before Alpert developed
his Europhobia. Alpert is not the confessional type, and he hates
psychologizing. Why should he fear bees but not, say, white-water rafting,
which we did last year? When you’ve been married for more than twenty years,
it’s best to maintain a buffer of privacy, don’t you think? Too many questions
invite impertinence. A strategic silence covers a multitude of sins,
eh? The key to a successful marriage, I’ve always felt, is prudence
– and prayer (a note of bitterness) always prayer. (The doorbell
rings again) Yes, yes, coming. Life moves quickly, and people
have become so impatient, have you noticed? (Enter Paula. They embrace and
touch cheeks)
Paula: Everything’s done. I brought some schedules with me.
By the way, there’s someone dressed in a Klu Klux Klan hood wandering on your
lawn.
Beta: That would be Alpert. He may come into the house that
way, so don’t react if he does. Try to ignore him, and promise me you won’t
tell anyone. It’s a little awkward explaining these things.
Paula: No matter to me. What one does in the privacy of
one’s home, da, da, da…
Beta: Yes, that usually refers to matters of a sexual
nature, not gardening. People are ready to forgive the most preposterous
intimate arrangements. But tend flowers in a burqa and you’re done for. People
touch their heads (wagging her finger near her temple to indicate nuttiness)
and nod suggestively.
Paula: You could say he’s bee keeping.
Beta. Have a seat. We haven’t gossiped in a while. How’s
Fred?
Paula: Gone.
Beta: What?
Paula: Gone. He’s left me.
Beta: (Shocked) I’m stunned.
Paula: So was I. There were no signs. Well, of course, there
must have been signs, but you know Fred – unreadable. When people wish to hide
things, their faces turn to stone. In all the time I’ve known him, Fred’s face
has never had a decipherable message on it.
Beta: You’d better have some wine.
Paula: Something stronger would be therapeutic. I’ve become
partial to vodka the last few weeks. It’s tasteless… (Bitterly) like
Fred.
Beta: Oh dear, your separation is not amicable?
Paula: Technically, there has been no separation. He just
ran off with (Waving indifferently)… Jane. They’re in Paris, probably
sitting in some cozy café, nuzzling each other, smiling at each other with
their eyes, as lovers do.
Beta: How do like your vodka?
Paula: Lately, I’ve just been pulling at the bottle.
Beta: Oh, Paula, what a tragedy…
Paula: A comedy actually. Fred and tragedy are strangers to
each other. Tragedy would not dare touch Fred with a fifty foot
pole. I’m afraid you’re involved, remotely.
Beta: Me? In what way?
Paula: Through Alpert.
Beta: (Befuddled and unable to follow any of it)
Alpert who?
Paula: Your husband, the bee keeper.
Beta: I don’t get you.
Paula: The person Fred ran off with, Jane, is Alpert’s
cousin a few times removed. I could tolerate some ravishing beauty. But “Plain
Jane,” as we derisively call her? (She downs her vodka in a single gulp)…
The abduction of my husband’s affections by such a mouse is more than
adulterous. It’s silly.
Beta: I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jane. Most of Alpert’s
relatives are still in Europe, safely remote. Does Alpert know this Plain Jane
well?
Paula: I doubt it. Romance will be new to Fred, (Bitterly)
new and terribly romantic. Romance, you know, is a masque of terrors. The
second thing lovers do after they’ve satisfied their appetites is – kill each
other, as witness Romeo and Juliette.
Beta: As soon as Alpert’s family convinced themselves that Alpert had married
well, they forgot all about us. My family in Europe noticed the marriage
briefly and afterward obliviously went about their business, with never a
thought of us – except for Aunt Julia in Paris. She’s the one, you remember,
who married the television producer. We’ve never lost touch. I’ll be sure to
mention Plain Jane to her. Your news has shattered me. This is the sort of mess
that happens to other people. Let’s talk about something else. (Enter
Alpert)
Paula: (Brightly) We've been discussing your trip.
Alpert: (He removes his head gear, wanders over and
plants an indifferent kiss on Paula’s cheek) How are you?
Paula: Miserable.
Alpert: Oh? How’s Fred?
Paula: We must suppose Fred is happy.
Alpert: (Neither caring, nor understanding) Oh? (He
leaves the room, leaving his bee veil behind. Beta scoops it up and throws it
out an open window.)
Paula: May I ask a question?
Beta: Shoot.
Paula: You have been married what, twenty-five years? (She
walks over to the table, grabs the vodka) And in all this time Alpert has
been… like that, wandering in a cloud, vaporous, annoying (She takes a
hearty swig) hardly aware that he shares the planet with other people. (She
takes another swig) Does this affect you at all?
Beta: People grow used to indifference. It's one of the many
tolerable inconveniences. Think how all of us live in our minds. I do, you do.
This trip, for instance: I’ve been dreaming about it these last three weeks.
It’s been looping like a movie through my head. I would guess we spend two
thirds of our time wandering in our own heads. And the gifts of the
imagination, wanted or not, profoundly affect our behavior in the real world.
Alpert has always been the little boy lost, safely removed from life’s
squeamish horrors. But we love each other, make allowances for each other.
Paula: I guess that’s what love is (She takes a swig)
– eternal allowance. (Carefully placing the bottle back) I think I
should go.
Beta: (Empathizing) Paula…
Paula: No, it’s okay. I think I should go. I want to be
alone, so that I might think in peace of some undetectable way of murdering
Fred. (They embrace. Exit Paula. Enter Alpert,
looking for his bee veil)
Beta: Sit down Alpert. (She taps the couch invitingly. He
sits, waits patiently, a bit fretful) I’m going to tell you something. I
expect it will fly out of your mind as soon as you leave the room, but I feel
compelled to tell you this so that you will not stumble foolishly if the
subject should somehow come up. Your cousin Paula is on the point of separating
from Fred, who has run off with one of your remote cousins, Miss Plain Jane. Do
you know her?
Alpert: (As if he had been accused of something) No.
Beta: It appears that Fred has “known her,” in the biblical
way.
Alpert: Knock me over with a feather. It’s hard to
think of Fred “knowing” anyone, even Paula. Is there something I can do?
Beta: I don’t know. What do you have in mind?
Alpert: Maybe have a talk with Fred?
Beta: (Wearily) In this talk, what would you say?
Alpert: I have no idea.
Beta: (Smiles) Dear Alpert, you are so unmolested by reality.
Life has hardly touched you with its iron teeth. Fred’s not here
anyway. He’s in Paris, conducting business, he
says. Paula supposes he has gone there to have an affair with Plain
Jane. Naturally, Paula is armed and dangerous. And if she catches up with him (She
draws her finger across her throat). Paris is just the place for that sort
of thing. Wouldn’t it be novel if we all bumped into each other there in the
city of lights? I really do want to strangle Fred.
Alpert: Poor Paula. Have you seen my bee veil?
Beta: No. (Exit Alpert. Beta watches
him go. She raises her glass, downs the rest of her wine and says a prayer)
Dear God, what stuff you make men of. When I think of Fred, boring as sand,
faithful for two decades, throwing everything away: Paula, his house, his
job... his cat. Lucky all the children are graduated from college and on their
own. Awful! If it wasn’t so comic, it would be a tragedy. Where was this
astonishing passion these thirty years past? How it is no one saw it? And just
look at Alpert -- the world’s wonder. Untouched by guile, strait out of the
Garden of Eden before God’s lawyer temped Eve with the fruit of the knowledge
of good and evil. Please preserve him, I pray. Dear God, It would crush both of
us to see him smothered by reality. It would kill everything good in him if
ever he should wake to the real world. “Don’t do that.” (She savors the
humor, laughs, then angrily throws the glass out the window. Lights out.)
Act I Scene 2
On the plane to Paris. Beta is seated beside Franklin, a detective hired by her
husband, who believes Beta is having an affair with a person or persons
unknown. Though Beta doesn’t realize it, Alpert is seated in the back of the
plane, on his way to Paris to confront his wife’s lover. Beta is having a
conversation with Paula. All is in a half light, save for the plane’s reading
lights on Beta and Franklin. Later in the scene, Franklin and Alpert will be
similarly spotted.
Beta: (Speaking on an airphone with Paula) I
wanted to talk with you before we arrived in Paris. I have questions. How do
you know Fred is having an affair with Plain Jane? It seems unlikely... Missing
jewelry?... Well, how do you know the cleaning lady hasn’t pilfered it? My poor
mother, before she breathed her last, had a cleaning lady who easily could have
sucked the marrow from her bones. Mother Etta was missing things all the time.
She blamed all of us, called poor Alpert a thief. We thought – memory loss,
although she had no difficulty remembering 1932... What? You have no cleaning
lady? How do you get things clean?... What do you mean you've been doing
it? That's ridiculous... Fred's been having money problems, difficult to
know for certain since he handles all the family finances... Well there's a
sign, but you should have told me about the cleaning. I could have supplied
ours. Loviise comes once every two weeks, cleans everything. I think she’s from
Estonia, one of those Baltic States, old world Catholic, dependable as a nun.
The house gleams when she leaves. When I get to Paris, I’ll call her and make
arrangements. About Fred’s money problems, he isn’t jailbound?... You hope
so... Don’t despair. Fred will find his way back. Prodigal husbands return, if
you don’t make too much of a fuss. Alpert had an affair once, I suspect... Yes,
the beekeeper. I know what you’re thinking – thinning hair, a roundness in his
paunch -- who could want this barnacled wreck? But when
Alpert was younger, his head full of hair, mischief smoldering in his eye,
bursting with poetry, he was fetching enough to have fetched me. And I was,
then and now, very particular. What?... I suspect he is
straying because of money shortages. It’s a telling sign. Marriage busters tend
to be expensive. And there are psychological quirks. You know
how taciturn Alpert is, his speech always “yes” and “no.” He became
suddenly chatty. It was very upsetting. Before the affair, you couldn’t wring
more than five words at a time from him. And now here he was, bending my ear
with endless babble. Abrupt changes in character, it's a tip off... Yes, I’ll
call you when I get to Paris. (Noticing Franklin, the passenger next to her,
apologetically) I’m sorry. I hope it wasn’t too boring for you. My friend
is having some problems with her husband, a real goat.
Franklin: (Lying)
I was sleeping. Didn’t hear a thing.
Beta: I thought I saw your eyeballs moving in the plane's
twilight. It’s okay. Paula won’t mind if you’re privy to her secrets.
Strangers, I’ve always thought, make the best confessors. You just heap your
problems on them and then they go off like some scapegoat sagging with someone
else’s sins, never to be seen again. I’m Beta.
Franklin: I’m Franklin. (They touch fingers)
Beta: Like Ben Franklin?
Franklin: It’s a pretty common name, unlike yours. How did
you come to be the second letter in the Greek alphabet?
Beta: Alpha was already taken. God got to it before my
mother. I’ve never minded being second. You are more hidden and less noticed by
predators that way. I do have a brother – not named “Omega.”
Franklin: If you’d like to try your sins out on me, I’m very
forgiving. (This is too intimate for Beta and she turns away) Sorry, I
didn’t mean to be familiar. I’ll try to behave myself. I’m not a predator.
Beta: What do you do? (Embarrassed) Well that’s forward,
such a stupid and embarrassing question. Forget it, I don’t really
care what you do. You’re obviously on your way to Paris for some reason. Are
you returning? The French are so welcoming to returnees, and expatriate
Americans.
Franklin: I’m a detective.
Beta: (Stunned, then immensely pleased) This is
providential. God may have dropped you in my lap. I may be able to use your
services.
Franklin: To fetch some dirt on someone?
Beta: You’re very quick.
Franklin: We’ve just had this long and intimate
conversation. There wasn’t a lot of space between the lines to read in.
Beta: Are you expensive?
Franklin: Very.
Beta: (Delighted) This is so exciting. Price is no
matter. Alpert, my husband, is famously rich, a generous soul, though a little
(Searching for the right word) distracted. No, not distracted,
that’s not it. Absorbed in large and important matters, unconscious of himself,
a sort of modern day desert monk, entirely selfless, very sweet.
Franklin: (Mischievously) What does he do?
Beta: He’s in finance. But he mows his own lawn wearing a
bee veil. He's fearful of stings.
(The lights dim to dark. When they come up, Beta, now
sleeping, is resting her head on Franklin’s shoulder. Careful not to disturb
her, he removes himself from his seat, walks back to Alpert and sits beside him)
Franklin: (Taking a seat beside Alpert. Spot on the two) She’s
very trusting.
Alpert: Don’t be fooled by appearances.
Franklin: She has hired me to investigate Fred somebody.
Alpert: (Pleased) Good, but I’m only paying you once.
Franklin: Of course. I’ll get your payments through her. My
idea is to wind myself into her affections, very fertile ground I think, (Alpert
winces) and then to tease confessions from her. It helps that she’s hired
me to get the goods on Fred. He’s supposed to be having an affair with a woman
everyone calls “Plain Jane.”
Alpert: (Scornfully) That’s a joke. Neither Fred nor
Jane has the wit to hide anything successfully. But Beta does, and I
believe she has. Plain Jane – a distant cousin of mine, as it happens – is more
than plain. “Plain” does not do her justice. She is the sort of woman about
whom only a satyr could have impure thoughts. And Fred is her perfect
compliment. He hasn’t had a hard-on in decades… which, come to think of it, is
why poor Paula has now taken up vodka as a second career.
Franklin: You are very direct.
Alpert: Yes, it’s essential that you not follow false leads.
Forget Fred. I know all the characters in this domestic mash-up, you don’t. I
have hired you to uncover Mr. Mysterious, the guy who’s been "digging my
potatoes, trampling on my farm." I suspect Beta will meet with him in
Paris. Your payment depends on scouting him out. I don’t want to be financing a
flop. Concentrate on Beta. Tempt her, if you think by that means you may acquire
useful information. But beware, she has a lively imagination. I’ve sometimes
caught her talking to herself, long rambling conversations with people who are
not there. Don’t get lost in her maze. And do not be caught in the snares of
her many attractions. There is someone other than me in Beta’s life. If Fred
were not so repulsive, I might suspect even him.
Franklin: (A little surprised) You love her.
Alpert: With my whole mind, my whole soul, all my strength.
My intention is to seduce my wife, a difficult task. It's far easier to seduce
a woman who does not know you.
Franklin: And you’ve told her you love her?
Alpert: (Stating the obvious) Of course not. We’re
married.
Franklin: And what about you? Any hanky-panky?
Alpert: I’ve been very careful. As you know, I’m involved
indirectly in politics, which these days hardly differs at all from sexual
affairs. Politicians usually are able to steer a course around infidelity.
Candidates for office may be little more than distended penises, but their finances
must be pure as the driven snow. The real trouble is that fallen politicians,
like fallen angels, are driven into Hell by hypocrisy. Within the media,
hypocrisy is the only unforgivable sin. They’re more than
willing to be Christian about all the others, the usual seven deadly sins --pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath and sloth --
and this puts media moralists at a great disadvantage. They themselves must be
free of sin before they begin throwing stones at moral reprobates. And who
among them is without sin? The fear of hypocrisy leads to moral sloth. All you
need to know is that my job keeps me on the right side of the Ten Commandments.
I’ve been careful, I can tell you that much.
Franklin: Nothing in your past that a clever detective might
turn up, eh?
Alpert: Remember who’s employing you.
Franklin: I feel bound to tell you that Beta may ask
questions.
Alpert: (Surprised) About me?
Franklin: Who else?
Alpert: (Laughter) That’s rich. You haven’t told
her that I’m asking questions about her, have you? (Franklin has trouble
processing this question) Never mind. I hope I don’t need to hire a
detective to investigate the detective. That would be needlessly redundant.
Franklin: (With mock scorn) Sir, your money
purchases not only my services but my honor.
Alpert: At $80 an hour, your honor is nearly as expensive as
my own lawyer’s dishonorable, though always scrupulously legal activities. I
expect you to uncover all the lies and bring the truth to me, however painful
or awkward.
Franklin: (A devilish smile) We have been taught
truth is the stuff of which Heaven is made, while all lies are from the Devil.
But the Devil, at least in some of his few appearances in scripture, is a sharp lawyer
and God's prosecutor, a tester of men. Have you ever met a lawyer who was not a
romantic? The best of them are experts at constructing false but highly
enticing narratives.
Alpert: I can live with the truth. It has always been my
guide, in both business and life.
Franklin: We’ll see. (He nods and makes his way back
to Beta. He hovers over her, eases his way carefully into his seat without
waking her, re-positions her sleeping head on his shoulder. Lights fade to dark)
Act II, Scene 1
Julia and Thomas, her business partner, who is gay, are
seated together in the lobby of the St. James Hotel in Paris, awaiting the
arrival of Beta, Julia’s niece.
Julia: I hope you will not be too disappointed with my
relatives.
Thomas: How is that possible – if they are like you?
Julia: None of them are like me. I’ve spent more than half
my life making sure of that. I came to Paris twenty years ago, after the death
of my husband, to get away from my relatives.
Thomas: (A note of sadness) You don’t like them?
Julia: No, that’s wrong. I love them very much. But they had
come to depend on me; not for money, you understand, but for moral support, all
very fatiguing. Confessors have a much tougher job than bankers. And I knew –
if any of them were to grow up and become independent – I must leave them to
their own sometimes wicked resources. Do you know, Thomas, it is when we are
busiest that the Devil is most active? (Thomas nods his assent) People
have to learn by themselves how best to get along in this world full of traps
and snares. They must be permitted to make their own mistakes. So long as I was
there, they leaned on me, like a crutch. I came here determined to put some
distance between us. They turned out fine, most of them. But you know – this
century of ours crushes our spiritual bones. We are all cripples. So, I’m sure
they intend to bring me their troubles. I hope it won’t be too stressful for
you.
Thomas: Not at all. As is usual with us, everything will be
fun.
Julia: I’m afraid I had to deceive my niece. I told her we
were “a couple” – not married, but coupled. (Thomas seems
pleasantly surprised) The family was beginning to worry that in my
loneliness I might be driven to imprudent acts.
Thomas: You? It’s absurd. But already it’s becoming fun.
Julia: Thank you Thomas. You are always so understanding. I
hope you can play the part.
Thomas: I can play the part.
Julia: You’ll have to stop feminizing your speech.
Thomas: (Very sad) You don’t like this?
Julia: I like everything about you Thomas. But you must play
the man. (He straightens up, strikes a manly pose). They mustn’t
get the wrong idea. I mean, of course, they must get the right wrong
idea. We are coupled in their minds. My niece must not be disappointed. For
reasons that must remain obscure, it must be so. Can you play?
Thomas: (His voice deepening) I can play. (With
an exaggerated courtly bow, Thomas leaves)
Beta: (Entering with a flourish and greeting Julia) I
came here directly from the airport. It’s been so long. (They embrace, cheek
to cheek, Beta clinging to Julia a little too fiercely).
Julia: Let’s sit and talk a few minutes. Your face is still
smooth as a rose petal. I’ve poured you out some wine, the wine of the region.
You’ll like it. (They sit, staring at each other, drinking each other in,
broad smiles on their faces. Julia is Beta’s Godmother and her favorite aunt).
Beta: So Julia, how are you getting along?
Julia: Carefully. As you know, your uncle died before I took
what money he left me and settled here, mostly to get away from the children
who were making a stupid fuss over me. Aldo was never careful.
He lived too hard, the usual goal-oriented American, his head perpetually
buried in his work, rushing forward like a runaway train barreling through the
night towards some unknown destination. One day it killed him. I found him in
the bathroom kneeling by the toilet, an inscrutable smile on his face, as if an
angel had kissed his cheek. (To herself) What was the last thing in his
mind I’ve often wondered? But here it’s different.
Beta: In what way different?
Julia: For these people, especially those in the
countryside, every corner of time is still crowded with life, and the household
graces, the surrounding genies that shape the present and the future, are more
real and accommodating here. The French make allowances for human frailty. The
graces that attend them love the wine of the region for instance. Do you like
it?
Beta: Very good. How I’ve missed you. (Drifting off into
a memory) I remember, when I was very little, coming to your house, the
old homestead where it all began. In the winter, it was so cold. We
put bricks heated in the fire at our feet to keep them warm. The house always
smelled of grandpa, a combination of cigars and spices. I used to jump into bed
with you, and you were so warm. When I left you to go home, I thought -- she’s
the summer, my aunt and godmother is the summer.
Julia: Yes, our memories contain worlds. (Recalling the
desperation in her hug) And how are things with you my Beta? (A cloud
passes through Beta, Julia notices) Has the summer gone for you?
Beta: I’m glad it has not gone for you.
Julia: I’ve been liberated. When you’ve reached a certain
age, you throw off convention and put on eccentricity. No one in
France is much bothered by personal oddities. People are disappointed here if
by age 70 and upwards you have not developed some bends in your personality.
Old people, here and everywhere, are licensed to speak the truth; they have a
special dispensation. I expect it will not surprise you much if I say that the
truth is, mostly, a painful inconvenience. Fantasy is much pleasanter. You are
much pleasanter. Truth is a bed of nails; fantasy a plush comforter -- with a
warm brick in it. Ancients like me have a certain license. Will you indulge me?
Beta: I’ve thought often of this moment.
Julia: Here it comes then. I’ve read and thought over all
your letters. I invited you here so we might speak frankly together, as one
never does in letters. Written communications of all kinds are too
self-serving. In critical situations, one must be severe with oneself. And I
must tell you straight out that very nearly everything all of you have been
thinking falls very far from the truth. Just to begin with, Fred is not having
an affair with Jane, who is, by the way, very far from plain. Jane has been
with me many times. She is a model. Thomas and I have used her in our
advertising.
Beta: Thomas?
Julia: The boy I’ve mentioned in my letters to you, the head
of the agency I sponsor.
Beta: Ah yes, that Thomas. And here I
thought you were (searching for just the right word) retired.
Julia: (almost flirtatiously) But not yet in a state
of advanced decomposition. Jane is stunning, once she is made up and dressed,
very attractive. And – sorry to disappoint – but Fred is not having an affair
with her. He’s too this-worldly for that, too unimaginative. He was promoting
her to our agency, and we were happy to oblige him. Jane is a gold mine. The
older I get, the more resistant I am to persuasion. Though I must say Fred can
be very persuasive. Of course, Fred does have a piece of her, as they say, but
a commercial piece. Surely you must know that Fred and romance are strangers.
Beta: I thought so. I warned Paula of it, but nothing would
convince her. And it is possible to go too far in insisting that her husband …
Julia: … (Interrupting) … who is tedious, boring,
pure of heart. The pure of heart, you know, are those who will only one thing,
and Fred’s whole energy is turned towards enterprise. He’s a superb negotiator,
if sometimes negligent in husbandly things, a bit like your husband Alpert.
Beta: Paula will be glad to know it. But it’s become
impossible to convince her that Fred is incapable of romance. Right now, she’s
sipping vodka, and plotting murder.
Julia: No, it’s not impossible.
Beta: Yes, it is. I've tried, many times.
Julia: I have a plan.
Beta: (Suddenly nervous) Julia has a plan.
Julia: We must convince her of her husband’s fidelity by
means (big smile) of a useful deceit.
Beta: Not the truth?
Julia: Poor Paula is in no condition to receive the truth;
you said so yourself.
Beta: Suddenly I’m afraid. I have a headache. Is there any
vodka?
Julia: We are going to employ Plain Jane in this affair.
Beta: Maybe I’ll take some wine.
Julia: (Spotting Plain Jane, who has just entered. She is
ravishing) Jane, could you come here? I want you to meet Beta. (Jane
pumps Beta’s hand. Beta, not easily astonished, is astonished. She
throws back her head and downs the full glass of wine. Jane takes a seat and
makes herself comfortable. Beta stares at her, transfixed. Julia to Beta) Now,
we only have to wait for Paula’s arrival.
Beta: Paula is coming here?
Julia: Of course; it’s not possible to accomplish the plan
at a distance; it requires intimacy. This is a very delicate project. There
must be no slips-ups.
Beta: I’m sure it will all make sense when you tell me what
the plan is.
Julia: (Regally) That would be impossible.
Beta: Excuse me?
Julia: The plan would fail if you knew what it was. It
requires the kind of spontaneity that comes only when the actors involved –
you, Paula, myself and pretty much everyone else – do not know what comes next.
It needs art, improvisation. My plan is jazz, not mathematics. It would fail if
you knew beforehand what it was. In that case, you would be acting a part. And,
not to offend you, but you are no Plain Jane. She is a consummate actor; you
are only a wife.
Beta: I don’t think I understand.
Julia: (With great energy) Wonderful then! That’s perfect!
Beta: (Becoming irritated) Is there any vodka in this
hotel?
Julia: It’s crucial that you do not tell
Paula what you know.
Beta: That will be easy enough. I don’t know anything.
Julia: (Triumphantly) Wonderful! That is all
according to plan.
Act II Scene 2
The lobby of the St. James in Paris
Beta: (Addressing the audience) I came here to
revisit old times – Alpert and I spent our honeymoon in Paris many years ago –
and to see Aunt Julia again, possibly the wisest and most practical woman I
know, but also, it seems now, the most devious. Perfectly understandable; when
you are playing chess with people, you must move decisively and deceptively. I
called Franklin and gave him the good and bad news: There is no romance between
Plain Jane and Fred. Alpert was right about that. Franklin seemed relieved, a
surprise to me. He was raring to go; such a peach. Then I called Paula to share
with her the good news: Jane, not at all plain, had only a business
relationship with Fred. But Paula was not her usual self, I think from an
excess of anxiety, and vodka. She either did not hear me or refused to believe
me, which amounts, in most circumstances, to the same thing. She said she was
on her way to Paris; wants to spend a painful chunk of Fred’s money before the
divorce. This certainly is the place to do it… What to make of Julia and
Thomas? There is, I would guess, a forty year difference between the two, a
bridge too far for romance. However, a discrete affair is not impossible. Julia
is a vigorous lady. But then too, though she always has had an ambitious,
independent, even contrarian streak in her, Julia was never the romantic. She
has surprised us all. But I suppose the most romantic city in the world – still
a place where people come to fall in love rather than into bed only – brushes
off on you when you have lived here as long as she has. The world turns, and we
along with it. Change is inevitable. But for me, for me – not here, not in
Paris. The Tuileries, witness to the comings and goings of kings and queens and
revolutionaries with knives in their brains, has a special fascination for me,
because it was here, two years before I married Alpert, that we collided with
each other in sight of the Place de la Revolution, where King Louis XVI and
Marie Antoinette breathed their last. Poor Louis, a progressive monarch by any
measure, was given a hasty citizen’s burial. And the Revolution, intending to
send a message to posterity, buried the king’s guillotined head at his
feet, the better to humiliate him. Alpert was on business in Paris. He was
moving backwards at a rapid pace, trying to cram the Louvre into his lens, when
we collided with each other, a fateful collision. He turned to apologize, and I
could see he was overcome with wonder and pleasure. It was Spring. I was
wearing a flouncy, floral dress that danced seductively in even the slightest
breeze. My makeup was fetchingly modest. I’ve made myself up the same way every
day since Paris. Alpert didn’t stand a chance. Paris does this sort of thing to
people. The rest of our life together has been a repetition of that most sacred
moment. I believe we are happy. When I’m not with him, I miss him, a sure sign
that love abides with us. (A phone on her table rings) Excuse
me. (Alpert, also in the lobby, has called her. Pretending to be at
home. he looks longingly at her. He is sitting with Franklin,
who has had a few drinks.)
Alpert: It's me. Are you alone? Is anyone with
you?
Beta: One is never alone in Paris, my love. But I am by
myself at the moment. You are not interrupting. Yesterday, I took a stroll
through the Tuileries, our Garden of Eden, thought of you and was swept up in a
dream of times past.
Alpert: I’m so lonely. (Franklin rolls his eyes)
Beta: (Seductively) Alpert… You mustn’t be. I’ll be
with you in a week. I bought a dress I think you’ll like, a floral.
Alpert: (Visibly shivers. Franklin rolls his eyes) I’m
coming to Paris. I’ll be there in a couple of days. (Franklin wildly waving
his hands, mouthing NO!)
Beta: How romantic! We’ll take a walk in our old familiar
paths. (She hangs up.) It’s important to shoot the arrow directly into
the heart. (As in the plane, the light moves between the characters
when they speak)
Alpert: (To Franklin) What’s the matter with you,
gesticulating like that? We are in Paris, at the St. James. Parisians are alive
to subtleties. People may notice us. And why do you roll your eyes?
Franklin: My innate reaction to the odor of love.
Alpert: You are a sour cynic. Are you drunk? (He is)
Franklin: In my experience, love is the surest route to a
funeral. Have you heard of Marie Prest? (Alpert indifferently shaking his
head) She lived in a neighboring state of yours, very wealthy through
marriage – her third at the time she murdered her husband, his
mother, his sister and a police psychologist who had harassed her during a
talkathon session after she had threatened to commit suicide. Do you know why
she murdered the shrink? (Alpert shakes his head no) Because, hoping to
lighten the moment by introducing a spot of humor into it, so as to capture the
lady’s confidence, he said in the presence of all the blood, tears and dead
bodies, “Ah, what we will not do for love.” Mrs. Prest sent a bullet through
his forehead. She was an expert markswoman – home state, Kentucky. Mrs.
Prest reckoned that the shrink and the cops had discovered she had murdered two
of her husbands, and she thought: They can’t execute me twice. Why not go out
in a blaze of glory?
Alpert: What happened to her?
Franklin: Life in prison. Enlightened legislators in the
state where the murders had been committed had, in a frenzy of compassion, done
away with the death penalty – murdered it in fact. While serving her sentence,
she romanced and strangled a guard, a pretty, slight woman who was into Jung
and bodybuilding. That poor guard probably should have been teaching third
grade in a Catholic girl’s school where, unlike in prisons, discipline is
enforced by nuns armed with rulers. Love and money – two jackals! After her
fourth murder, blind justice gave Mrs. Prest a second life sentence on top of
the first, the frosting on the penology cake, entirely useless and pointless,
but a just sentence to the idiots who run government in your part of the world.
Alpert: Well, I suppose your business exposes you to the
dark side of life. (Franklin rolls his eyes. Alpert looks around
feverishly) Could you stop doing that? If you make a fuss, people will
notice, and Beta is right over there. (With great disappointment) She
seems happy.
Franklin: What?
Alpert: Beta seems happy. Isn’t happiness a sign of marital
treachery?
Franklin: No.
Alpert: She’s having an affair; it makes her happy; it’s a
sign, isn’t it? You know more about these things than I do.
Franklin: You really are irredeemably stupid. By telling
Beta you will be with her in a couple of days, you may have exploded my
investigation. Sin, you should know, needs lots of free space in which to
flower. When sin is caged, it becomes cautious. By the way, Fred has not committed
adultery. He has a business relationship with Miss Plain Jane, who is actually
a cross between Grace Kelly and Hedy Lamarr. Fred and Plain Jane are connected,
businesswise, to Aunt Julia, who may or may not be having an affair with a
business partner, a green sprite about a half century younger than she is.
Can’t imagine what he sees in her, other than dollar signs.
Alpert: (Floored) Well… You’re pretty good. I’m
grateful to see my suspicion confirmed that Fred is incapable of anything
erotic. Julia surprises me a little. How liberating that Plain Jane has finally
come into her own! The last time anyone in the family saw her was
when she was struggling through her awkward teen years. But Franklin, this is
the neighborhood. What about Beta? Someone has been digging my
potatoes, I’m sure of it. (The light, focused on Alpert and Franklin,
like sheet lightning briefly touches Beta, who may, or may not have noticed
Alpert)
Franklin: Beats me. I know one thing: She’s guilty.
We all are. (His philosophy in a nutshell. He swigs down his
wine, spilling much of it on his shirt. A ruckus
follows. Lightning flash on Beta. She notices the two. Her hand goes
to her mouth. Paula enters in a rage.)
Paula: (Shouting to Garcon backstage) Keep your hands
off me, you ape, or I’ll have you arrested. (Shouting) Freddie! I know
you’re here, you and that Plain woman. Show yourself, you coward! (We
hear mutterings of astonishment, much of it in French, from other guests in the
lobby. Spotting Alpert and Franklin, who are both standing) Ah,
there you are. (She strides to their table) Where’s Fred?
Alpert: He’s back home, probably wondering where you are.
Paula: Liar. He’s here, I know it. He won’t wonder long. I
left him several messages -- copies of divorce papers -- in the bedroom, the
bathroom, the kitchen, and in his garage, where he putters on weekends doing
God knows what.
Alpert: Will you join us? (He notices Beta approaching.
To Franklin) Think! Quickly!
Paula: (Takes a seat and notices the stain on Franklin’s
front) Are you all right? Have you injured yourself?
Franklin: It’s wine, an accident.
Beta: Well, isn’t this cozy?
Alpert: (To Beta)
Join us, will you?
Beta: That was a quick flight of yours.
Alpert: I wanted to surprise you. I had already arrived when
I phoned. I’m afraid I’ve stepped on my own surprise.
Beta: (To Franklin, pretending not to know him) And
you are…?
Franklin: I’m Franklin. Pleased to meet you.
Beta: A business associate of my husband’s?
Franklin: Not a very important one. We met here in the hotel
accidentally (Everyone but Paula laughs)
Beta: Ah, an accident. (Looking at his shirt) You
seem prone to them. Could you excuse us please? Paula and I must have a
little tete a tete together. Women’s stuff. (They start to
leave) And Alpert, if you don’t mind – would you get a separate room for
yourself? (A bit coldly) Paula will be staying with me.
Alpert: Already done. (Feeling an explanation is
necessary) I was attempting a surprise. (They leave)
Beta: Would you like some vodka?
Paula: You know, I haven’t had a drop in two days. I didn’t
want drinking to interfere with my unconquerable resolve. Pretty good, wasn’t
it? You can be drunk and rational, but justifiable anger requires sobriety. I
primed my anger on the plane over. When I arrived at the gates of St. James,
something set me off. An annoying nuzzling couple near the entrance provoked
me, got my bile up. I lashed everyone along the way. I don’t think I’ve calmed
down yet. My blood is on fire, but I am exhausted. My nerves will not settle
until I’ve confronted Fred. Do you know there are no gun sellers in Paris? Odd
for a place that is home to the guillotine. Maybe I’ll have some vodka after
all. (Beta motions to Garcon whom Paula earlier had called an ape. He
approaches cautiously) Two vodkas please (He nods and leaves quickly) Wait!
Bring some glasses and a bottle.
Beta: I have some good news for you. I want you to hear me
out before saying anything. I think you know Julia, my aunt and godmother.
Plain Jane, as we have been used to calling her, works as a model for Julia
who, not to confuse you, has taken up with a boy, Thomas, much younger than she
– by about forty years. (Paula is astonished) Yes, I know, it borders on
indecency. Fred has been assisting Julia, which is why he comes to Paris
occasionally. (Garcon approaches cautiously with a bottle of vodka and
two glasses) Theirs is a business relationship only. (Paula lets out a
loud scoffing snort, which stops Garcon in his tracks)
Paula: (Realizing she had upbraided him earlier) Oh,
look what I’ve done. Poor Garcon. Come here. I didn’t mean to call you an ape.
It’s alright. Come, come, I won’t bite (He puts the tray on the table)
Wait. Un moment s'il vous
plaît. (She fetches a bill from her pocketbook and presses it
into his hand. He looks furtively at the bill and, agreeably astonished,
pockets it and leaves.)
Beta : What
did you give him?
Paula: I don’t know. Something with zeros.
Beta: The French are not easily astonished. You had better
watch your francs.
Paula: It doesn’t matter. The poorer I am, the poorer Fred
is. I’d be happy to see him begging in the streets. Pardon Beta, but I don’t
believe anything you’ve said. I’ve already served Fred with divorce papers.
You’ve heard that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? Well, you’re looking
at a scorched and scorned woman. These wasted years will be
costly. (She swigs down her vodka. Beta sees Julia approaching, a fashion
magazine in her hand. Quickly she scoops up the silverware – weapons -- and
puts them in her pocketbook) Beta!!
Beta: It’s okay. I am collecting souvenirs. I don’t remember
if you’ve ever met my Aunt Julia (Julia nods to Paula.)
Julia: (Places the magazine before Paula,
points to the model) That is Plain Jane.
Paula: No, it isn’t.
Julia: But it is. Jane works for me as a model. She also has
worked with your husband, Fred. There is no relationship other than a business
one between them. I’m sorry to be so direct, but Beta has told me you are in
distress because you imagine a more intimate affair. And I am here to relieve
you of any lingering doubts.
Paula: (Looking intently at the photo.) Fred could
never have had an affair with this woman; she is
intimidatingly beautiful. Fred quails before beauty of that kind. He fears the
laughter of beautiful women. He might have had an affair with a dusty
librarian, but never this. He may have another Plain Jane on his shelf. I have
a sense of such things.
Julia: Not in Paris.
Paula: Do you know where Fred is?
Julia: He's here in this hotel, hiding from you I believe.
Paula: I must find a weapon.
Julia: (To Beta) Fred has been helping us
for a long while with our filmography. In the future, advertising will leap off
the page and gravitate to other modes of presentation. We want to cash in on
all this. And also, we need to move our product from Europe to the United
States because, as one of your famous bank robbers once said, that’s where the
money is. Fred is a genius in this sort of thing, the best in the business. Our
business prospects are very good so far. The venture likely will make lots of
money.
Paula: So, Fred will make money again (Pleased).
Funny how things turn out. (She leaves abruptly.)
Beta: It’s time for a toast (She pours out vodka for
herself, and Julia.) We are in Paris, the city of lights. It is Spring.
Prosperity is everywhere, and that sour old fussbudget Voltaire was wrong –
it is the best of all possible worlds. Here’s to the
transforming power of love! (She raises her glass and notices Julia seems
embarrassed.) Is something wrong? Have I stumbled over a corpse?
Julia: I’m getting married. (Beta, floored, downs her
vodka)
Beta: I don’t know what to say.
Julia: Well, when in doubt, listen. I’m sure you’ll
understand, Beta. Your sensibilities are more advanced than other members of
our straight-laced family. Nearly everyone in America is still haunted by
outmoded conventions. I expect in time New York at least will catch up to
Paris, and soon we will all be enjoying the detectable fruits of sin. The
wedding is in three days, and all of you, including the detective who has been
shadowing you -- Franklin, I believe – are invited to the splashy affair. Fred
already is here to help us with the visuals. He’s been here for about a week,
but it may be best to keep his room to ourselves. Paula seems distraught.
What do you think?
Beta: It may be best to tell her, though I think we’ve lost
all credibility by now. I know her well. There is murder in her eyes. When
tipsy, she gravitates between indifference and rage. At least Fred has not yet
seen the divorce papers. What has been done can be undone, and no one will be
the wiser. Who is the lucky man?
Julia: I know you will understand. The marriage is something
of a publicity stunt – to generate interest before our break-out in the United
States.
Beta: Don’t keep me on tenterhooks. Who is it? (Julia
pours out an ample vodka for Beta)
Julia: It’s Thomas.
Beta: (Thunderstruck, she stares at Julia with dead eyes
for a moment, downs her vodka, attempts a smile, fails) The little boy who
follows you about like a worshipful Pekinese, that boy? (Thomas,
the garcon, wearing a thin paste-on moustache, approaches
confidently)
Garçon: Would mesdames like…
Beta: Get lost! (He quickly vanishes) Julia, please,
make me understand. We’ve heard these poisonous rumors. Is it possible they are
true? Of course, he’s handsome, so I’ve heard. But the difference in age is, I
think, a bridge too far. People will talk. Your reputation will suffer.
Julia: I left most of my reputation behind me in tatters
before I moved to Paris nearly thirty years ago. And in any case, a war on
normalcy is expected in my line of business. We can’t disappoint our clients by
being bourgeois. I’m a little worried about Paula. She seems on the
point of doing something rash. Over the years, I’ve developed a keen sense of
such things.
Act II Scene 3
Paula: (A twilight dark bedroom. Awakened by the noise of
his door opening, Franklin feigns sleep. Paula enters, a knife she has taken
from Beta in her hand. She stands by the bed, summoning up courage, and throws
herself on Franklin) Traitor! (Franklin grabs her wrist. There is a
brief struggle. They roll around on the bed. Franklin emerges on top, wrests
the knife from Paula and throws it to the ground. Pinning Paula, he switches on
the light with his free hand. For the first time, she sees his face and is
astonished)
Paula: What are you doing here?
Franklin: Well now, I might ask you the same question.
Paula: (He dismounts. Realizing she has made
an embarrassing error, she starts up, then goes limp. On the edge of tears)
Paula is confused.
Franklin: I should call security.
Paula: (Still a bit woozy, almost bored)
Please, don’t. You will only create an unnecessary scene. And that would add
insult to injury. (She bursts into tears from frustration)
Franklin: (Secures the knife and enters a bathroom, from
which he emerges with a towel. Handing her the towel) Sorry, I don’t
know where the tissues are.
Paula: Thank you. You are very kind.
Franklin: I suppose, considering the circumstances. Why are
you trying to murder me?
Paula: I mistook you for my husband.
Franklin: Ah… an affair of the heart. I can’t imagine how
this would be explained to my loving nephews and nieces. A mistaken
identity murder. You see, she thought your uncle was her husband, whom she
deeply loved.
Paula: I do love him, the cheating cheat. I still don’t know
what your part in all this is.
Franklin: Oh, forgive me. I’m Franklin (he puts out his
hand and she pumps it)
Paula: I think we've met.
Franklin: Yes, I didn’t recognize you with the knife in your
hand. Then too, the lighting in French hotel rooms at 3:00 o’clock in the
morning is romantically dull.
Paula: But who are you, really?
Franklin: I’m a detective.
Paula: (Sorrowfully) I could have used a detective.
With better detection this need not have happened. If I had procured your
services a few weeks ago, we might have avoided this unpleasantness.
Franklin: Where are you from in Connecticut?
Paula: (Surprised and suspicious) How do you know
where I live?
Franklin: I’m a detective. I detect things. Your speech
patterns place you near Windsor.
Paula: (Amazed) That’s extraordinary. Imagine, all this
time, I’ve been carrying around my address in my speech patterns. I want you to
know I meant no harm to you Franklin. I was seeking to maim, not to kill, my
lying, cheating husband of twenty five years. Only five years past we were
together in Prague for our twentieth. The concierge at the Savic Hotel thought
we were newly married. Affection poured off us in throbbing waves.
Franklin: That’s love – one day affection, the next day
murder.
Paula: (Deeply offended) Sir, I am not a
statistic! (After a pause) I feel I owe you an explanation though.
Franklin: If it will not take long. (looking at his watch)
It’s nearing three ten in the morning.
Paula: You wear your watch to bed?
Franklin: Always. Time is money. Also, this watch, nearly as
old as your marriage, saved my life in Marrakesh. It’s a totem of personal
salvation for me. So then, you are wandering around at three o’clock in the
morning, in a French hotel, having procured a key somehow, with a kitchen knife
in your hand, hoping to maim, but not kill your husband, for whom you feel
great affection, according to the concierge at the Savic Hotel in Prague.
Paula: (Begins to cry) I am so unhappy. (Softening,
Franklin sits on the bed, tenderly strokes her shoulder. Paula bursts into
raucous laughter)
Franklin: What!
Paula: Sorry, an image flashed through my mind. The door
bursts open, my husband finds us -- entangled. I explain, as best I can at
three o’clock in the morning. He understands, forgives me. I forgive him, we
reconcile. We live happily ever after. Improbable, I know.
Franklin: Would you like a drink?
Paula: (Brightening) That might help.
Franklin: (He rummages through his bedside table, brings
out two glasses and a bottle of Bourbon, and finds…) Look here – the
tissues. They were nestled beside the bible.
Paula: I could use some tissues. The vodka I’ve been
drinking for a month has made me weepily sentimental. I’m really a very nice
person, carefree, secure. I like to go shopping. When I think of my losses …
Franklin: (Energetically) You’ve lost nothing.
Paula: Fred is not nothing. Would I have wasted all this
emotional energy for nothing?
Franklin: You may take it from me, that is the
way it occasionally happens in real life.
Paula: (sarcastically) Yes, I know. You’re a
detective. You detect things. (She downs her whiskey in a single gulp and,
used to vodka, gags) My God! … (She snatches the towel,
coughs uncontrollably. Recovering…) What is that?
Franklin: It’s Kentucky Vintage Original Sour Mash
Bourbon, the best American bourbon on the market. I bring it with me wherever I
travel. It’s my constant consolation.
Paula: A man, his watch, and his whiskey. Poor, lonely man…
My friends keep lying to me. Beta, Julia …
Franklin: They have not been lying to you.
Paula: How can you be certain?
Franklin: I’m a detective…
Paula: (Irritated) You’ve already introduced
yourself…
Franklin: … who has been hired by both your good friend Beta
and her husband to uncover rampant infidelities.
Paula: That’s absurd!
Franklin: So I’ve detected.
Paula: Oh, I’m confused again.
Franklin: Along the way, I’ve discovered that your husband
is too busy for affairs. Have another drink.
Paula: How can I believe you?
Franklin: I will tell you.
Act 3, Scene 1
(Franklin and Alpert are seen in a spotlight. On stage
with them is Aunt Julia, hidden in shadow. The spotlight shifts between
Franklin and Alpert and Franklin and Julia)
Franklin: The time has come for brutal honesty. I
have no sugar coated pills for you. (Alpert prepares for the worst)
There is no indication that your wife has taken up with
someone else.
Alpert: (Relieved, then dubious) Is there
a lack of indication because you have not been able to detect the indicators,
or is she genuinely not interested, romantically I mean, in another man?
Franklin: (Teasing) Or in another woman?
Alpert: (Shocked) What!
Franklin: You are a fool. Women always are interested
romantically in other men – the phantoms of their imaginations. It is the chief
business of women to make men over, first in their minds and then in fact. I
have touched all the bases and am convinced that Beta loves you too deeply to
jeopardize your bumbling relationship. You are the phantom of her imagination.
Alpert: (Still doubtful) Convinced you say?
Franklin: Beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Alpert: And how do you arrive at that conclusion?
Franklin: (Sighing. He does not like interrogations)
I sometimes forget you were a lawyer…
Alpert: Oh please no, not a lawyer. I had ambitions in that
direction but gave them up as soon as I discovered that lawyering was to be put
in the service of chicanery and money making.
Franklin: That could not have taken very long. You
cross-examine like a lawyer…
Alpert: (interrupting)
… like a cuckold. Reality is my only school…
Franklin: I’ve arrived at this unshakable conclusion because
your loving wife hired me to give you the look over. As she said, she had some
reason to believe that you had been cheating on her.
Alpert: So you’ve said. But Beta is very clever, in fact the
cleverest and loveliest person I know, (an afterthought) and I do not
exclude my mother. (Franklin rolls his eyes) She might have
done this to convince you there were no hidden bodies under her own bed.
Besides, I don’t believe I’ve ever given her reason to think I’ve had an affair
with another woman.
Franklin: Or another man?
Alpert: (shocked and irritated) What!
Franklin: Times have changed. We must not leave these new
possibilities out of account. I’ve turned over all the stones.
Believe me, I know nothing when I see it. You have the most
extraordinary set of friends and family, all of them touched by irrational
eccentricity, in a charming sort of way – and all of them faithful which, given
the temptations that flesh is heir to in modern times, is extraordinary. You
say you haven’t given your wife reason to think you may have been cheating on
her. How is it you know so little of women? Can you, a brutal businessman with
the blood of your victims dropping from your fangs, be that innocent in affairs
of the heart? Women do not need reasons to sniff out betrayal. Certitude enters
their brains through their intuitive faculties. Women register
suspicions that would never occur to either of us. They can sense a faithless
storm gathering on the horizon that is invisible to common sense. They read men
and women with the same attention you apply to your stock returns.
Alpert: (this may be the first time in his life Alpert
has been told something he does not already know) Oh…
Franklin: You didn’t know this?
Alpert: Never thought of it.
Franklin: Well, you see, there’s proof of the old maxim:
It’s not what you don’t know that hurts you, but what you know for certain that
ain’t true.
Alpert: After twenty-five years of marriage, all the signs
I’ve seen point to a solid relationship – at least on my part.
Franklin: The maxim again. In any case, if that were true,
your wife would not have engaged me to snoop on you. Listen Alpert, you are
paying for the truth, and I am determined you shall have it. You are a
businessman, which means that you are inattentive to the most important
things in life – a loving and romantic marital relationship, for instance. You
have been moving through your marriage on auto-pilot, convinced that the center
joist in your house cannot possibly fail. Meanwhile carpenter ants –
indifference, self-delusion, inattention to vital matters of the heart – have
been gnawing away at your beams. Your wife, who has no such flabby, destructive
illusions, has intuitively sensed all this and wrongly supposed you were
indifferent to her because your emotions were entangled with another woman. I
assure you – she is happy to hear she was wrong; whereas you still are
not convinced you are wrong.
Alpert: (This is the second time someone has
told Alpert something he didn’t know) Oh…
Franklin: Live and learn.
Alpert: (Suddenly suspicious) You’ve discussed this
with her?
Franklin: Of course. She knows everything. She’s intimately
familiar with every crossed “t”, every dotted ‘i”. In fact, she knew everything
before I discussed it with her.
Alpert: Everything?
Franklin: The whole sorry business. I simply took it upon
myself to save your marriage, to elevate it from a dark cellar and bring it
into the light of truth.
Alpert: She knows I hired you to spy on her?
Franklin: Of course.
Alpert: Well, that can’t be good.
Franklin: (Laughing) On the contrary, she was
flattered you cared.
Alpert: Oh… (It suddenly occurs to him) You
haven’t been collecting payments from both of us?
Franklin: That would be highly unethical.
Alpert: It would. Still, we are business men. You haven’t,
have you?
Franklin: No. Your wife has abundant virtues to
recommend her to the better angels of your nature. She is attractive, highly
intelligent, resourceful, and (convinced Alpert will understand this one) she
handles money well.
Alpert: That she does. She takes care of all the household
finances, always has. Although millions pass though my hands daily, hourly, I
have no head for domestic figures.
Franklin: Again … the maxim.
Alpert: What are you saying?
Franklin: If your wife misspent the household cash, for
which you say you have no head, you would sense it, because your grief antenna
is highly monetized through practice and disposition. But you have tuned out
the romance of your own life, and romance is the flower the bee sucks to
produce its honey. What will it profit a man if he should boost his stocks and
lose his wife?
Alpert: Oh…
(Franklin moves and takes a chair at a small table where
Julia is seated smoking a Gitanes and drinking cognac.)
Franklin: I read somewhere that smoking had been outlawed in
public places here in France.
Julia: So it is. In France, every place is a public place,
even one’s bedroom. And the French admire – no, worship -- outlaws as much as
the Americans, perhaps more. It’s a Gitanes. The French government once thought
to ban it, but it only became more popular, especially among women who imagine
they are fashion-forward. (Letting out a plume of smoke) If one is in
the game, one must move the pieces.
Franklin: I was never worried about your niece Beta, or her
sometimes half-conscious husband Alpert. But Paula – there’s a mess. She tried
to kill me you know, thinking I was her faithless husband who, we both know,
worships at her altar. You have the oddest family. The males are all monks and
the females all cloistered nuns.
Julia: Not cloistered, not nuns, not all of them, but I
accept your metaphor as a working hypothesis.
Franklin: You’re the Ishmael of the family, the lone
escapee. How’d you manage that?
Julia: I got myself exiled. Escaping was the easy part. I
ran off to Paris with a French ethicist who was teaching at Yale in New Haven.
I was his third gouvernante, though he had no wife and no children.
Adapting was the hard part, liberating myself from certain
preconceptions. Shedding old skins is easy only for snakes.
Franklin: But you have been wondrously successful.
Julia: Guts and persistence. Also, I have more money than I
can put to good use (More smoke) … and, of course, loads of
money-conscious friends. Money is the honey of commercial friendship -- lots of
bees buzzing around me. But I am proud of what I might call my art. I’ve
brought something new into the world. Fashion is ever-changing. Who was the
wiseacre who said nothing is so temporary as fashion? Actually, I genuinely
like some of my relatives. Distance has made my heart grow fonder for them.
Take Beta for instance. Despite the miles that separate us, we’ve always been
close, our hearts hammered on the same anvil. She is everything I
should have been…
Franklin: … But …
Julia: No buts about it. This character you see is
self-invented, an engaging persona. I like her too, but somehow, she is not
quite real. Beta is real. Beta is Beta, comfortable in her own skin, at ease in
the world -- real. I envy her. But I wear my persona well, and that is the most
one can expect of a fashion actor. Virtue in acting is nothing but convincing
pretense. I do that well, and I make clothes well. So, no complaints. When I
die, my business acquaintances will gather round the bier, perhaps throw a few
compliments my way … the flowers will wilt and be tossed aside. ‘In the end,
they throw a little dirt on you’ …
Franklin: … “and everyone walks away, but there is One who
will not walk away.”
Julia: You know Pascal! You surprise me Franklin, you
really do. At some point, you were a priest, no?
Franklin: How have you guessed that?
Julia: Intuition.
Franklin: (Stunned, as was Alpert) Oh.
Julia: Forgive my curiosity, as a priest you must have
been celibate. How did that agree with you?
Franklin: Celibacy and I were on speaking terms.
Julia: Origen, you know, castrated himself, the better
to concentrate on important things, such as the salvation of his soul. For him,
one supposes, sexual congress was a great distraction.
Franklin: The good old days. But Origen was on to something.
Eroticism is a great distraction, especially for men who think of little else.
Julia: Women too. Let’s not forget the women.
Franklin: And you? Are you on friendly terms with celibacy?
(He laughs, but receives a serious answer)
Julia: I am, through old age and inadvertence. Business is a
form of castration. If you are constantly busy, you are unacquainted with the
Devil’s workshop. Leisure will be the Hell of the 21st century.
Some men have too much time on their hands; apparently no one ever taught them
how to masturbate.
Julia: To Pascal. (They click glasses)
There is one page yet to be turned.
Franklin: I thought we took care of everything.
Julia: You do remember Garcon?
Franklin: The waiter? He reminded me somehow of your
Thomas, but for the moustache.
Julia: That is because he is Thomas. I know everything
because I have spies everywhere. Beta now has made a project of him. For some
inscrutable reason, he wants to go to the United States, live there, make
millions, and someday return to Paris a triumphant hero. Beta has her mind set
on accomplishing this miracle.
Franklin: Oh dear…
Julia: But there is more. You should know I never had any
intention of marrying Thomas, who is, in any case, gay -- not that a marriage
of convenience with a gay man would be out of the question for me, because I am
celibate by both inclination and necessity. His removal to America satisfies
both our needs. He needs to be rich, and I need to be notorious. You may
imagine the headlines: "Gigolo Spurns Rich Fashion Designer." But
there is a fly in this ointment. My niece Beta knows nothing of this, but I
have confided in Alpert, because I need him to bring it all off successfully. I
only hope he doesn't screw it all up.
Franklin: Oh dear.
Julia: To Pascal (They both clink glasses)
Act III, Scene 2
Beta and Alpert’s house. Frank Sinatra is singing The
Summer Wind, from the 1966 album Strangers in the Night. Beta,
wearing the flowery, flowing dress that so enticed Alpert the first time
they met in Paris, enters dancing. The doorbell rings. She switches off
the phonograph. It’s Garcon, carrying bags. They embrace.
Beta: Good to see you Garcon.
Garcon: Please. Call me by my Christian name. In America, we
are all equal.
Beta: Which is?
Garcon: Christian.
Beta: I’ll try to remember. Not to disappoint you Christian,
but in America some are more equal than others (Christian appears puzzled)
Never mind, we’ll talk about it later; it is a subtle subject. Just now, bring
your bags down the hallway. Yours will be the spare bedroom on the right.
Quickly. I expect Alpert home at any moment, and I must have a word with you. (He
leaves. Beta pours herself and Garcon a glass of wine. Garcon returns, his
heart overflowing with emotion) Sit down please. Now, we – Alpert and I –
are going to get you settled here. So, no worries on that account. But there is
something you must know. Alpert and I have just recovered from an emotional
rollercoaster.
Garcon: Rollercoaster?
Beta: Yes, montagnes russes. Everything was settled in
Paris, due to the efforts of Franklin, a detective, working hand in glove with
my Aunt Julia, a designer. You may know her fashion house -- Julie's.
Garcon: Oh yes. Very big, not subtle.
Beta: I don’t know what part she played in all this, but I’m
certain she was a prime mover. In any case, the Paris (Searching for the
right word) disturbance included much misunderstanding and a blundering
attempt on Franklin’s life by Paula, my closest friend, who was mistaken in
matters of marital fidelity. (Garcon seems to shrink following this
onslaught, and Beta realizes she is saying too much) Never mind all that.
You only need to know that all has ended well. But Alpert may still be
suspicious. He suspected me – can you imagine it? – of having had an affair. (Garcon
shrinks further) Now, don’t be alarmed. There is nothing to worry about.
Only… I must tell you … there can be no shows of affection between us. I
mention this only because the French are, as we say in English, a
“touchy-feely” people. There must be no touching – none -- except for proper
handshakes. Do you understand? Everything must be business. It’s the only thing
Alpert understands really well.
Garson: (Downs his wine) Yes,
business. America is business.
Beta: (She hears the sound of tires rolling over gravel
in the driveway) Quick, to your room. Alpert is home, we’ll talk later. (Garcon
leaves. Beta resets the phonograph record and begins dancing to
"The Summer Wind." Alpert enters, a jar of honey he has made in
his hand. Entranced, he dances with Beta)
Alpert: I remember that dress, or one like it, when I first
met you by the Louvre. (They dance. He stops, removes the arm from
phonograph) This is for you (He hands her the jar)
Beta: What is it?
Alpert: Read the label.
Beta: (Reading) "Beta’s Honey." You made
this? That’s what you were doing in your burka? (Garson has crept back in
the room and watches from a hidden spot) How sweet…
Alpert: Sweets for my sweet. Honey for my honey. There is
something else. Don’t be alarmed – I’ve sold the company.
Beta: Oh well, if we’re poor, we can feast on honey.
Alpert: We are not poor, just the opposite. I realize it may
be short notice, but I’ve planned another trip to Paris – just the two of us,
no relatives this time.
Beta: I wonder what has come over you. You have never
planned trips before.
Alpert: You have come over me. (She
rushes to embrace him. Garcon is overcome. He claps gaily)
Beta: Oh dear…
Alpert: It’s alright. Thomas and I are old friends.
Beta: You know Christian?
Alpert: We were introduced before we left Paris by Aunt
Julia. Thomas – AKA Garcon and Christian -- was her betrothed.
Garson: (Proudly in an English accent)
For two weeks only. It was one of Julia’s disposable fantasies. Julia has money
and courage enough to live her fantasies, something the rest of us may only
dream of.
Beta: (Stunned, she grabs the vodka bottle, removes the
top and takes a hearty swig) It appears I’ve been playing the fool all
along.
Alpert and Garcon: So have we all.
Beta: (Having noticed Garcon's British accent) You
are English? Or is this accent put on, like the fake pencil moustache when you
were pretending to be Garson.
Garcon: Born and bred in England. My family is wellborn. We
hail from Windsor. I believe you have a town called Windsor in Connecticut.
Ours is a wealthy town, located in the Royal Area of Windsor and Maidenhead in
Berkshire …
Beta: Stop! I am not interviewing you for a job. I suspect
my husband already has done that.
Alpert: I hired him in Paris, and Franklin, detective and a
former priest, as well.
Beta: Stop! (She takes another swig) Franklin is a
priest?
Garcon: Well, not now…
Beta: Stop! I do not know what you know, and you do not know
what I do not know. So, sit down, both of you. I have some questions. (They
both sit sheepishly) Would either of you like some vodka? (Both shake
their heads. Paula bursts through the door, senses something electric in the
air and stops.)
Paula: Is something wrong? Good God, its Garcon.
Beta: His name is Christian.
Alpert: Thomas, actually.
Garcon: It’s Henry. My mother named me after the IV …
Beta: Stop it!
Paula: Something is wrong. Should I go?
Beta: Would you like some vodka?
Paula: I’ve sworn off the stuff. Maybe a little tea. (She
begins to dance gaily around the room) Who would have guessed a week ago that
I should fall in love again – and with the man I married. Where is
Franklin? Hiding in a closet somewhere?
Beta: The man you tried to kill do you mean?
Paula: (Almost swooning) The savior of my wounded
marriage. Alpert tells me he was a priest.
Beta: (To Alpert) It appears you have been confiding
in everyone but me: you and Franklin, you and Julia, you and Henry -- whoever
he really is -- and now you and Paula, the romantic.
Garcon: (Enters carrying a tea set and cups. In his
French Garcon accent…) Mesdames et Messieurs (and in his English
accent) Tea is served. (All partake but Beta. He
carries the tea to her) If I’ve offended you in any way, please forgive me.
In England, whenever we suffer a setback of any kind – the beheading of King
Charles by Cromwell, the bombing of London by the Germans – we bring out the
tea. I promise you, one sip will restore your good humor.
Beta: (Sipping the tea, very surprised) It’s so
sweet.
Garcon: Alpert’s honey.
Alpert: I did it for you.
Paula: Awww, how romantic…
Beta: (Melting, she plays “Summer Wind” again on the
phonograph. She and Alpert dance. Paula dances with Garcon. We hear
the concluding lines over the music. Beta to Paula) In Paris,
years ago, Alpert was exceedingly romantic -- Alpert, with his shock of hair,
trying to be super-sophisticated, and failing miserably. What a blessing he has
been born again, whatever the ugly circumstances.
Paula: You speak for me too. Fred has flooded the house with
flowers. He dotes on me. And he is taking me to Paris -- just the two of us. (As
Paula cuts in on Alpert, he leaves off dancing and moves towards the vodka. Beta
and Paula dance together)
Beta: (With a steely glance at Alpert, who has taken a
swig from the vodka bottle) What an odd coincidence. Alpert has promised to
take me back to Paris as well. All this time, I have been trying to re-live a
glorious memory of times past, but that ruffian, times present, has always
spoiled the happy ending I had imagined. It is impossible, I understand now, to
re-live a moment as it was. So we, Alpert and I, will revisit Paris and make
for ourselves a new moment. Love is enough.
Garcon: To quote the famous English critic Charles Lamb in
his review of a poem written by a lady poet of the day called “Love Is Enough”
-- "No, it isn't."
Alpert: Here, here (takes another swig at the bottle)
Beta: We must be hopeful. (Taking the final plunge.
Happily, energetically) What about we all go together? (The music grinds
to a stop. The lights fade. A twilight lingers on Alpert who, despite his
romantic resolve, falls into his usual mood)
Alpert: Oh dear. (Lights out)
(END) c2020 by Don Pesci
