The Play

Botticelli

       Jungle foliage. Afternoon sun and shadows. Insect noises. Two soldiers, WAYNE and STU, crouching with rifles.

WAYNE: No, I’m not Marcel Proust.

STU: Proust was a stylist.

WAYNE: And he died after World War I.

STU: You sure?

WAYNE: 1922.

STU: Yeah?

WAYNE: November 4, 19—

STU: All right! (Then) What’s up?

WAYNE (Stiffening): I thought I heard something. (Relaxes)

STU: Are you a . . . let’s see . . . are you a Polish concert pianist who donated a large part of the proceeds from his concerts to the cause of Polish nationalism?

WAYNE: Oh, that’s a real braincrusher, that one is!

STU: Well are you?

WAYNE: No I’m not Paderewski.

STU: Are you sure you’re dead?

WAYNE: Oh brother!

STU: A dead European male in the arts beginning with P?

WAYNE: Why don’t you write it down?

STU: Got it! You’re a controversial Russian poet, novelist, dramatist and short-story writer.

WAYNE: Sorry. I’m not Pushkin.

STU: Pushkin wasn’t considered controversial.

WAYNE: Who says?

STU: I do.

WAYNE: He was part Negro.

STU: What’s controversial about that?

WAYNE: Dumas père?

STU: Don’t change the subject. Controversial Russian writer. Come on. I’ve got you stumped, hunh? Look at you. Drew a blank. Hunh? Hunh?

WAYNE: I hope it’s not Boris Pasternak you’re crowing about.

STU: Drop dead, will you?

WAYNE: Then give up, hunh? (Tenses) Sshh! (Relaxes) Not yet.

STU: You’d think he’d starve in there by now.

WAYNE: Maybe he has. Why don’t you go see?

STU: And get a grenade in the face. That tunnel could be half a mile long for all we know. He’s buried in there like a groundhog. No, sir, I’m holding tight, staying right where I am, sergeant’s orders. I got all the time in the world to wait for that bugger to stick his head out. (WAYNE starts making cigarette) Are you a . . .? I’m running dry. P’s the hardest letter in the alphabet.

WAYNE: Wanna turn on?

STU: How much we got left?

WAYNE: If he’s not out of there by tonight we’re in trouble.

STU: Do you keep a diary?

WAYNE: Sure. Every night.

STU: No, who you are! Does he keep a diary?

WAYNE: I’m not Samuel Pepys.

STU: Smart-ass! (THEY smoke) Would you say this is the best part of the whole war?

WAYNE: What is?

STU: This. Pot.

WAYNE: No. I’d say Raquel Welch.

STU: Yeah.

WAYNE: What’d you think of her?

STU: I didn’t.

WAYNE: Those goddam white leather boots up to here . . . and that yellow miniskirt . . .

STU: Hey, are you the outstanding English Baroque composer?

WAYNE: I’m not Henry Purcell. I thought Raquel Welch looked like a sexy . . . ostrich.

STU: Do the words “Rape of the Lock” mean anything to you?

WAYNE: No, and they don’t mean anything to Alexander Pope either.

STU: Nuts!

WAYNE: Look, let me tell you who I am, hunh?

STU: No I said.

WAYNE: Brother, you’re stubborn.

STU: And you’re a Victorian playwright!

WAYNE: I’m not Arthur Wing Pinero.

STU: Sir.

WAYNE: Hunh?

STU: Sir Arthur Wing Pinero.

WAYNE: I know!

STU: You didn’t say it.

WAYNE: I’d rather talk about Raquel Welch.

STU: Sure you would. You’re getting stoned.

WAYNE: I’m not getting anything else.

STU: You still worrying about that letter from Susan?

WAYNE: Not since Raquel Welch I’m not.

STU: I bet.

WAYNE: Let her get a divorce. I don’t care. Hell, the only mistake I made was thinking I had to marry her. I should’ve sent her to Puerto Rico. She could’ve had a vacation on me, too.

STU: Only you had scruples.

WAYNE: Leave me alone.

STU: Jesuit high school, Dominican college scruples.

WAYNE: God, you’re insensitive. Wait’ll you get married.

STU: Maybe I never will.

WAYNE: Yeah!

STU: I might not.

WAYNE: You’d marry the first girl who looked twice at you. Yours is one wedding I wouldn’t want to miss. There’s always Marlene Schroll.

STU: As You Desire Me!

WAYNE: What the—?

STU: You wrote As You Desire Me.

WAYNE: I’m not Luigi Pirandello.

STU: Okay, but simmer down, hunh?

WAYNE: It’s a dumb game.

STU: Your idea.

WAYNE: I was trying to kill time.

STU: Well if we had something intelligent to discuss . . .

WAYNE: What’s wrong with Raquel Welch?

STU: Nothing. She’s the quintessence of intelligence.

WAYNE: I’m gonna bust you in the mouth. (Pause) I wish I’d burned my draft card.

STU: Are you a Russian composer?

WAYNE: I’m not Prokofiev.

STU: An Italian composer?

WAYNE: I’m not Puccini.

STU: An Italian composer?

WAYNE: I’m not Ponchielli.

STU: An Italian composer?

WAYNE: What are you, a record?

STU: An Italian composer?

WAYNE: All right, who?

STU: Pizzarella.

WAYNE: Go to hell.

STU: What’s wrong with Pizzarella?

WAYNE: There’s no Italian composer named Pizzarella.

STU: How do you know?

WAYNE: I know!

STU: Well maybe there is.

WAYNE: Yeah and you just made him up. Pizzarella. Look, if you’re gonna play, play fair. Boy, you haven’t changed since college. Even in charades you’d try to put something over

STU: Like when?

WAYNE: Like when you did The Brothers Karamazov. Only you did it in Russian. How could anybody guess The Brothers Karamazov in a game of charades when you were doing it in Russian?

STU: It would’ve been too easy in English.

WAYNE: No wonder you never made the chess and bridge teams. Those are precise games. You don’t muck with the rules in them. (Pause) Typical. Sulk now.

STU: I’m thinking.

WAYNE (Rolls over on back, looks up at sky): You know what I can’t get over?

STU: Mmmmmm.

WAYNE: Poor Father Reilly.

STU: Yeah.

WAYNE: I mean just dropping dead like that. God, we were lucky having him for a teacher. And of all places to drop dead. He loved Rome the same way some men love women. I think he lived for his summer vacations. As much as he gave his students, his heart was always in Rome on the Spanish Steps or the Pincio. And I guess it was all those steps and hills that finally killed him. A great man.

STU: Wayne?

WAYNE: Yeah?

STU: An Italian composer?

WAYNE: You see this fist?

STU: I just thought of two more.

WAYNE: Real ones?

STU: Give up, you’ll see.

WAYNE: If they’re not, buddy . . .!

STU (Looking at watch): You’ve got fifteen seconds.

WAYNE: Unh . . . unh . . . unh . . . quit making me nervous . . . unh . . .

STU: Ten!

WAYNE: Palestrina!

STU: Who else?

WAYNE: Palestrina and . . . unh . . .

STU: Pizzarella?

WAYNE: Can it! Palestrina and . . .

STU: Five seconds.

WAYNE: Pergolesi. Giovanni Pergolesi! (Burst of machine-gun fire, THEY both flatten out) That dirty little . . . (Aims, ready to fire)

STU (Terse whisper): Homosexual Greek philosopher.

WAYNE: Brother, are you warped. I mean that’s disgusting.

STU: Come on.

WAYNE: Plato wasn’t homosexual.

STU: You were right there, climbing the Acropolis.

WAYNE: Your mind is really sick. A remark like that turns my stomach.

STU: Who made any remarks?

WAYNE: It’s not even funny. (Firing stops) Where the hell is he? Come on, buster, stick your neck out. He’s shooting to see if anybody’s out here. We’ll just have to sit tight.

STU: Apropos the Parthenon, did you by any chance supervise the rebuilding of it?

WAYNE: I’m not Phidias. What are we on now? Your Greek kick?

STU: You’re a fine one to talk about that.

WAYNE: There’s something crawling on you.

STU: Hey! What the hell is it? This country. Bugs in your shoes, bugs in your hair, bugs in your food. Look at him go. Eight legs . . . no, ten! . . . I guess those are wings . . . nice antennae . . . I used to be scared of bugs.

WAYNE: Do you have to have a conversation with him?

STU: Bon soir, bug. (Crushes bug)

WAYNE: I could never do that.

STU: Bugs have souls now, too?

WAYNE: Shut up about all that, will you?

STU: I don’t suppose you’re an Italian poet?

WAYNE: I’m not Petrarch, Einstein.

STU: It was just a wild guess.

WAYNE: You’re never going to get me.

STU: I’m not going to give up either.

WAYNE: Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn!

STU: I’d lose all self-respect if I weren’t.

WAYNE: Sshh.

STU: I mean the only reason to begin a game is to win it.

WAYNE: I said shut up!

       The MAN has come out of the tunnel, HE’s young, emaciated. HE pauses at the entrance, quivering like a frightened rabbit. Spot on him.

Look at the little bugger.

STU: Not so little through these sights.

WAYNE: Not yet! He has to come this way. Wait’ll he’s closer.

STU: You’re not a French painter? A great master of the classical school?

WAYNE: I’m not Poussin.

STU: I’ve got another one. Impressionist.

WAYNE: French.

STU: Yeah.

WAYNE: I’m not Pissarro.

STU: I can’t think of any more P’s.

WAYNE: All right, you gave up, I’m—

STU: No!

MAN has begun to move cautiously away from tunnel opening.

WAYNE: Here he comes. Quiet now.

STU: Were you an Italian sculptor working with Giotto on the campanile in Florence.

WAYNE: I’m not Pisano. Get ready.

STU: Okay, and this is it, Wayne. Did you write a famous “Lives”?

WAYNE: I’m not Plutarch. Let’s go.

       MAN’S face contorts with pain as HE is cut down by a seemingly endless volley of gunfire, HE falls, twitches, finally lies still. WAYNE and STU approach.

STU: Is he dead? I just asked!

WAYNE: Let’s get back to camp.

STU: Okay, I give up. Who are you?

WAYNE: Pollaiuolo.

STU: Who?

WAYNE: Pollaiuolo. Antonio del Pollaiuolo.

STU: That’s like Pizzarella.

WAYNE and STU start moving off. Spot stays on MAN’s face.

WAYNE: Italian painter, sculptor and goldsmith. 1432-1498.

STU: Well I never heard of him.

WAYNE: Famous for his landscapes and the movement he put into the human body.

STU: Never heard of him.

WAYNE: He influenced Dürer, Signorelli and Verrocchio.

WAYNE and STU are just voices now.

STU: Them I’ve heard of.

WAYNE: Portrait of a Man? The Labors of Hercules? David? The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian? Tobias and the Angel?

STU: Never heard of him.

WAYNE: The tomb of Sixtus IV?

STU: Never heard of him.

WAYNE: Good God, he was a contemporary of Botticelli!

STU: Never heard of him.

WAYNE: Christ, you’re dumb.

STU: I NEVER HEARD OF HIM.

Spot stays on MAN’s face. Slow fade.

END OF PLAY