FIRST MOVEMENT

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Scene 1

A young man—Orpheus—and a young woman—Eurydice.

They wear swimming outfits from the 1950s. Orpheus makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, indicating the sky.

All those birds? Thank you.

He nods. They make a quarter turn and he makes a sweeping gesture, indicating an invisible sea.

And—the sea! For me? When?

Orpheus opens his hands.

Now? It’s mine already?

Orpheus nods.

They kiss. He indicates the sky.

Surely not—surely not the sky and the stars too?!

Orpheus nods.

That’s very generous.

Orpheus nods.

Perhaps too generous?

Orpheus shakes his head no.

Now—walk over there.

Orpheus walks in a straight line on an unseen boardwalk.

Don’t look at me.

He turns his face away from hers and walks.

He stops.
She runs and jumps into his arms.
He doesn’t quite catch her and they fall down together.
She crawls on top of him and kisses his eyes.

What are you thinking about?

How can you think about music? You either hear it or you don’t.

I’m hearing it then.

I read a book today.

Yes. It was very interesting.

Don’t you want to know what it was about?

There were—stories—about people’s lives—how some come out well—and others come out badly.

Do you love the book?

Yes—I think so.

It can be interesting to see if other people—like dead people who wrote books—agree or disagree with what you think.

Because it makes you—a larger part of the human community. It had very interesting arguments.

Oh. And arguments that are interesting are good arguments?

I didn’t know an argument should be interesting. I thought it should be right or wrong.

Well, these particular arguments were very interesting.

Maybe you should make up your own thoughts. Instead of reading them in a book.

I do. I do think up my own thoughts.

I know you do. I love how you love books. Don’t be mad.

I made up a song for you today.

Yup. It’s not interesting or not interesting. It just—is.

Will you sing it for me?

It has too many parts.

Let’s go in the water.

They start walking, arm in arm,

on extensive unseen boardwalks, toward the water.

Wait—remember this melody.

He hums a bar of melody.

I’m bad at remembering melodies. Why don’t you remember it?

I have eleven other ones in my head, making for a total of twelve. You have it?

Yes. I think so.

Let’s hear it.

She sings the melody.

She misses a few notes.

She’s not the best singer in the world.

Pretty good. The rhythm’s a little off. Here—clap it out.

He claps the rhythmic sequence for her.

She tries to imitate.

She is still off.

We’ll practice.

I don’t need to know about rhythm. I have my books.

Don’t books have rhythm?

Kind of. Let’s go in the water.

Will you remember my melody under the water?

Yes! I WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER YOUR MELODY! It will be imprinted on my heart like wax.

You’re welcome. When are you going to play me the whole song?

When I get twelve instruments.

Where are you going to get twelve instruments?

I’m going to make each strand of your hair into an instrument. Your hair will stand on end as it plays my music and become a hair orchestra. It will fly you up into the sky.

I don’t know if I want to be an instrument.

Won’t I fall down when the song ends?

That’s true. But the clouds will be so moved by your music that they will fill up with water until they become heavy and you’ll sit on one and fall gently down to earth. How about that?

They stop walking for a moment.

They gaze at each other.

It’s settled then.

Your hair will be my orchestra and—I love you.

I love you, too.

How will you remember?

That I love you?

That’s easy. I can’t help it.

You never know. I’d better tie a string around your finger to remind you.

Is there string at the ocean?

I always have string. In case I come upon a broken instrument.

He takes out a string from his pocket.

He takes her left hand.

He wraps string deliberately around her fourth finger.

Is this too tight?

No—it’s fine.

There—now you’ll remember.

That’s a very particular finger.

You’re aware of that?

Orpheus—are we?

You think so?

I wasn’t thinking.

I mean—yes. Just:Yes.

May our lives be full of music!

He picks her up and throws her into the sky.

Maybe you could also get me another ring—a gold one—to put over the string one.You know?

Whatever makes you happy. Do you still have my melody?

It’s right here.

She points to her temple.

They look at each other. A silence.

What are you thinking about?

Her face falls.

Just kidding. I was thinking about you. And music.

Let’s go in the water. I’ll race you!

She puts on her swimming goggles.

I’ll race you!

I’ll race you!

I’ll race you!

I’ll race you!

They race toward the water.

Scene 2

The Father, dressed in a gray suit, reads from a letter.

A letter for you on your wedding day.

There is no choice of any importance in life but the choosing of a beloved. I haven’t met Orpheus, but he seems like a serious young man. I understand he’s a musician.

If I were to give a speech at your wedding I would start with one or two funny jokes, and then I might offer some words of advice. I would say:

Cultivate the arts of dancing and small talk.

Everything in moderation.

Court the companionship and respect of dogs.

Grilling a fish or toasting bread without burning requires

singleness of purpose, vigilance and steadfast watching.

Keep quiet about politics, but vote for the right man.

Take care to change the light bulbs.

Continue to give yourself to others because that’s the ultimate satisfaction in life—to love, accept, honor and help others.

As for me, this is what it’s like being dead:

the atmosphere smells. And there are strange high-pitched noises—like a tea kettle always boiling over. But it doesn’t seem to bother anyone. And, for the most part, there is a pleasant atmosphere and you can work and socialize, much like at home. I’m working in the business world and it seems that, here, you can better see the far-reaching consequences of your actions.

Also, I am one of the few dead people who still remembers how to read and write. That’s a secret. If anyone finds out, they might dip me in the River again.

I write you letters. I don’t know how to get them to you.

He drops the letter as though into a mail slot.

It falls on the ground.

Wedding music.

In the underworld, the Father walks in a straight line as though he is walking his daughter down the aisle. He is affectionate, then solemn, then glad, then solemn, then amused, then solemn.

He looks at his imaginary daughter; he looks straight ahead; he acknowledges the guests at the wedding; he gets choked-up; he looks at his daughter and smiles an embarrassed smile for getting choked-up. He looks straight ahead, calm.

He walks. Suddenly, he checks his watch. He exits, in a hurry.

Scene 3

Eurydice, by a water pump.

The noise of a party, from far off.

I hate parties.

And a wedding party is the biggest party of all.

All the guests arrived and Orpheus is taking a shower.

He’s always taking a shower when the guests arrive so he doesn’t have to greet them.

Then I have to greet them.

A wedding is for daughters and fathers. The mothers all dress up, trying to look like young women. But a wedding is for a father and a daughter. They stop being married to each other on that day.

I always thought there would be more interesting people at my wedding.

She drinks a cup of water from the water pump.

A Nasty Interesting Man, wearing a trench coat, appears.

Are you a homeless person?

Oh. I’m on my way to a party where there are really very interesting people. Would you like to join me?

No. I just left my own party.

You were giving a party and you just—left?

You must be a very interesting person, to leave your own party like that.

You mustn’t care at all what other people think of you. I always say that’s a mark of a really interesting person, don’t you?

So would you like to accompany me to this interesting affair?

No, thank you. I just got married, you see.

Oh—lots of people do that.

That’s true—lots of people do.

What’s your name?

He looks at her, hungry.

Good-bye, then.

She exits. He sits by the water pump.

He notices a letter on the ground.

He picks it up and reads it.

Dear Eurydice . . .

Musty dripping sounds.

Scene 4

The Father tries to remember how to do the jitterbug in the underworld.

He does the jitterbug with an imaginary partner.

Orpheus and Eurydice dance together at their wedding.

They are happy.

They have had some champagne.

They sing together:

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

Don’t sit under the apple tree

With anyone else but me

Anyone else but me

Anyone else but me

Don’t sit under the apple tree

With anyone else but me

Till I come marching home . . .

On the other side of the stage,

the Father checks his watch.

He stops doing the jitterbug.

He exits, in a hurry.

Don’t go walking down lover’s lane With anyone else but me

Anyone else but me

Anyone else but me

Don’t go walking down lover’s lane With anyone else but me Till I come marching home . . .

I’m warm. Are you warm?

I’m going to get a drink of water.

I’ll be right back.

I can’t stand to let you out of my sight today.

Scene 5

Eurydice at the water pump,
getting a glass of water.
The Nasty Interesting Man appears.

Oh—you’re still here.

Yes. I forgot to tell you something. I have a letter. Addressed to Eurydice—that’s you—from your father.

That’s not possible.

He wrote down some thoughts—for your wedding day.

I left it at home. It got delivered to my elegant high-rise apartment by mistake.

Why didn’t you say so before?

You left in such a hurry.

From my father?

I knew he’d send something!

It’ll just take a moment. I live around the block. What an interesting dress you’re wearing.

Scene 6

Orpheus, from the water pump.

Scene 7

The sound of a door closing.

The Interesting Apartment—a giant loft space with no furniture.

Eurydice and the Man enter, panting.

You’re very high up.

I feel a little faint.

Have you ever thought about installing an elevator?

No. I prefer stairs.

I think architecture is so interesting, don’t you?

Oh, yes. So, where’s the letter?

But isn’t this an interesting building?

It’s so—high up.

There’s no one here. I thought you were having a party.

I like to celebrate things quietly.With a few other interesting people. Don’t you?

She tilts her head to the side and stares at him.

Would you like some champagne?

Maybe some water.

Water it is! Make yourself comfortable.

He switches on Brazilian mood music. He exits.

Eurydice looks around.

I can’t stay long!

She looks out the window. She is very high up.

I can see my wedding from here!

The people are so small—they’re dancing!

There’s Orpheus!

He’s not dancing.

(Shouting from offstage) So, who’s this guy you’re marrying?

(Shouting) His name is Orpheus.

As he attempts to open champagne offstage:

Orpheus. Not a very interesting name. I’ve heard it before.

Maybe you’ve heard of him. He’s kind of famous. He plays the most beautiful music in the world, actually.

I can’t hear you!

So the letter was delivered—here—today?

That’s right.

Through the post?

It was—mysterious.

The sound of champagne popping.

He enters with one glass of champagne.

He drinks the champagne.

So. Eurydice. Tell me one thing. Name me one person you find interesting.

Just making conversation.

He sways a little to the music.

Right. Um—all the interesting people I know are dead or speak French.

Well, I don’t speak French, Eurydice.

He takes one step toward her. She takes one step back.

I’m sorry. I have to go. There’s no letter, is there?

Of course there’s a letter. It’s right here. (He pats his breast pocket) Eurydice. I’m not interesting, but I’m strong.You could teach me to be interesting. I would listen. Orpheus is too busy listening to his own thoughts.There’s music in his head.Try to pluck the music out and it bites you. I’ll bet you had an interesting thought today, for instance.

She tilts her head to the side, quizzical.

I bet you’re always having them, the way you tilt your head to the side and stare . . .

She jerks her head back up.

Musty dripping sounds.

I feel dizzy all of a sudden. I want my husband. I think I’d better go now.

You’re free to go, whenever you like.

I think I’ll go now, in fact.

I’ll just take my letter first, if you don’t mind.

She holds out her hand for the letter.

He takes her hand.

She takes her hand away.

She turns to exit.

He blocks the doorway.

Wait. Eurydice. Don’t go. I love you.

You need to get yourself a real man. A man with broad shoulders like me. Orpheus has long fingers that would tremble to pet a bull or pluck a bee from a hive—

How do you know about my husband’s fingers?

A man who can put his big arm around your little shoulders as he leads you through the crowd, a man who answers the door at parties . . . A man with big hands, with big stupid hands like potatoes, a man who can carry a cow in labor.

The Man backs Eurydice against the wall.

My lips were meant to kiss your eyelids, that’s obvious!

Close your eyes, then!

He closes his eyes, expecting a kiss.
She takes the letter from his breast pocket.
She slips by him and opens the door to the stairwell.
He opens his eyes.
She looks at the letter.

It’s his handwriting!

Of course it is!

He reaches for her.

She runs for the stairs.
She wavers, off-balance, at the top of the stairwell.

Don’t do that, you’ll trip! There are six hundred stairs!

From the water pump:

She runs, trips and pitches down the stairs, holding her letter.
She follows the letter down, down down . . .
Blackout.
A clatter. Strange sounds—xylophones, brass bands, sounds of falling,
sounds of vertigo.
Sounds of breathing.