Lights come up.
High ceilings, parquet floors, crown molding. The works.
Upstage—a dining table. Behind it, a swinging door leads to a kitchen.
Upstage right—an open doorway leads to a hall that disappears from view.
Upstage left—a terrace and windows looking out over further buildings in the distance. Through which the season will show in each scene.
Downstage—a living room. A couch and chairs gathered together around a coffee table.
The stage left wall is covered with a large painting: A vibrant, two-paneled image in luscious whites and blues, with patterns reminiscent of an Islamic garden. The effect is lustrous and magnetic.
Below, a marble fireplace. And on the mantel, a statue of Siva. Along one or more of the walls, bookshelves.
To one side, a small table on which a half-dozen bottles of alcohol sit.
Downstage right—a vestibule and the front door.
(The furnishings are spare and tasteful. Perhaps with subtle flourishes of the Orient.)
On stage: Emily—early 30s, white, lithe and lovely—sits at the end of the dining table. A large pad before her and a book open to a large reproduction of Velázquez’s Portrait of Juan de Pareja.
Emily assesses her model…
Amir—40, of South Asian origin, in an Italian suit jacket and a crisp, collared shirt, but only boxers underneath. He speaks with a perfect American accent.
Posing for his wife.
She sketches him. Until…
AMIR: You sure you don’t want me to put pants on?
EMILY (Showing the Velázquez painting): I only need you from the waist up.
AMIR: I still don’t get it.
EMILY: You said it was fine.
AMIR: It is fine. It’s just…
EMILY: What?
AMIR: The more I think about it…
EMILY: Mmm-hmm.
AMIR: I think it’s a little weird. That you want to paint me after seeing a painting of a slave.
EMILY: He was Velázquez’s assistant, honey.
AMIR: His slave.
EMILY: Until Velázquez freed him.
EMILY: I mean how many times have we stopped in front of that painting?
AMIR: It’s a good painting. No idea what it has to do with what happened last night. I mean, the guy was a dick.
EMILY: He wasn’t just a dick. He was a dick to you. And I could tell why.
AMIR: Honey, it’s not the first time—
EMILY: A man, a waiter, looking at you.
AMIR: Looking at us.
EMILY: Not seeing you. Not seeing who you really are. Not until you started to deal with him. And the deftness with which you did that. You made him see that gap. Between what he was assuming about you and what you really are.
AMIR: The guy’s a racist. So what?
EMILY: Sure. But I started to think about the Velázquez painting. And how people must have reacted when they first saw it. They think they’re looking at a picture of a Moor. An assistant.
AMIR: A slave.
EMILY: Fine. A slave.
But whose portrait—it turns out—has more nuance and complexity than his renditions of kings and queens. And God knows how many of those he painted.
AMIR: You know what I think? I think you should just call your black Spanish boyfriend and get him up here to sit for you. He’s still in New York, isn’t he?
EMILY: Honey, I have no idea.
AMIR: You don’t have to rub it in, babe.
I know all men are not created equal—
EMILY (Gesturing for him to take the pose): Could you do the thing?
AMIR (Adjusting his arm): Way to make a guy feel wanted—
If anything, I guess I should be grateful to José, right? Broke your dad in. I mean at least I spoke English.
EMILY: Dad’s still traumatized. He brought up that Thanksgiving on the phone the other day.
(Assessing her sketch)
Anyway—I don’t know what you’re so worried about. It’s not like anybody’s gonna see this.
AMIR: Baby. Jerry Saltz loved your last show.
EMILY: He liked it. He didn’t love it. It didn’t sell.
AMIR: Selling’s not everything.
Amir’s cell phone RINGS.
EMILY: Selling’s not everything? You really believe that?
Emily grabs the phone and tosses it to him.
AMIR: It’s a client…
EMILY: Fine. Just… stay where you are?
AMIR (Into the phone): What?
(Listening)
Paolo, I’m not your therapist. You don’t pay me to listen to you. You pay me to listen to me.
Yeah, but you’re not listening.
You’re going. To kill. This deal.
(Emily approaches, to adjust him)
Honey…
(Continuing into the phone)
The point is, they buy it? They own it.
They do what they want. That’s how it works.
Paolo. I’m getting another call. It’s about the contract. I gotta go.
(Switching over)
You enjoying your Cheerios?
Well, what the fuck else was keeping you from calling me back?
I don’t care that it’s Saturday morning. You’re paid six figures to return my calls.
(Breaking away and going to a contract on the table)
Paragraph four, subsection three. Last sentence.
Why are those three words still in there?
You missed that? No. What actually happened is I told you to fix it and you didn’t.
Then behave like it.
(Hanging up)
Fucking career paralegal.
EMILY: Wow.
AMIR: I don’t catch his little fuck-up? It costs the client eight hundred fifty grand.
EMILY (Sketching): It’s actually kinda hot.
AMIR (Coming over to see the sketch over her shoulder): You’re so good.
(Pointing at the picture of the Velázquez painting)
What’s his name again?
EMILY: Juan de Pareja.
AMIR: It’s a little fucked up. Give me that at least.
EMILY (Sexy): I happen to know you like it a little fucked up.
They kiss.
EMILY (As Amir punches numbers): You want more coffee?
Amir nods. Emily exits.
AMIR (Into the phone): Hey, Mort…
Good, good. So listen, I talked to Paolo again.
Seller’s remorse.
It’s a moot point. His board’s gonna vote against him.
What do you want me to do?
Okay. I’ll feed him the line on litigation. He doesn’t have the stomach for that. By the time I’m through with him, he’ll go into PTSD every time he sees my name on his caller ID.
Emily returns with coffee.
AMIR (CONT’D): She’s right here…
(To Emily)
Mort says hi.
EMILY: Tell him hi.
AMIR: She says hi…
We have plans for Labor Day, Mort.
Don’t worry about it. Enjoy the weekend…
Sounds good. See you then.
EMILY: Hamptons?
AMIR: Honey, Jory and Isaac.
Bucks County.
It’s taken forever to make that happen…
EMILY: I know, I know.
It’s got me a little freaked out. Isaac’s a big deal.
AMIR: And he is going to love your work.
EMILY: How is Mort?
AMIR: Obsessed with the idea that meditation is going to bring down his cholesterol.
EMILY: Haven’t seen him in ages.
AMIR: I barely see him. He hardly comes in. A couple of hours a day at most when he does show up.
EMILY: Pays to be the boss.
AMIR: I mean, basically, I’m doing his job. I don’t mind.
EMILY: He loves you.
AMIR: He depends on me.
EMILY: Okay.
He spent I don’t know how much on that birthday present for you?
AMIR: Couple grand at least.
EMILY: Excuse me.
AMIR: Honey, I really am pretty much doing his job.
EMILY: So he gets you a book. Or a bottle of scotch. Or takes you to dinner.
Why’d he get you a statue of Siva?
(Beat)
He doesn’t think you’re Hindu, does he?
AMIR: He may have mentioned something once…
You realize I’m going to end up with my name on that firm?
EMILY: Leibowitz, Bernstein, Harris, and Kapoor.
AMIR: My mother will roll over in her grave…
EMILY: Your mother would be proud.
AMIR: It’s not the family name, so she might not care, seeing it alongside all those Jewish ones…
From the kitchen: the intercom BUZZES.
Amir looks over, surprised. Emily puts down her pencil. Heads for the kitchen.
EMILY: That’ll be Abe.
AMIR (Surprised): Abe?
EMILY (Disappearing into the kitchen): Your nephew?
AMIR: Oh, right. Wait…
EMILY (At the intercom, off stage): Yes?
Send him up.
As Emily now returns…
AMIR: You’re not gonna let this thing go, are you?
EMILY: I don’t like what’s happening. Somebody’s gotta do something about it.
AMIR: I went to see that guy in prison. What more do you two want?
There’s a KNOCKING on the door.
Amir puts on his pants on his way to the door.
He opens it. To find…
ABE—22, of South Asian origin. But as American as American gets. Vibrant and endearing. He’s wearing a Kidrobot T-shirt under a hoodie, skinny jeans, and high-tops.
As Amir is buckling his belt.
ABE (Looking over at Emily, back to Amir): Should I come back?
AMIR: No, no.
ABE: You sure?
AMIR: Yeah. I’m sure. Come in, Hussein.
ABE: Uncle.
AMIR: What?
AMIR (Finishing his thought): I’ve known you your whole life as Hussein. I’m not gonna start calling you Abe now.
Abe shakes his head. Turning to Emily.
EMILY: Hi, Abe.
ABE: Hi, Aunt Emily.
Abe turns to Amir, lighthearted.
ABE (CONT’D) (Pointing): See? How hard can it be?
AMIR: Abe Jensen?
Really?
ABE: You know how much easier things are for me since I changed my name? It’s in the Quran. It says you can hide your religion if you have to.
AMIR: I’m not talking about the Quran. I’m talking about you being called Abe Jensen.
Just lay off it with me and your folks at least.
ABE: It’s gotta be one thing or the other. I can’t be all mixed up.
EMILY (Off Amir’s reaction): Amir. You changed your name, too.
ABE: You got lucky.
You didn’t have to change your first name.
Could be Christian. Jewish.
Plus, you were born here. It’s different.
EMILY: You want something, sweetie? Coffee, juice?
ABE: Nah. I’m good.
AMIR: So what’s up?
EMILY: I’ll let you gentlemen talk.
AMIR: No need. Everybody knows you’re in on this.
So you’ve been calling her, too?
ABE: You weren’t calling me back.
AMIR: Why are we still talking about this?
I’m a corporate lawyer. In mergers and acquisitions—
EMILY: Who started in the public defender’s—
AMIR: That was years ago.
(Beat)
Your man should have been more careful…
ABE: Imam Fareed didn’t do anything.
Every church in the country collects money. It’s how they keep their doors open. We’re entitled, too.
He’s running a mosque—
EMILY: He’s got the right.
Just because they’re collecting money doesn’t mean it’s for Hamas.
AMIR: What does any of this have to do with me?
EMILY: It doesn’t matter to you that an innocent man is in prison?
AMIR: I don’t know Patriot Act law. The guy’s already got a legal team. Those guys Ken and Alex are amazing.
ABE: They’re not Muslim.
AMIR: There we go.
ABE: What?
AMIR: What I thought.
I’m not gonna be part of a legal team just because your imam is a bigot.
ABE: He’s not a bigot. He’d just be more comfortable if there was a Muslim on the case, too…
AMIR: More comfortable if he wasn’t being represented by a couple of Jews?
AMIR: Really?
ABE (Beat): He liked you. He said you were a good man.
AMIR: Well, he might not feel the same if he knew how I really felt about his religion.
ABE (Offhand): That’s just a phase.
AMIR (Taken aback): Excuse me?
ABE: That’s what Mom says Grandma used to say about you. That you were working something out. That you were such a good Muslim when you were a kid. And that you had to go the other way for a while.
AMIR (Dumbfounded): The other way?
(Considering)
Sit down, Hussein. I want to tell you something.
ABE: So just tell me.
AMIR: No. I want you to sit down.
Abe sits.
AMIR (CONT’D): When was the first time you had a crush?
ABE: I thought you wanted to tell me something.
AMIR: I’m getting to it.
Your first crush…
ABE (Glancing at Emily): Umm…
Fifth grade. A girl named Nasleema…
AMIR: I was in sixth.
Her name was Rivkah.
EMILY: I thought your first crush was Susan.
AMIR: That was the first girl I ever kissed. Rivkah was the first girl I ever got up in the morning thinking about. One time she went away to Disney World for a week, and I was a mess. Didn’t even want to go to school if I couldn’t see her.
(Remembering)
She was a looker. Dark hair, dark eyes. Dimples. Perfect white skin.
EMILY: Why didn’t you ever tell me about her?
AMIR: I didn’t want you to hate my mother…
(Off Emily’s perplexed look)
Just wait…
(Back to Abe)
So Rivkah and I’d gotten to the point where we were trading notes. And one day, my mother found one of the notes.
Of course it was signed, Rivkah.
Rivkah? my mom says. That’s a Jewish name.
(Beat)
I wasn’t clear on what exactly a Jew was at the time, other than they’d stolen land from the Palestinians, and something about how God hated them more than other people…
I couldn’t imagine God could have hated this little girl.
So I tell my mom, No, she’s not Jewish.
But she knew the name was Jewish.
If I ever hear that name in this house again, Amir, she said, I’ll break your bones. You will end up with a Jew over my dead body.
Then she spat in my face.
EMILY: My God.
AMIR: That’s so you don’t ever forget, she says.
Next day?
Rivkah comes up to me in the hall with a note. Hi, Amir, she says. Eyes sparkling.
I look at her and say, You’ve got the name of a Jew.
She smiles. Yes, I’m Jewish, she says.
(Beat)
Then I spit in her face.
EMILY: That’s horrible.
ABE: Man. That’s effed up.
AMIR: So, when my older sister goes on to you about this way and the other way, now you’ll have a better idea of the phase I’m really going through…
It’s called intelligence.
Pause.
EMILY: I’m surprised.
AMIR: By what?
EMILY: I don’t know. Your mother was very open with me…
AMIR: Let’s just say I made it abundantly clear not to mess with you.
EMILY: I thought she liked me.
ABE: Seemed like it to me.
EMILY: She kissed me on her deathbed.
AMIR: You won her over. You were openhearted, gracious.
EMILY: You make it sound like there was some whole battle going on.
AMIR: Well…
EMILY: About what?
AMIR: White women have no self-respect.
How can someone respect themselves when they think they have to take off their clothes to make people like them?
EMILY: What are you saying?
AMIR: What Muslims around the world say about white women—
ABE (Coming in): Not everyone says that.
AMIR: Have you heard it or not?
ABE: Yeah.
AMIR: And more than once?
ABE: Yes.
AMIR: And from your mother?
Abe nods.
AMIR (CONT’D): I rest my case.
Pause.
ABE: Imam Fareed is not like that. If you got to know him better, you’d realize. He’s actually your kind of guy. Once a month, we’re doing a Friday prayer that’s mixed.
EMILY: And—he let me sit in his mosque and sketch every day for weeks.
AMIR: He was probably hoping you’d convert. Who knows, you probably will.
EMILY: Don’t be dismissive.
AMIR: I don’t understand what you see in it.
EMILY: In what?
AMIR: In Islam?
EMILY: When we were in the mosque in Cordoba… Remember that? The pillars and arches?
AMIR: Those were great.
EMILY: Remember what you said?
AMIR: I’m sure you’re going to remind me.
EMILY: That it actually made you feel like praying.
AMIR: That’s kind of the point of a mosque, honey.
EMILY: And that Matisse show you loved so much? He got all that from Mogul miniatures. Carpets. Moroccan tiles.
AMIR: Fine. I got it.
EMILY: There’s so much beauty and wisdom in the Islamic tradition. Look at Ibn Arabi, Mulla Sadra—
AMIR (Coming in abrubtly): But the thing is? It’s not just beauty and wisdom.
Pause.
ABE: Uncle. Don’t think of him as a Muslim if you don’t want to. Just think of him as a wise man. Who so many people depend on.
AMIR: I hear you, Huss. I really do.
ABE: So come to the hearing next Thursday.
AMIR: Next Thursday’s a busy day at work.
ABE: An old man who didn’t do anything wrong is in prison.
AMIR (Rough): And there’s nothing I can do about it.
EMILY: Honey…
Silence.
ABE: I should probably head out.
AMIR: I didn’t mean to snap at you…
ABE: Just think about it?
AMIR: Okay. Fine.
Abe hugs his uncle…
EMILY: You okay, sweetie?
ABE: Yeah. Fine.
(With a kiss)
Bye.
EMILY: Bye.
He leaves.
Once he’s gone…
AMIR: It will never cease to amaze me. My parents move to this country with my sister, never make her a citizen. When she’s old enough? They send her back, marry her off in Pakistan. She has kids with the guy, and lo and behold—he wants to come here. And what do they do? Spend all their spare time at an Islamic center.
EMILY: His heart’s in the right place, Amir.
AMIR: Okay. I know.
EMILY: Is yours?
AMIR: What is that supposed to mean?
EMILY (Coming right in): I mean, why would you have worked in the public defender’s if you didn’t care about justice?
AMIR: Public defenders have the hottest girlfriends.
EMILY: I’d like to think there was some part of you that believed in what you were doing. I mean, I don’t know…
AMIR: No… Of course.
EMILY: But when it comes to the imam, it’s like you don’t care. Like you don’t think he’s human.
AMIR: You and Hussein wanted me to see him? So I went.
I went to talk to him in prison. And the man spent an hour trying to get me to pray again. He’s been in prison four months and all he can do—
EMILY (Cutting him off): You told me. So what? So a man who has nothing left but his dignity and his faith is still trying to be useful in the only way he knows how?
I mean, if he feels he needs one of his own people around him—
AMIR: I’m not one of his own people.
EMILY: You are. And in a way that’s unique. And that can be helpful to him. Why can’t you see that?
AMIR: Can we stop talking about this?
EMILY: We never talk about this. Not really.
Silence.
Amir stares at his wife for a long moment. Something stirring.
EMILY (CONT’D): Amir. I love you.
Lights Out.