Authors: Tennessee Williams
Vieux Carre (5 page)
A lighted area represents Mrs. Wire's kitchen, in which she is preparing a big pot of gumbo despite the hour, which is midnight. She could be mistaken for a witch from
Macbeth
in vaguely modern but not new costume
.
The writer's footsteps catch her attention. He appears at the edge of the light in all that remains of his wardrobe: riding boots and britches, a faded red flannel shirt
.
MRS. WIRE
: Who, who?âAw, you, dressed up like a jockey in a donkey race!
WRITER
:âMy, uh, clothes are at the cleaners.
MRS. WIRE
: Do they clean clothes at the pawnshop, yeah, I reckon they do clean clothes not redeemed. Oh. Don't go upstairs. Your room is forfeited, too.
WRITER
: . . . You mean I'm . . . ?
MRS. WIRE
: A loser, boy. Possibly you could git a cot at the Salvation Army.
WRITER
[
averting his eyes
]: May I sit down a moment?
MRS. WIRE
: Why, for what?
WRITER
: Eviction presents . . . a problem.
MRS. WIRE
: I thought you was gittin' on the WPA Writers' Project? That's what you tole me when I inquired about your prospects for employment, you said, “Oh, I've applied for work on the WPA for writers.”
WRITER
: I couldn't prove that my father was destitute, and the
fact he contributes nothing to my support
seemedâ
immaterial to them.
MRS. WIRE
: Why're you shifty-eyed? I never seen a more shifty-eyed boy.
WRITER
: I, uh, have had a little eye trouble, lately.
MRS. WIRE
: You're gettin' a cataract on your left eye, boy, face it!âCataracts don't usually hit at your age.
WRITER
: I've noticed a lot of things have hit
meâ
prematurely . . .
MRS. WIRE
[
stirring gumbo
]: Hungry? I bet. I eat at irregular hours. I suddenly got a notion to cook up a gumbo, and when I do, the smell of it is an attraction, draws company in the kitchen. Oh
hoâ
footsteps fast. Here comes the ladies.
WRITER
: Mrs. Wire, those old ladies are starving, dying of malnutrition.
[
Miss Carrie and Mary Maude appear at the edge of the lighted area with queer, high-pitched laughter or some bizarre relation to laughter
.]
MRS. WIRE
: Set back down there, boy. [
Pause
.] Why, Mizz Wayne an' Miss Carrie, you girls still up at this hour!
MISS CARRIE
: We heard you moving about and wondered if we could . . .
MARY MAUDE
: Be of some assistance.
MRS. WIRE
: Shoot, Mrs. Wayne, do you imagine that rusty ole saucepan of yours is invisible to me? Why, I know when I put
this gumbo on the stove and lit the fire, it would smoke you ladies out of your locked room. What do you all do in that locked room so much?
MARY MAUDE
: We keep ourselves occupied.
MISS CARRIE
: We are compiling a cookbook which we hope to have published. A Creole cookbook, recipes we remember from our childhood.
MRS. WIRE
: A recipe is a poor substitute for food.
MARY MAUDE
[
with a slight breathless pause
]: We ought to go out more regularly for meals but our . . . our light bulbs have burned out, so we can't distinguish night from day anymore. Only shadows come in.
MISS CARRIE
: Sshh! [
Pause
.] Y'know, I turned down an invitation to dinner this evening at my cousin Mathilde Devereau Pathet's in the Garden District.
MRS. WIRE
: Objected to the menu?
MISS CARRIE
: No, but you know, very rich people are so inconsiderate sometimes. With four limousines and drivers at their constant disposal, they wouldn't send one to fetch me.
MRS. WIRE
: Four? Limousines? Four drivers?
[
A delicate, evanescent music steals in as the scene acquires a touch of the bizarre. At moments the players seem bewildered as if caught in a dream
.]
MISS CARRIE
: Oh, yes, four, four . . . spanking new Cadillacs with uniformed chauffeurs!
MRS. WIRE
: Now, that's very impressive.
MISS CARRIE
: They call Mr. Pathet the “Southern Planter.”
MRS. WIRE
: Has a plantation, in the Garden District?
MISS CARRIE
[
gasping
]: Oh, no, no, no, no. He's a mortician, most prominent mortician, buries all the best families in the parish.
MRS. WIRE
: And poor relations, too? I hope.
MARY MAUDE
: Miss Carrie goes into a family vault when she goes.
MRS. WIRE
: When?
MARY MAUDE
: Yes, above ground, has a vault reserved in . . .
MISS CARRIE
: Let's not speak of that! . . . now.
MRS. WIRE
: Why not speak of that? You got to consider the advantage of this connection. Because of the expenses of “The Inevitable” someday soon, 'specially with your asthma? No light? And bad nutrition?
MISS CARRIE
: The dampness of the old walls in the
Quarterâ
you know how they hold damp. This city is actually eight feet below sea level. Niggers are buried under the ground, and their caskets fill immediately with water.
MRS. WIRE
: But I reckon your family vault is above this nigger water level?
MISS CARRIE
: Oh, yes, above water level, in fact, I'll be on top of my great-great-uncle, Jean Pierre Devereau, the third.
[
The writer laughs a bit, involuntarily. The ladies glare at him
.]
Mrs. Wire, who is this . . . transient? Young man?
MARY MAUDE
: We did understand that this was a guesthouse, not a . . . refuge for delinquents.
MISS CARRIE
[
turning her back on the writer
]: They do set an exquisite table at the Pathets, with excellent food, but it's not appetizing, you know, to be conducted on a tour of inspection of the business display room, you know, the latest model of caskets on display, and that's what René Pathet does, invariably escorts me, proud as a peacock, through the coffin display rooms before . . . we sit down to dinner. And all through dinner, he discusses his latest clients and . . . those expected shortly.
MRS. WIRE
: Maybe he wants you to pick out your casket cause he's noticed your asthma from damp walls in the Quarter.
MISS CARRIE
: I do, of course, understand that business is business with him, a night and day occupation.
MRS. WIRE
: You know, I always spit in a pot of gumbo to give it special flavor, like a bootblack spits on a shoe. [
She pretends to spit in the pot. The crones try to laugh
.] Now help yourself, fill your saucepan full, and I'll loan you a couple of spoons, but let it cool a while, don't blister your gums . . . [
She hands them spoons
.] . . . and Mrs. Wayne, I'll be watching the mailbox for Buster's army paycheck.
MARY MAUDE
: That boy has never let me down, he's the most devoted son a mother could hope for.
MRS. WIRE
: Yais, if she had no hope.
MARY MAUDE
: I got a postcard from him . . .
MRS. WIRE
: A postcard can't be cashed.
MARY MAUDE
[
diverting Mrs. Wire's attention, she hopes, as Miss Carrie ladles out gumbo
]: Of course, I wasn't prepared for the circumstance that struck me when I discovered that Mr. Wayne had not kept up his insurance payments,
that
I was not prepared for, that it was
lapsed
.
MRS. WIRE
[
amused
]: I bet you wasn't prepared for a little surprise like that.
MARY MAUDE
: No, not for that nor for the discovery that secretly for years he'd been providing cash and real estate to that little redheaded doxy he'd kept in Bay St. Louie.
MISS CARRIE
: Owwwww!
[
Mrs. Wire whirls about, and Miss Carrie is forced to swallow the scalding mouthful
.]
MRS. WIRE
: I bet that mouthful scorched your throat, Miss Carrie. Didn't I tell you to wait?
MARY MAUDE
: Carrie, give me that saucepan before you spill it, your hand's so shaky. Thank you, Mrs. Wire. Carrie, thank Mrs. Wire for her being so concerned always about
ourâ
circumstances here. Now let's go and see what can be done for that throat. [
They move toward the stairs but do not exit
.]
MRS. WIRE
: Cut it, if all else fails.
[
Something crashes on the stairs. All turn that way. Tye appears dimly, bearing two heavy cartons; he speaks to the writer, who is nearest to him
.]
TYE
: Hey, you, boy?
WRITER
: âMe?
TYE
: Yeh, yeh, you, I dropped one of these packages on th' steps, so goddam dark I dropped it. And I'd appreciate it if you'd pick it up fo' me an' help me git it upstairs.
WRITER
: I'll
beâ
glad to try to . . .
[
Tye focuses dimly on Miss Carrie. He blinks several times in disbelief
.]
TYE
: Am I . . . in the right place?
MRS. WIRE
[
shouting
]: Not in your present condition. Go on back out. Sleep it off in the gutter.
MISS CARRIE
[
to Mrs. Wire
]: Tragic for such a nice-looking young man to return to his wife in that condition at night.
MRS. WIRE
: Practically every night.
[
Miss Carrie and Mary Maude exit
.]
[
Tye has almost miraculously managed to collect his dropped packages, and he staggers to stage right where the lower steps to the attic are dimly seen. The writer follows
.]
TYE
[
stumbling back against the writer
]: Can you make it? Can you make it, kid?
[
They slowly mount the steps. The lighted kitchen is dimmed out. There is a brief pause. A soft light is cast on the attic hall
.]
TYE
: Now, kid, can you locate my room key in my pocket?
WRITER
: Which,
uhâ
pocket?
TYE
: Pan's pocket.
WRITER
: Left pocket orâ
TYE
: â
Headâ
spinnin'âmoney in hip pocket, key
inâ
rightâ lef' side.
Shitâ
key befo'
Iâ
fall . . .
[
The writer's hand starts to enter a pocket when Tye collapses, spilling the boxes on the floor and sprawling across them
.]
WRITER
: You're right outside my cubbyhole. I suggest you rest in there before
youâ
wake up your wife . . .
TYE
: M'ole lady, she chews my ass off if I come home this ways . . . [
He struggles heroically to near standing position as the writer guides him into his cubicle
.] . . .
Thisâ
bed?
[
There is a soft, ghostly laugh from the adjoining cubicle. A match strikes briefly
.]
WRITER
: Swing your legs the other way, that way's the
pillowâ
would you, uh, like your wet shoes off?
TYE
: Shoes? Yes, but nothin' else. Once Iâpassed out
onâ
Bourbon
Streetâ
late
nightâ
in a dark
doorwayâ
woke
upâ
this guy, was takin' liberties with me and I don't go for that
stuffâ
WRITER
: I don't take advantages of that kind, I
amâ
going back downstairs, if you're comfortable now . . .
TYE
: I said to this guy, “Okay, if you wanto blow me, you can pay me one hunnerd
dollarsâ
before, not after.”
[
Tye's voice dies out. Nightingale becomes visible, rising stealthily in his cubicle and slipping on a robe, as Tye begins to snore
.
[
The attic lights dim out. The lights on the kitchen come up as the writer re-enters
.]
MRS. WIRE
: Got that bum to bed? Set down, son. Ha! Notice I called you, son. Where do you go nights?
WRITER
: Oh, I walk, I take long solitary walks. Sometimes I . . . I . . .
MRS. WIRE
: Sometimes you what? You can say it's none of my business, but I, well, I have a sort of a, well you could say I have a sort of
aâ
maternalâconcern. You see, I do have a son that I never see no more, but I worry about him so I reckon it's natural for me to worry about you a little. And get things straight in my head about
youâ
you've changed since you've been in this house. You know that?
WRITER
: Yes, I know that.
MRS. WIRE
: This I'll tell you, when you first come to my door, I swear I seen and I recognized a young gentleman in
youâ
shy. Shaky, but . . .