Authors: Tennessee Williams
Vieux Carre (6 page)
WRITER
: Panicky! Yes! Gentleman? My folks say so. I wonder.
[
The light narrows and focuses on the writer alone; the speech becomes an interior reflection
.]
I've noticed I do have some troublesome little scruples in my nature that may cause difficulties in my . . . [
He rises and rests his foot on the chair
.] . . .
negotiatedâ
truce
withâ
life.
Ohâ
there's a price for things, that's something I've learned in the
Vieux Carré. For everything that you purchase in this marketplace you pay out of
here!
[
He thumps his chest
.] And the cash which is the stuff you use in your work can be overdrawn, depleted, like a reservoir going dry in a long season of drought . . .
[
The scene is resumed on a realistic level with a change in the lighting
.]
MRS. WIRE
[
passing a bowl of gumbo to the writer
]: Here, son, have some gumbo. Let it cool a while. I just pretended to spit in it, you know.
WRITER
: I know.
MRS. WIRE
: I make the best gumbo, I do the best Creole cookin' in Louisiana. It's God's truth, and now I'll tell you what I'm plannin' to do while your gumbo's coolin'. I'll tell you because it involves a way you could pay your room and board here.
WRITER
: Oh?
MRS. WIRE
: Uh huh, I'm plannin' to open a lunchroom.
WRITER
: On the premises? Here?
MRS. WIRE
: On the premises, in my bedroom, which I'm gonna convert into a small dinin' room. So I'm gonna git printed up some bus'ness cards. At twelve noon ev'ry day except Sundays you can hit the streets with these little bus'ness cards announcin' that lunch is bein' served for twenty-five cents, a cheaper lunch than you could git in a greasy spoon on Chartres . . . and no better cooking in the Garden District or the Vieux Carré.
WRITER
: Meals for a quarter in the Quarter.
MRS. WIRE
: Hey! That's the slogan! I'll print it on those cards that you'll pass out.
WRITER
[
dreamily
]: Wonderful gumbo.
MRS. WIRE
: Why this “Meals for a quarter in the Quarter” is going to put me back in the black, yeah! Boy! . . . [
She throws him the key to his attic rooms. The lights dim out briefly
.]
TYE'S VOICE
: Hey! Whatcha doin'? Git yuh fuckin' hands off me!
[
The writer appears dimly in the attic hall outside his room. He stops
.]
NIGHTINGALE'S VOICE
: I thought that I was visiting a friend.
TYE'S VOICE
: 'Sthat how you visit a friend, unzippin' his pants an' pullin' out his dick?
NIGHTINGALE'S VOICE
: I assure you it was a mistake
ofâ
identity . . .
TYE
[
becoming visible on the side of the bed in the writer's cubicle
]: This ain't my room. Where is my ole lady? Hey,
hey, Jane!
WRITER
: You collapsed in the hall outside your door so I helped you in here.
TYE
: Both of you git this straight. No goddam faggot messes with me, never! For less'n a hundred dollars!
[
Jane becomes visible in the hall before this line
.]
A hunnerd dollars, yes, maybe, but not a dime less.
NIGHTINGALE
[
emerging from the cubicle in his robe
]: I am afraid that you have priced yourself out of the market.
JANE
: Tye, come out of there.
TYE
: I been interfered with 'cause you'd locked me out.
WRITER
: Miss, uh, Sparks, I didn't touch your friend except to, to . . . offer him my bed till you let him in.
JANE
: Tye, stand
upâ
if you can stand! Stand. Walk.
[
Tye stumbles against her, and she cries out as she is pushed against the wall
.]
TYE'S VOICE
: Locked out, bolted outa my room, to
beâ
molested.
JANE
: I heard you name a price, with you everything has a price. Thanks, good night.
[
During this exchange Nightingale in his purple robe has leaned, smoking with a somewhat sardonic look, against the partition between the two cubicles. The writer reappears
.]
NIGHTINGALE
: Back so
quick?â
Tant
pis
. . .
WRITER
: I think if I were you, I'd go in your own room and get to bed.
[
The writer enters his cubicle. Nightingale's face slowly turns to a mask of sorrow past expression. There is music. Nightingale puts out his cigarette and enters his cubicle
.
[
Jane undresses Tye. The writer undresses. Nightingale sits on his cot. Tye and Jane begin to make love. Downstairs, Nursie mops the floor, singing to herself. The writer moves slowly to his bed and places his hand on the warm sheets that Tye has left. The light dims
.
[
There is a passage of time
.]
The attic rooms are dimly lit. Nightingale is adjusting a neckerchief about his wasted throat. He enters the writer's cubicle without knocking
.
NIGHTINGALE
: May I intrude once more? It's
embarrassingâ
this incident. Not of any importance, nothing worth a second thought. [
He coughs
.] Oh Christ. You know my mattress is full of bedbugs. Last night I smashed one at least the size of my thumbnail, it left a big blood spot on the pillow. [
He coughs and gasps for breath
.] I showed it to the colored woman that the witch calls Nursie, and Nursie told her about it, and she came charging up here and demanded that I exhibit the bug, which I naturally . . . [
A note of uncertainty and fear enters his voice
.]
WRITER
: . . . removed from the pillow.
NIGHTINGALE
: Who in hell wouldn't remove the remains of a squashed bedbug from his pillow? Nobody I'd want social or any acquaintance with . . . she even . . . intimated that I coughed up the blood, as if I had . . . [
coughs
] consumption.
WRITER
[
stripped to his shorts and about to go to bed
]: I think with that persistent cough of yours you should get more rest.
NIGHTINGALE
: Restlessness. Insomnia. I can't imagine a worse affliction, and I've suffered from it nearly all my life. I consulted a doctor about it once, and he said, “You don't sleep because it reminds you of death.” A ludicrous
assumptionâ
the only true regret I'd have over leaving this world is that I'd leave so much of my serious work unfinished.
WRITER
[
holding the bedsheet up to his chin
]: Do show me your serious work.
NIGHTINGALE
: I know why you're taking this tone.
WRITER
: I am not taking any tone.
NIGHTINGALE
: Oh yes you are, you're very annoyed with me because my restlessness, my loneliness, made me so indiscreet as
toâ
offer my attentions to that stupid
butâ
physically appealing young man you'd put on that cot with the idea of reserving him for yourself. And so I do think your tone is a bit hypocritical, don't you?
WRITER
: All right, I do admit I find him attractive, too, but I did
not
make a pass at him.
NIGHTINGALE
: I heard him warn you.
WRITER
: I simply removed his wet shoes.
NIGHTINGALE
: Little man, you are sensual, but I,
Iâ
am rapacious.
WRITER
: And I am tired.
NIGHTINGALE
: Too tired to return my visits? Not very appreciative of you, but lack of appreciation is something I've come to expect and almost to accept as if
Godâ
the
allegedâ
had stamped on me a sign at
birthâ
“This man will offer himself and not be accepted, not by anyone ever!”
WRITER
: Please don't light that candle.
NIGHTINGALE
: I shall, the candle is lit.
WRITER
: I do wish that you'd return to your side of the
wallâ
well, now I am taking a tone, but it's . . . justified. Now do
please get out, get out, I mean it, when I blow out the candle I want to be alone.
NIGHTINGALE
: You know, you're going to grow into a selfish, callous man. Returning no visits, reciprocating no . . . caring.
WRITER
: . . . Why do you predict that?
NIGHTINGALE
: That little opacity on your left eye pupil could mean a like thing happening to your heart. [
He sits on the cot
.]
WRITER
: You have to protect your heart.
NIGHTINGALE
: With a shell of calcium? Would that improve your work?
WRITER
: You talk like you have a fever, I . . .
NIGHTINGALE
: I have a fever you'd be lucky to catch, a fever to hold and be held! [
He throws off his tattered silk robe
.] Hold me! Please, please hold me.
WRITER
: I'm afraid I'm tired, I need to sleep and . . . I don't want to catch your cold.
[
Slowly with dignity, Nightingale rises from the cot and puts his silk robe on
.]
NIGHTINGALE
: And I don't want to catch yours, which is a cold in the heart, that's a hell of a lot more fatal to a boy with literary pretensions.
[
This releases in the writer a cold rage which he has never felt before. He springs up and glares at Nightingale, who is coughing
.]
WRITER
[
in a voice quick and hard as a knife
]: I think there has been some deterioration in your condition and you ought to face it! A man has got to face everything sometime and call it by its true name, not to try to escape it
byâ
cowardly!â
evasionâ
go have your lungs x-rayed and don't receive the doctor's bill when it's sent! But go there quick, have the disease stated clearly! Don't, don't call it a cold anymore or a touch of the flu!
NIGHTINGALE
[
turning with a gasp
]: You've gone mad, you've gone out of your mind here, you little one-eyed bitch! [
He coughs again and staggers out of the light
.]
MRS. WIRE'S VOICE
: I heard you from the kitchen, boy! Was he molesting you in here? I heard him. Was he molesting you in here? Speak up! [
Her tone loses its note of concern as she shouts to Nightingale
.] You watch out, I'll get the goods on you yet!
NIGHTINGALE'S VOICE
: The persecution continues.
Daylight appears in the alcove
windowâ
daylight tinged with rain. The room of Jane and Tye is lighted. Tye is sprawled, apparently sleeping, in shorts on the studio bed. Jane has just completed a fashion design. She stares at it with disgust, then crumples it and throws it to the floor with a sob of frustration
.
JANE
: Yes? Who's there?
WRITER
: Uh, me, from across the hall, I brought in a letter for
youâ
it was getting rained on.
JANE
: Oh, one moment, please. [
She throws a robe over her panties and bra and opens the door
.] A letter for me?
WRITER
: The mail gets wet when it rains since the lid's come off the mailbox.
[
His look irresistibly takes in the figure of Tye. Jane tears the letter open and gasps softly. She looks slowly up, with a stunned expression, at the young writer
.]
JANE
: Would you care for some coffee?
WRITER
: Thanks, no, I just take it in the morning.
JANE
: Then please have a drink with me. I need a drink. Please, please come in. [
Jane is speaking hysterically but abruptly controls
it.] Excuse
meâ
would you pour the
drinksâ
I can't. I . . .
WRITER
[
crossing to the cabinet
]: Will you have . . .
JANE
: Bourbon. Three fingers.
WRITER
: With?
JANE
: Nothing, nothing.
[
The writer glances again at Tye as he pours the bourbon
.]
Nothing . . . [
The writer crosses to her with the drink
.] Nothing. And you?
WRITER
: Nothing, thanks. I have to retype the manuscripts soaked in the rain.
JANE
:
Manuscripts
, you said? Oh, yes, you're a writer. I knew, it just slipped my mind. The manuscripts were returned? Does that mean rejection? âRejection is always so painful.
WRITER
[
with shy pride
]: This time instead of a printed slip there was this personal signed note . . .
JANE
:
Encouragingâ
that. Oh, my glass is
weepingâ
an Italian expression. Would you play barman again? Please? [
She doesn't know where to put the letter, which he keeps glancing at
.]
WRITER
: Yes, I am encouraged. He says, “This one doesn't quite make it but try us again.”
Story
magazineâ
they print William Saroyan, you know!
JANE
: It takes a good while to get established in a creative field.
WRITER
: And meanwhile you've got to survive.
JANE
: I was lucky, but the luck didn't hold. [
She is taking little sips of the straight bourbon
.]
WRITER
: You'
reâ
upset by
thatâ
letter? I noticed it came
fromâ
isn't Ochsner's a clinic?
JANE
: Yes, actually. I am, I was. It concerns a relative
ratherâ
critically ill there.
WRITER
: Someone close to you?
JANE
: Yes. Quite close, although lately I hardly recognize the lady at all anymore . . .
[
Tye stirs on the bed; the writer irresistibly glances at him
.]
Pull the sheet over him. I think he unonsciously displays himself like that as if posing for a painter of sensual inclinations. Wasted on me. I just illustrate fashions for ladies.
TYE
[
stirring
]: Beret? Beret?
[
The writer starts off, pausing at the edge of the light
.]
WRITER
: Jane, what was the letter, wasn't it about you?
JANE
: Let's just say it was a sort of a personal, signed rejection slip, too.
[
The writer exits with a backward glance
.]
TYE
: Where's Beret, where's the goddam cat?
[
Jane is fiercely tearing the letter to bits. The lights dim out
.]