Remembrance and Pantomime Read online

  JACKSON

  Use your bathroom, Mr. Harry?

  HARRY

  Go on, will you?

  JACKSON

  I want to get this. You giving me permission to go through your living room, with all your valuables lying about, with the picture of your wife watching me in case I should leave the bathroom open, and you are granting me the privilege of taking out my thing, doing my thing right there among all those lotions and expensive soaps, and … after I finish, wiping my hands on a clean towel?

  HARRY

  Since you make it so vividly horrible, why don’t you just walk around to the servants’ quarters and take as much time as you like? Five minutes won’t kill me.

  JACKSON

  I mean, equality is equality and art is art, Mr. Harry, but to use those clean, rough Cannon towels … You mustn’t rush things, people have to slide into independence. They give these islands independence so fast that people still ain’t recover from the shock, so they pissing and wiping their hands indiscriminately. You don’t want that to happen in this guest house, Mr. Harry. Let me take my little five minutes, as usual, and if you have to go, you go to your place, and I’ll go to mine, and let’s keep things that way until I can feel I can use your towels without a profound sense of gratitude, and you could, if you wanted, a little later maybe, walk round the guest house in the dark, put your foot in the squelch of those who missed the pit by the outhouse, that charming old-fashioned outhouse so many tourists take Polaroids of, without feeling degraded, and we can then respect each other as artists. So, I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be back in five. Kindly excuse me.

  (He exits)

  HARRY

  You’ve got logorrhea, Jackson. You’ve been running your mouth like a parrot’s arse. But don’t get sarcastic with me, boy!

  (JACKSON returns)

  JACKSON

  You don’t understand, Mr. Harry. My problem is, I really mean what I say.

  HARRY

  You’ve been pretending indifference to this game, Jackson, but you’ve manipulated it your way, haven’t you? Now you can spew out all that bitterness in fun, can’t you? Well, we’d better get things straight around here, friend. You’re still on duty. And if you stay out there too long, your job is at stake. It’s …

  (Consulting his watch)

  five minutes to one now. You’ve got exactly three minutes to get in there and back, and two minutes left to finish straightening this place. It’s a bloody mess.

  (Silence)

  JACKSON

  Bloody mess, eh?

  HARRY

  That’s correct.

  JACKSON

  (In exaggerated British accent)

  I go try and make it back in five, bwana. If I don’t, the mess could be bloodier. I saw a sign once in a lavatory in Mobile, Alabama. COLORED. But it didn’t have no time limit. Funny, eh?

  HARRY

  Ape! Mimic! Three bloody minutes!

  (JACKSON exits, shaking his head. HARRY recovers the sheet of paper from the floor and puts it back in his pants pocket. He pours a large drink, swallows it all in two large gulps, then puts the glass down. He looks around the gazebo, wipes his hands briskly. He removes the drinks tray with Scotch, the two beer bottles, glasses, water pitcher, and sets them in a corner of the gazebo. He lifts up the deck chair and sets it, sideways, in another corner. He turns the table carefully over on its side; then, when it is on its back, he looks at it. He changes his mind and carefully tilts the table back upright. He removes his shirt and folds it and places it in another corner of the gazebo. He rolls up his trouser cuffs almost to the knee. He is now half-naked. He goes over to the drinks tray and pours the bowl of melted ice, now tepid water, over his head. He ruffles his hair, his face dripping; then he sees an ice pick. He picks it up)

  JACKSON’S VOICE

  “One day, just out of the blue, I pick up a ice pick and walk over to where he and two fellers was playing cards, and I nail that ice pick through his hand to the table, and I laugh…”

  (HARRY drives the ice pick hard into the tabletop, steps back, looking at it. Then he moves up to it, wrenches it out, and gets under the table, the ice pick at his feet. A few beats, then JACKSON enters, pauses)

  JACKSON

  (Laughs)

  What you doing under the table, Mr. Trewe?

  (Silence. JACKSON steps nearer the table)

  Trewe? You all right?

  (Silence. JACKSON crouches close to HARRY)

  Harry, boy, you cool?

  (JACKSON rises. Moves away some distance. He takes in the space. An arena. Then he crouches again)

  Ice-pick time, then?

  Okay. “Fee fi fo fum,

  I smell the blood of an Englishman…”

  (JACKSON exits quickly. HARRY waits a while, then crawls from under the table, straightens up, and places the ice pick gently on the tabletop. He goes to the drinks tray and has a sip from the Scotch; then replaces the bottle and takes up a position behind the table. JACKSON returns dressed as Crusoe—goatskin hat, open umbrella, the hammer stuck in the waistband of his rolled-up trousers. He throws something across the room to HARRY’s feet. The dead parrot, in a carry-away box. HARRY opens it)

  One parrot, to go! Or you eating it here?

  HARRY

  You son of a bitch.

  JACKSON

  Sure.

  (HARRY picks up the parrot and hurls it into the sea)

  First bath in five years.

  (JACKSON moves toward the table, very calmly)

  HARRY

  You’re a bloody savage. Why’d you strangle him?

  JACKSON

  (As Friday)

  Me na strangle him, bwana. Him choke from prejudice.

  HARRY

  Prejudice? A bloody parrot. The bloody thing can’t reason.

  (Pause. They stare at each other. HARRY crouches, tilts his head, shifts on his perch, flutters his wings like the parrot, squawks)

  Heinegger. Heinegger.

  (JACKSON stands over the table and folds the umbrella)

  You people create nothing. You imitate everything. It’s all been done before, you see, Jackson. The parrot. Think that’s something? It’s from The Seagull. It’s from Miss Julie. You can’t ever be original, boy. That’s the trouble with shadows, right? They can’t think for themselves.

  (JACKSON shrugs, looking away from him)

  So you take it out on a parrot. Is that one of your African sacrifices, eh?

  JACKSON

  Run your mouth, Harry, run your mouth.

  HARRY

  (Squawks)

  Heinegger … Heinegger …

  (JACKSON folds the parasol and moves to enter the upturned table)

  I wouldn’t go under there if I were you, Jackson.

  (JACKSON reaches into the back of his waistband and removes a hammer)

  JACKSON

  The first English cowboy.

  (He turns and faces HARRY)

  HARRY

  It’s my property. Don’t get in there.

  JACKSON

  The hut. That was my idea.

  HARRY

  The table’s mine.

  JACKSON

  What else is yours, Harry?

  (Gestures)

  This whole fucking island? Dem days gone, boy.

  HARRY

  The costume’s mine, too.

  (He crosses over, almost nudging JACKSON, and picks up the ice pick)

  I’d like them back.

  JACKSON

  Suit yourself.

  (HARRY crosses to the other side, sits on the edge of the wall or leans against a post. JACKSON removes the hat and throws it into the arena, then the parasol)

  HARRY

  The hammer’s mine.

  JACKSON

  I feel I go need it.

  HARRY

  If you keep it, you’re a bloody thief.

  (JACKSON suddenly drops to the floor on his knees, letting go of the hammer, weeping and cringing
, and advancing on his knees toward HARRY)

  JACKSON

  Pardon, master, pardon! Friday bad boy! Friday wicked nigger. Sorry. Friday nah t’ief again. Mercy, master. Mercy.

  (He rolls around on the floor, laughing)

  Oh, Jesus, I go dead! I go dead. Ay-ay.

  (Silence. JACKSON on the floor, gasping, lying on his back. HARRY crosses over, picks up the parasol, opens it, after a little difficulty, then puts on the goatskin hat. JACKSON lies on the floor, silent)

  HARRY

  I never hit any goddamned maintenance sergeant on the head in the service. I’ve never hit anybody in my life. Violence makes me sick. I don’t believe in ownership. If I’d been more possessive, more authoritative, I don’t think she’d have left me. I don’t think you ever drove an ice pick through anybody’s hand, either. That was just the two of us acting.

  JACKSON

  Creole acting?

  (He is still lying on the floor)

  Don’t be too sure about the ice pick.

  HARRY

  I’m sure. You’re a fake. You’re a kind man and you think you have to hide it. A lot of other people could have used that to their own advantage. That’s the difference between master and servant.

  JACKSON

  That master-and-servant shit finish. Bring a beer for me.

  (He is still on his back)

  HARRY

  There’s no more beer. You want a sip of Scotch?

  JACKSON

  Anything.

  (HARRY goes to the Scotch, brings over the bottle, stands over JACKSON)

  HARRY

  Here. To me bloody wife!

  (JACKSON sits up, begins to move off)

  What’s wrong, you forget to flush it?

  JACKSON

  I don’t think you should bad-talk her behind her back.

  (He exits)

  HARRY

  Behind her back? She’s in England. She’s a star. Star? She’s a bloody planet.

  (JACKSON returns, holding the photograph of HARRY’s wife)

  JACKSON

  If you going bad-talk, I think she should hear what you going to say, you don’t think so, darling?

  (Addressing the photograph, which he puts down)

  If you have to tell somebody something, tell them to their face.

  (Addressing the photograph)

  Now, you know all you women, eh? Let the man talk his talk and don’t interrupt.

  HARRY

  You’re fucking bonkers, you know that? Before I hired you, I should have asked for a medical report.

  JACKSON

  Please tell your ex-wife good afternoon or something. The dame in the pantomime is always played by a man, right?

  HARRY

  Bullshit.

  (JACKSON sits close to the photograph, wiggling as he ventriloquizes)

  JACKSON

  (In an Englishwoman’s voice)

  Is not bullshit at all, Harold. Everything I say you always saying bullshit, bullshit. How can we conduct a civilized conversation if you don’t give me a chance? What have I done, Harold, oh, Harold, for you to treat me so?

  HARRY

  Because you’re a silly selfish bitch and you killed our son!

  JACKSON

  (Crying)

  There, there, you see…?

  (He wipes the eyes of the photograph)

  You’re calling me names, it wasn’t my fault, and you’re calling me names. Can’t you ever forgive me for that, Harold?

  HARRY

  Ha! You never told him that, did you? You neglected to mention that little matter, didn’t you, love?

  JACKSON

  (Weeping)

  I love you, Harold. I love you, and I loved him, too. Forgive me, O God, please, please forgive me …

  (As himself)

  So how it happen? Murder? A accident?

  HARRY

  (To the photograph)

  Love me? You loved me so much you get drunk and you … ah, ah, what’s the use? What’s the bloody use?

  (Wipes his eyes. Pause)

  JACKSON

  (As wife)

  I’m crying too, Harold. Let bygones be bygones …

  (HARRY lunges for the photograph, but JACKSON whips it away)

  (As himself)

  You miss, Harold.

  (Pause; as wife)

  Harold …

  (Silence)

  Harold … speak to me … please.

  (Silence)

  What do you plan to do next?

  (Sniffs)

  What’ll you do now?

  HARRY

  What difference does it make?… All right. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do next, Ellen: you’re such a big star, you’re such a luminary, I’m going to leave you to shine by yourself. I’m giving up this bloody rat race and I’m going to take up Mike’s offer. I’m leaving “the theatuh,” which destroyed my confidence, screwed up my marriage, and made you a star. I’m going somewhere where I can get pissed every day and watch the sun set, like Robinson bloody Crusoe. That’s what I’m going to bloody do. You always said it’s the only part I could play.

  JACKSON

  (As wife)

  Take me with you, then. Let’s get away together. I always wanted to see the tropics, the palm trees, the lagoons …

  (HARRY grabs the photograph from JACKSON; he picks up the ice pick and puts the photograph on the table, pressing it down with one palm)

  HARRY

  All right, Ellen, I’m going to … You can scream all you like, but I’m going to …

  (He raises the ice pick)

  JACKSON

  (As wife)

  My face is my fortune.

  (He sneaks up behind HARRY, whips the photograph away while HARRY is poised with the ice pick)

  HARRY

  Your face is your fortune, eh? I’ll kill her, Jackson, I’ll maim that smirking bitch …

  (He lunges toward JACKSON, who leaps away, holding the photograph before his face, and runs around the gazebo, shrieking)

  JACKSON

  (As wife)

  Help! Help! British police! My husband trying to kill me!

  Help, somebody, help!

  (HARRY chases JACKSON with the ice pick, but JACKSON nimbly avoids him)

  (As wife)

  Harry! Have you gone mad?

  (He scrambles onto the ledge of the gazebo. He no longer holds the photograph to his face, but his voice is the wife’s)

  HARRY

  Get down off there, you melodramatic bitch. You’re too bloody conceited to kill yourself. Get down from there, Ellen! Ellen, it’s a straight drop to the sea!

  JACKSON

  (As wife)

  Push me, then! Push me, Harry! You hate me so much, why you don’t come and push me?

  HARRY

  Push yourself, then. You never needed my help. Jump!

  JACKSON

  (As wife)

  Will you forgive me now, or after I jump?

  HARRY

  Forgive you?…

  JACKSON

  (As wife)

  All right, then. Goodbye!

  (He turns, teetering, about to jump)

  HARRY

  (Shouts)

  Ellen! Stop! I forgive you!

  (JACKSON turns on the ledge. Silence. HARRY is now sitting on the floor)

  That’s the real reason I wanted to do the panto. To do it better than you ever did. You played Crusoe in the panto, Ellen. I was Friday. Black bloody greasepaint that made you howl. You wiped the stage with me … Ellen … well. Why not? I was no bloody good.

  JACKSON

  (As himself)

  Come back to the play, Mr. Trewe. Is Jackson. We was playing Robinson Crusoe, remember?

  (Silence)

  Master, Friday here …

  (Silence)

  You finish with the play? The panto? Crusoe must get up, he must make himself get up. He have to face a next day again.

  (Shouts)

  I tell yo
u: man must live! Then, after many years, he see this naked footprint that is the mark of his salvation …

  HARRY

  (Recites)

  “The self-same moment I could pray;

  and … tata tee-tum-tum

  The Albatross fell off and sank

  Like lead into the sea.”

  God, my memory …

  JACKSON

  That ain’t Crusoe, that is “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.”

  (He pronounces it “Marina”)

  HARRY

  Mariner.

  JACKSON

  Marina.

  HARRY

  Mariner.

  JACKSON

  “The Rime of the Ancient Marina.” So I learn it in Fourth Standard.

  HARRY

  It’s your country, mate.

  JACKSON

  Is your language, pardner. I stand corrected. Now, you ain’t see English crazy? I could sit down right next to you and tell you I stand corrected.

  HARRY

  Sorry. Where were we, Mr. Phillip?

  JACKSON

  Tobago. Where are you? It was your cue, Mr. Trewe.

  HARRY

  Where was I, then?

  JACKSON

  Ahhhm … That speech you was reading … that speech …

  HARRY

  Speech?

  JACKSON

  “O silent sea and so on … wreathed in mist…” Shall we take it from there, then? The paper.

  HARRY

  I should know it. After all, I wrote it. But prompt …

  (HARRY gives JACKSON his copy of the paper, rises, walks around, looks toward the sea)

  Creole or classical?

  JACKSON

  Don’t make joke.

  (Silence. Sea-gull cries)

  HARRY

  Then Crusoe, in his desolation, looks out to the sea, for the ten thousandth time, and remembers England, his wife, his little son, and speaks to himself:

  (As Crusoe)

  “O silent sea, O wondrous sunset that I’ve gazed on ten thousand times, who will rescue me from this complete desolation? Yes, this is paradise, I know. For I see around me the splendors of nature. The ferns, the palms like silent sentinels, the wide and silent lagoons that briefly hold my passing, solitary reflection. The volcano wreathed in mist. But what is paradise without a woman? Adam in paradise had his woman to share his loneliness … loneliness …

  JACKSON

  (Prompts)

  … but I miss the voice …

  HARRY

  (Remembering)

  “But I miss the voice …

  (Weeping, but speaking clearly)

  of even one consoling creature, the touch … of a hand … the look of kind eyes … Where is the wife from whom I vowed … never to be sundered? How old is my little son? If he could see his father like this … dressed in goatskins and mad with memories of them?”