The CTR Anthology Page 8
SET
The Shack: Once a place to live in, ripped in two by a tornado, put together again with anything. Renovations consist of creating the fourth wall and ceiling out of corrugated metal sheets, cardboard and the odd piece of wood hammered on. The walls that have remained standing after the tornado are broken down: plaster, woodwork, paint fallen off in many places.
Heavily barricaded with planks hammered on windows and doorways, from within, against the outside.
A small totally barricaded window on centrestage right.
A large window dead centre on upstage wall, with heavy wooden shutters and nothing else.
A place of shelter and refuge, difficult to enter, even more so to exit.
Boxes, crates all around particularly downstage area, boxes downstage right forming an exit partially, and more boxes upstage right. Crates unopened mostly, some opened full of unseen possessions. Bundles of five-year-old yellowing copies of “The Havana Times” around the crates. The odd plank of wood.
Four exits, upstage right, upstage left, downstage right, downstage left.
Upstage right to front door, only a hallway.
Upstage left to bedroom, a solid door.
Downstage left to bathroom, curtained.
Downstage right, the back exit, an exit hidden by crates, no door.
A couch, two armchairs.
Crates underneath window, alongside walls, to sit on.
Faded linoleum on floor.
All colours brownish, pinkish, yellowish.
Outside the central window another shack. The balcony to it. The railing of the balcony. Also deserted, broken-down.
Beyond, the beach, the sea.
LIGHTS
Lots of sneaky rays hitting the room from outside through the many cracks in the walls.
SOUNDS
The sound of the waves outside, constantly present, capricious, at times turbulent, at times passionate, at times gentle and soothing. The occasional screech of a sea gull.
WEATHER
Brooding heat. Oppressive. Night after night. Day after day. Relentless. Unalterable. Affecting. Hovering afternoons and evenings of sweaty listless thoughts of sex, religion, philosophy, frustration, fury, and malaria.
SCENE ONE: GUILT
1957. Havana. A hot summer. On the Beach, in a broken-down deserted condemned shack …
Black … Silence … Pause …
Suddenly, out jumps the angry drama of the giant humourless notes of repentant violins and punishing drums.
Music: Past, Present and Future Loud.
The silent rage of shadowy ominous red lights follow. Dim. Fuming.
The figure of a woman is revealed in faded pink night robe, thigh and cleavage visible. Still for a second, then tottering forward dazedly. Blind and unsteady, pleading for the support of a chair that remains hostile and distant. Stumbling in anguish to the grubby hot wall that feels her sweat-drenched breasts sticking to its rotting plaster in relief.
Right hand weakly clawing the wall above her, she hugs the wall in despair, feeling guilty and soiled. Wanting to undo what has just happened, knowing she’ll have to live with it for the rest of her life.
Eyes closed, rubbing her cheek along the cheerless wall, the friendless woman turns around slowly to reveal a small, wooden crucifix hanging around her neck by a string and resting against her moist chest.
The woman opens her eyes, feeling an internal revulsion ripping her soul to shreds, as she now leans back against the wall, revealing to all her identity – The Mother.
The Mother listlessly dries the uncomfortable sweat on her neck and chest when for a moment she can feel the crucifix under her palm.
The guilt of mortal sin pierces her heart as she lets her hand fall to her side very slowly because she now wonders whether she truly feels penitent, and knows she doesn’t fully.
Hugging the walls with her arms, she can feel her back sliding down the wall and her knees giving in as she slowly lets her body ease down along the wall.
Her mouth twists with anger as she once again recollects her folly in the other room, and her whole face projects the disgust that every woman must have felt once for all the men that walked the face of the earth.
The twisting chords agonize shrilly as the shadow of a man steps in front downstage right. The shadow moves forward but stops and backs out again as the naked figure of a man slowly moves into the room – downstage left.
Big, muscular and angry, he stands rooted firmly to the floor in his black socks, and gazes at the Mother with wide flaming accusatory eyes.
He stands with his back to the audience, his face not to be seen for now. His hands tightly clenched into fiery red knobs that are in truth the fists of a man in fury. Fury that is controlled, suppressed, abnormally suppressed, raging to fly out of control, ready to wreak the venom that every man must have felt once for all the women that walked the face of the earth.
The chords, the strings vanish as the furious drums pound, pound, pound.
The Man slowly looks over to his left to a bundle of clothes lying on a chair, then back at the Mother who keeps looking at him, her disgust being slowly shrouded by her deep unhappiness.
The Man slowly, tensely walks over to the chair and clutches it tightly with his left hand. For a moment he leans forward as he feels the unbearable cloak of vertigo draping him.
He angrily, tightly clutches the unlucky chair and combats his vertigo – successfully.
He looks up tensely, then at the clothes on the chair – his clothes.
With intent, searing eyes he commands his left hand to clutch a pair of brown shorts.
Tensely clenched in his fist, he looks at them, then at her, when he feels this unbearable impulse to get dressed and get out as fast as he can.
He angrily, quickly puts them on.
He then tensely clasps his brown t-shirt and raises that up, his raging fury interfering with his burning desire for speed, and causing his fast moves to appear almost jerky and crisp, very crisp.
He puts his t-shirt on as fast as he can, with clean, sure, definite sweeps. However, his fury demands a tense pause of controlled rage after the completion of each and every move.
He grabs his pants and swings them open in front of him. A tense pause. And zoom, swish they’re on. Tense pause. Snap. Zip. Tight.
He grabs a boot. Puts boot on. Crisp, fast, angry but sure tight doing up of laces, tucking pants in boot.
Other boot grabbed. Put on. Other foot tense crash land on floor with boot on. Stamp. Stomp.
Both feet rooted, planted firmly on ground. The rest of his dressing continues independent of his feet which do not budge an inch.
Angry chords join the drums and cymbals as he slowly, tensely grabs a coat and looks at it and slowly, tensely, now sudden, fast puts it on to reveal the nature of the coat – brown army, and to reveal his identity – The Military Man.
The red fury of the lights now slowly change colour as they give in to the tougher white rays of rage.
The Military Man crisply does up the buttons to his huge, bulky canvas coat, then briskly produces an angry green belt and buckles it over his coat.
Crisply then grabs knapsack, crisply puts it on.
Tense pause.
Slow seething tension, the speed of his reach abruptly arrested as he slowly reaches and produces his helmet, with angry netting and jetting twigs ominously displayed, and with one continuous flowing move slowly places it on head, pauses tensely for a moment then angrily secures it.
Now slowly moves hand to his right and from behind a crate produces his menacing machine-gun.
Brings it front of him.
Cocks it.
Holds it out, facing it to his left.
Long, tense pause.
And he moves. Alert. Ready. In a fighting mood. Aware of his hostile surroundings.
Slowly tensely moves for a few steps facing the Mother.
Stops.
A lengthy exchange of looks. Looks of mut
ual disgust.
He slowly slides to his left still looking at her. Then turns to disappear upstage right, having successfully managed not to reveal his face, when the shadow creeps out again, slightly from downstage right.
Military Man tenses and stops. The shadow quickly disappears. Suspicious Military Man decides to pursue enemy as he runs out upstage right. The Mother looks on with anticipation at the danger that still lurks around her.
The lights fade as the Mother backs a step … The music fades in …
Black.
SCENE TWO: TRAPPED
The previous music crossfades into new.
Music: Family Man.
A hot, unpleasant sticky morning.
The Mother, leaning against the shutters in the throes of despair, feeling trapped, feeling the smallness of the room.
She slowly walks forward, listless, robe parted provocatively, yet not enough.
The aftermath of an evening of unimaginable events.
The music wails along, equally jaded, yet quivering for more.
The Son.
Slowly enters from the shadowy upstage right, in white shirt, sleeves rolled up, light brown pants and white sneakers.
The Mother is unaware of him.
The Son looks on longingly, gloomily, suppressing desires, breathing heavily.
The Mother hears him breathe and tiredly turns to look at him.
The Son shudders as he catches a glimpse of the Mother’s left nipple. He guiltily looks down, only to linger most obviously at one of her brazen pubes that had escaped concealment.
The Mother bravely tugs her robe shut, disgustedly looks away, and dejectedly stumbles towards the bedroom.
The Son feels unbearably guilty, unable to conceal his blush.
Son: Ma … I’m sorry …
The Mother looks at him for an instant, sees his blush, softens a little, but feels more than ever the urgency to be alone, as she reaches for the door knob to her bedroom.
Son: Ma, please …
A moment of hesitation, but then she welcomes the dark recesses of her private bedchamber as she enters and closes the door after her.
Son: Weakly. Ma … I’m sorry.
The music ends equally weakly, and the sound of the waves is heard.
The Son feels aimless for a moment, when a light flicks on and off very quickly, three times, from outside the downstage centre shutters.
The Son is shocked at this strange phenomenon as he anxiously rushes against a wall, away from the shutters.
He waits – anxious, tense, scared. Nothing happens. He slowly approaches the window, and worriedly wonders if he should call Ma, but decides to peer out through the cracks of the closed shutters of the window.
His anxious peeks don’t disclose much of the outside. He shows his frustration as he agonizes over a decision, now hurling a cautious, guilty glance towards the bedroom door, knowing he doesn’t really want to call Ma. Coast clear.
He turns back to the shutters and cautiously, slowly opens them partially, making certain he’s not visible from the outside as he leans back against the wall and cranes his neck to see outside, the thrill of fear piercing through his bones.
He parts the shutters some more to reveal the balcony of a deserted shack immediately across and the beach beyond. He looks at the shack opposite cautiously but with great interest, trying to see inside.
When, unknown to him, the shadow of a man slowly moves forward (downstage right) and a man dressed in a dark brown suit enters sideways, back to audience, stops and looks on at the Son. The Man seems to be very tense, yet very quiet and still.
The Son, about to wipe the accumulated sweat of heat and anxiety off his chest, tenses as he suddenly becomes aware of a presence and turns with a start to see the Man.
The Son is about to speak, when the Man’s voice pierces the silence with the constrained tension of urgency and the hushed immediacy of desperation.
Man: Close the window!
The Son is about to speak again, very indignant now.
Man: Close the window! Close the window, close that goddamn window (produces gun) before I blast your goddamn head off!
The Son immediately closes the window. The Man no longer restrains his violence as he hurriedly moves around checking the place, now rushing to the window anxiously listening for approaching sounds. Underneath his violence, panic and fear lurk, plainly evident. His tie poorly done over his white shirt, a two-day growth of beard, eyes betraying three sleepless nights. He is The Man on the Run.
Son: Who …
Man: Shut up!
Son: Hey, I’ve seen you before.
Man: Shut up!
Son: Eyes brighten in recognition. Hey, you’re that … Man clicks gun, pointing it right in his face. The Son shuts up. A tense pause.
Man: (Referring to shack opposite) Who lives in there?
Son: No one. (An obvious lie.)
The Man notices the obvious lie and is about to be even more menacing.
Son: No one, no one, I swear.
The Man sizes him up. Not much, he thinks.
Man: Where’s the dame?
Son: (Points to bedroom, reluctant) In there.
Man moves to check.
Son: She’s asleep.
Man opens door and peers in anyway. Closes door, and walks over to Son, beginning to feel more and more at home now.
Man: She any good?
Son: (Angry blush) She’s my stepmother.
Man: You live here all year?
Son: She does.
Man: All alone?
Son: Ye …
Man: (Yanks him forward by shirt.) She get other visitors besides you?
Son: I … don’t know.
Man: You don’t know.
Son: I don’t think so.
Man: You don’t think so.
Son: No one ever comes here.
Man: The milkman.
Son: There’s no milkman.
Man: The mailman.
Son: There’s no mail.
Man: No mail. Goddamn right there’s no mail, and you know why there’s no mail, cause this goddamn joint’s condemned, has been for years. No one’s supposed to be living here any more. (Getting progressively more violent as he almost screams.) So what the hell are you two doing in here? Huh? What the hell are you doing here? (He beats up the struggling Son.)
Son: Please.
Man: How long have you been here?
The Mother enters from the bedroom, rushing in in panic. White slip, bra, panties underneath gown.
Mother: No!
Man immediately hurls Son aside and brutally grabs Mother by gown, ripping it in the struggle.
Man: What are you doing here? What? What are you two here for?
Son makes a move forward in her aid.
Son: Leave her alone.
In a split second the Man hurls the Mother down to her knees and has his gun pointing right in the Son’s face. The Man’s hand is shaking with pent-up fury and the gun threatens to go off any minute, despite the enormous self-control that the Man is trying to exercise.
Man: Get out! Get out!
Son: No I … I can’t.
Man: Get the hell out and don’t come back, don’t ever come back. Move.
(He points to downstage right exit.)
The Son reluctantly starts to move towards requested direction.
Man: And hey, don’t try anything. Go on, out.
The Son is extremely reluctant to go, but has no choice and leaves, afraid and concerned for his mother, hating himself for his impotence.
A lengthy pause as the Man’s tension slowly seeps away leaving him naked in his trapped despair as he looks up and around the room, almost scared.
The sound of the waves cross fade with the foreboding notes of menace.
Music: Do A Thing (excerpt)
The Man slowly replaces gun in belt and wearily removes coat.
He sees the Mother, still on her knees, looking at him through anxious eyes.
Eyes that don’t seem to hold fear, only an anticipation and a readiness to cope.
The look at each other for a long time. Very hostile.
The Man slowly walks to her, slightly unnerved by her show of guts.
He stands over her and slowly, menacingly caresses her hair.
She slowly gets up moving her hair sideways as she drops her hands defiantly, letting her white bra be seen under her ripped gown.
The Man sees this defiance and decides to find out just how tough she can be as he brutally grabs her by the hair and yanks her towards the bedroom.
Lights fade very fast.
Music continues through opening of next scene in
Black.
SCENE THREE: SECRETS
Same music continues.
Lights fade up slowly on the empty room.
Late afternoon.
Pause.
The Son slowly creeps in from upstage right, sliding against the wall cautiously.
He silently walks to the bedroom door and pauses against it, trying to listen in.
He decides to take a gamble and slowly, cautiously turns the door knob, and very gently opens the door, slightly and as silently as possible.
He peers in. Too dark. Can’t see.
Parts door open some more.
Stunned shock! For a moment his emotions are unclear, a mixture of pain, revulsion, and anger, as he stands there immobile just staring in.
Music stops.
Man: (From inside bedroom.) What the hell!
The dismayed Son seems to be suddenly jolted back out of his immobility, as he moves back apologetically, placatingly.
Son: (Mumbling.) I … I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
He dazedly walks to a chair and weakly leans on it, when the Man hurriedly steps out of bedroom, buttoning up his shirt.
Man: What the hell!
He zooms over to the Son and brutally punches him in the guts.
Son: No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
The Man is about to punch him a second time, when he suddenly decides to hurl him aside.
The Man anxiously walks to the window and tries to peer out through the cracks of the shutters.