SCENE ONE
Four-paneled screen. Painted on the screen: a palm tree, an Arab grave.
At the foot of the screen, a rock pile. Left, a milestone on which is written: AĂN/SOFAR, 2 Miles.
Blue light, very harsh.
SAĂŻDâS costume: green trousers, red jacket, tan shoes, white shirt, mauve tie, pink cap.
THE MOTHERâS costume: violet satin dress, patched all over in different shades of violet. Big yellow veil. She is barefooted. Each of her toes is painted a differentâand violentâcolor.
SAĂŻD (twenty years old), tie askew. His jacket is completely buttoned. He enters from behind the screen. As soon as he is visible to the audience, he stops, as if exhausted. He turns toward the wing from which he entered and cries out.
SAĂŻD: Rose! (A pause.) I said rose! The skyâs already pink as a rose. The sunâll be up in half an hour. . . . (He waits, rests on one foot, and wipes his face.) Donât you want me to help you? (Silence.) Why? No one can see us. (He wipes his shoes with his handkerchief. He straightens up.) Watch out! (He is about to rush forward, but remains stock-still, watchful.) No, no, it was a grass snake. (He speaks less loudly as the invisible person seems to draw closer. His tone finally becomes normal.) I told you to put your shoes on.
Enter an old Arab woman, all wrinkled. Violet dress, yellow veil. Barefooted. On her head, a cardboard valise. She too has emerged from behind the screen, but from the other side. She is holding her shoesâa red button-boot and a white pump.
THE MOTHER: I want them to be clean when I get there.
SAĂŻD (crossly): You think theyâll have clean shoes? And new shoes besides? And even clean feet?
THE MOTHER (now coming up to SAĂŻD): What do you expect? That they have new feet?
SAĂŻD: Donât joke. Today I want to stay sad. Iâd hurt myself on purpose to be sad. Thereâs a rock pile. Go take a rest.
He takes the valise, which she is carrying on her head, and puts it down at the foot of the palm tree. THE MOTHER sits down.
THE MOTHER (smiling): Sit down.
SAĂŻD: No. The stones are too soft for my ass. I want everything to make me feel blue.
THE MOTHER (still smiling): You want to stay sad? I find your situation comical. You, my only son, are marrying the ugliest woman in the next town and all the towns around, and your mother has to walk six miles to go celebrate your marriage. (She kicks the valise.) And to bring the family a valise full of presents. (Laughing, she kicks again and the valise falls.)
SAĂŻD (sadly): Youâll break everything if you keep it up.
THE MOTHER (laughing): So what? Wouldnât you get a kick out of opening, in front of her eyes, a valise full of bits of porcelain, crystal, lace, bits of mirror, salami. . . . Anger may make her beautiful.
SAĂŻD: Her resentment will make her funnier looking.
THE MOTHER (still laughing): If you laugh until you cry, your tearsâll bring her face into focus. But the point is, you wouldnât have the courage . . .
SAĂŻD: To . . .
THE MOTHER (still laughing): To treat her as an ugly woman. Youâre going to her reluctantly. Vomit on her.
SAĂŻD (gravely): Should I really? Whatâs she done to marry me? Nothing.
THE MOTHER: AS much as you have. Sheâs left over because sheâs ugly. And you, because youâre poor. She needs a husband, you a wife. She and you take whatâs left, you take each other. (She laughs. She looks at the sky.) Yes, sir, itâll be hot. Godâs bringing us a day of light.
SAĂŻD (after a silence): Donât you want me to carry the valise? No one would see you. Iâll give it back to you when we get to town.
THE MOTHER: God and you would see me. With a valise on your head youâd be less of a man.
SAĂŻD (very surprised): Does a valise on your head make you more of a woman?
THE MOTHER: God and you . . .
SAĂŻD: God? With a valise on my head? Iâll carry it in my hand. (She says nothing. After a silence, pointing to the valise): What did you pay for the piece of yellow velvet?
THE MOTHER: I didnât pay for it. I did laundry at the home of the Jewess.
SAĂŻD (counting in his head): Laundry? What do you get for each job?
THE MOTHER: She doesnât usually pay me. She lends me her donkey every Friday. And what did the clock cost you? It doesnât run, true enough, but itâs a clock. . . .
SAĂŻD: Itâs not paid for yet. . . . I still have sixty feet of wall to mason. Djellulâs barn. Iâll do it the day after tomorrow. What about the coffee grinder?
THE MOTHER: And the eau de Cologne?
SAĂŻD: Didnât cost much. But I had to go to AĂŻn Targ to get it. Eight miles there, eight miles back.
THE MOTHER (smiling): Perfumes for your princess! (Suddenly, she listens.) Whatâs that?
SAĂŻD (looking into the distance, left): Monsieur Leroy and his wife on the national highway.
THE MOTHER: If weâd stopped at the crossing, they might have given us a lift.
SAĂŻD: US?
THE MOTHER: Normally they wouldnât have, but youâd have explained that itâs your wedding day . . . that youâre in a hurry to see the bride . . . and Iâd have so enjoyed seeing myself arrive in a car.
A silence.
SAĂŻD: Want to eat something? Thereâs the roast chicken in a corner of the valise.
THE MOTHER (gravely): Youâre crazy, itâs for the meal. If a leg were missing, theyâd think I raised crippled chickens. Weâre poor, sheâs ugly, but not enough to deserve one-legged chickens.
A silence.
SAĂŻD: Wonât you put your shoes on? Iâve never seen you in high-heeled shoes.
THE MOTHER: Iâve worn them twice in my life. The first time, the day of your fatherâs funeral. Suddenly I was up so high I saw myself on a tower looking down at my grief that remained on the ground, where they were burying your father. One of the shoes, the left one, I found in a garbage can. The other, by the wash-house. The second time I wore them was when I had to receive the bailiff who wanted to foreclose on the shanty. (She laughs.) A dry ...