with berets, leather jackets, another Carnival.
And those poor young people shot in the hills.
OSWALD
Power to the people! But they are the people!
So what they screaming for? My head in a basket?
We tried to learn a lesson from history, which is,
Don’t treat people like slaves. Up in Santa Rosa,
you ask anybody about the way we treat our labourers.
You ask them facts, about pension benefits, ask George
about giving them allotments to develop,
profit incentives. You check the facts.
AGATHA
There’s your East Indian party, your African party.
I find myself defending a minority. A white one.
I was neither right nor left. Simply passionate.
Perhaps I have an instinct to defend minorities.
And we are the minority now, wouldn’t you agree?
We receive death threats, you know that?
Telephone calls.
OSWALD
Telephones can’t kill.
The only change they after is my money.
Well, tell them I break my arse for it, you hear?
Every damned thing in this country breaking down
since the British left, and that’s a damned fact!
AGATHA
There’s been some progress. There was a maid up there I coached for elections.
BROWN
Miss Jean Beauxchamps …
AGATHA
She joined the Party,
the most liberal element in the Party,
and I helped her with her campaign in Santa Rosa.
They heckled me off her platform for being white,
I withdrew decently into the shadows; but today
Jean Beauxchamps has a voice in our government.
BROWN
She certainly does. A very British voice.
OSWALD
So what’s wrong with that? She comes here as an equal.
She’s coming to pick us up right this afternoon.
The problem isn’t race, Brown. Is economics.
Look, I got a big cheque yesterday from West Germany.
It go take me at least six weeks to clear it,
meanwhile a thousand six hundred people on my payroll—
what I go do? Wave it in front of them?
The delay increases the interest, the interest
the capital. And who owns the banks? Trinidad?
Fifty-one percent—what’s fifty-one percent
when your operating base is London, Paris, Bonn,
New York? When New Jersey owns your oil?
You think those damned fools in the hills know that?
BROWN
Yes. I’d imagine that’s what they’re dying for.
OSWALD
Dying? When I see a dead one, I’ll believe it.
BROWN
I wish you would, sir. You too, Miss Willett.
AGATHA
I’ve seen the dead, Mr. Brown. Civilian dead.
We had quite a lot of that during the Blitz.
Gentlemen, gentlemen. No more politics, please!
I organized the De La Fontaine retrospective,
and when you called his last works masterpieces,
I gasped with joy. I honestly wept, Mr. Brown.
We have a small, private, family collection …
OSWALD
My brother loved this country, Mr. Brown.
His love will outlast any government.
I know you know that. It was in your review.
And, believe me, Aggie too, but the truth is,
they jeered her off the platform for being white.
The same damn black people she was fighting for.
But she never gave up her support of Jean Beauxchamps.
Don’t shake your head, dear. People must know these facts.
AGATHA
You’re a journalist. I mustn’t forget that.
That means that you’re professionally sensitive.
You get paid for that.
BROWN
That’s right. My creed is
“Forgive me my press pass.”
OSWALD
I don’t get it.
AGATHA
It means Mr. Brown is objective. Doesn’t take sides.
[CLODIA enters, bathed, changed, in white. Her demeanour reserved]
Ah, Clodia sweetheart. Come and save us.
We’re having an awful row about politics.
CLODIA
Tony’ll be down in a while. He says excuse him.
OSWALD
You met my niece?
BROWN
Yes. You look different.
CLODIA
Improved?
BROWN
Just changed. Fresh.
CLODIA
Well, why was I summoned? Are we all gathered
to give the impression of one happy family?
Is that what your article’s going to be about?
[She sits, discreetly]
I’m Clodia De La Fontaine, the dissolute heiress.
OSWALD
Stop drawing attention to yourself. Sit down
and listen. We were discussing politics,
and since all you know is horses and clothes,
don’t embarrass me.
CLODIA
That’s all I am, Mr. Brown.
A clotheshorse. Don’t let me interrupt.
Mon frère Antoine, il viendra tout de suite.
Puis-je prendre un ’ti “gin-and-tonic,” mon oncle?
OSWALD
Have a damn gin-and-tonic and shut up, nuh?
Your French is horrible.
AGATHA
Don’t spoil things, dear.
We were about to look at these paintings. Do sit down.
CLODIA
Ah, mais oui! More Arthur? Some people call him Art,
but I don’t know him that well; I call him Arthur.
AGATHA
You are such an irrepressible show-off. You upset?
CLODIA
Upset. Non. It’s my blue period.
OSWALD
You have the same damned temperament as Victor.
CLODIA
Good. I’m glad he left me something, Uncle O.
OSWALD
Let me get George in here to help us. George!
[He pulls a cord, GEORGE enters]
AGATHA
Well, here they are. The wharf. A cricket match.
[GEORGE shows the paintings]
You’ve never seen these, have you, Clodia?
CLODIA
I don’t remember. Actually, I don’t care.
AGATHA
She’s working hard at being difficult. Go on, George.
CLODIA
[Laughing and pointing at OSWALD]
Look at Ozzie’s face! Trying to look artistic.
AGATHA
They all seem such a hallucination now.
That’s a picnic we had on Independence Day.
Next one, please, George.
[GEORGE accidentally displays a blank canvas]
It’s empty.
CLODIA
Modern Arthur.
[GEORGE shows another sketch]
AGATHA
That’s me;
for a Carnival party up at Santa Rosa.
He never finished my hands, never could.
BROWN
I think they’re good, even if they’re unfinished.
They just can’t seem to settle on one style.
CLODIA
Like Trinidad.
AGATHA
After a death,
when every object quivers, these
were the only things that seemed secure.
OSWALD
Before the minister comes in, let me say this.
In all the years that I loved my brother, sir,
I ne
ver envied his talent. I was proud of it.
As proud of him as I’m proud of his children.
I had no envy, and if I never envied his gift,
why should I try to understand my enemy’s envy?
CLODIA
[Applauds]
Very good, Uncle. I hope you got that down.
BROWN
I think he was much better than he thought.
AGATHA
How charitable of you to say that. I need a watch.
[Outside, a car horn, impatient]
I’ve never kept a watch. God, Jean’s here.
I heard her car. My God, what time is it, Oswald?
JEAN’S VOICE
Yoo-hoo! Aggie, Ozzie, you ready?
GEORGE
The minister is here, Miss Willett.
[JEAN enters, florid but well dressed, carrying a large brown paper package]
JEAN
Look, George! Which minister? Me name is Jean.
You feel I forget where I come from, nuh?
I’m a barefoot country girl from Santa Rosa!
Now I want to hear you say Jean once and for all!
[Silence]
GEORGE
Jean once and for all.
JEAN
So? You see? Lightning strike you?
I charge in here like brass. Excuse me, Aggie.
But the chauffeur park outside, and minister or not,
them police and their horses hassling everybody.
I bring some hops bread and salt fish for all you.
Is the best damn thing with Santa Rosa cocoa.
Here, George. I stink up the bulletproof limousine.
[Gives GEORGE a package]
AGATHA
We got stuck, child, coming down from Santa Rosa,
and I had Mr. Brown here waiting. Mr. Brown …
JEAN
I know Mr. Brown. I read your article. I mean,
I had to give up. Them big words had me giddy.
I gone out of my way to get you this special pass
so I could clear traffic. The best bands starting up …
We go have a hard time getting into the savannah …
[TONY enters]
Clodia, girl. How you do? Tony, you looking tired …
TONY
I been making those costumes. Don’t ask me why.
You looking as bright and boloxious as ever, though!
JEAN
I ain’t too sure if tha’ is a compliment, nuh.
Mr. Brown, is the word “boloxious” in your vocabulary?
BROWN
We were just discussing the situation, Miss Beauxchamps.
JEAN
My attitude to them so-called guerrillas simple.
They shoot, we shoot. They stop shooting, we stop.
Till then, we have every right to hunt them down,
and bring some peace back into Santa Rosa.
But I’m not here to talk politics, not today.
Let me enjoy life a little bit, nuh? Oh, God!
Sometimes, Aggie, I regret you encouraged me.
Life was so uncomplicated at Santa Rosa.
Girl, this could be the last Carnival for years.
Cabinet on the verge of declaring martial law.
OSWALD
Why now, why so late?
JEAN
I know as much as you.
But something big building up for sure.
[A car horn honks]
Tha’s a honk? That’s my car? But that man crazy!
He mustn’t honk for me. He ain’t driving taxi.
AGATHA
Jean …
JEAN
Nah. That’s the height, man. Pomp-pomp?
Who he pomp-pomping?
AGATHA
He’s just badly parked.
[Silence]
Well? This is so embarrassing, Mr. Brown …
Clodia, I have an idea! Why don’t you stay
And entertain Mr. Brown? Show him the place?
BROWN
Why don’t you go, Miss Willett, I could look at the pictures.
AGATHA
Are you sure? It’s just I promised Miss Beauxchamps …
JEAN
Look. I gone. The savannah in full swing.
Who coming, come. ’Cause that ass go honk again.
[She exits]
OSWALD
I’ve got to lock up my study. Excuse me.
[He exits]
AGATHA
I’ll get my hat.
[She exits]
TONY
These niggers spat on my sister, you heard?
BROWN
Who spat on you?
TONY
A Trinidadian, like her.
CLODIA
Oh, Christ, Tony, forget it.
BROWN
They spat on you?
CLODIA
Nothing, nothing, forget it. You really want to know? Okay. I was jumping with them. They were playing “Back to Africa.” You ha’ to choose your friends on Jou’vert? I just jump in the line, right? So anyway, I there with them, man, throwing waist and screaming, and having a damn good time, the only white girl in the band, when suddenly this tall black test in a dashiki and afro and shades step right into the street, bore his way right through the steel band, then scream out something and spit straight in my face! Ah well, c’est la vie! You can’t play Mas and ’fraid powder. [AGATHA returns, pinning on her hat]
AGATHA
Ironies, ironies. Well, here I am today. Off, off to Carnival, instead of the revolution.
[OSWALD enters, carrying his hat]
BROWN
Aren’t they the same? Both fun?
AGATHA
Cheap shot, sir! Not cricket, would you say?
BROWN
I don’t play cricket, never have,
Miss Willett. Perhaps I’m just being defensive.
AGATHA
I hope to God you didn’t find me charming.
BROWN
You can’t help it.
AGATHA
Charming?… Christ, what a fate!
[Exits]
JEAN’S VOICE
Yoo-hoo, Oswald! Ozzie, man, you coming?
OSWALD
[Shouts]
Ah coming, Jean!
[To BROWN]
Tha’ is democracy, eh?
[Exits]
CLODIA
Oh, God, that woman!
She has a voice like a nail on galvanize.
You not go finish my costume?
TONY
No. And leave it.
I don’t want you wearing it. You hear?
Don’t put on anything of mine unfinished.
CLODIA
Oh! An artist. How like Papa!
BROWN
Tell me what you remember about your father.
He’s what I came here for, not politics.
He’s the one I’m really interested in.
He copied that Watteau Carnival, didn’t he?
That’s interesting. The heritage.
CLODIA
[Belching]
Aow! ’cuse me.
[Parodying AGATHA]
Uf coarse, daaahling, Victor was fearfully interesting.
’E was also a shit. Don’t you think so, Antoine?
TONY
[Parodying VICTOR]
Oh, am I? Am I fearfully interesting? Me, Victor?
How fearfully would you say, love?
CLODIA
[As AGATHA]
Oh, fearfully fearfully. I’m awfully fond of you.
TONY
[Parodying VICTOR]
Are you sure? Are you fearfully fond?
CLODIA
[Parodying AGATHA]
Oh, fearfully sure, Victor. Dreadfully fond!
Now you go down to the shed, dear,
and blow your brains out.
TONY
[As VICTOR]
I shan’t.
Think of the children, love.
CLODIA
[As AGATHA]
Wot children? Aow, you mean those children?
Just go down to the shed, darling.
Don’t think of the children,
and just be fearfully, fearfully brave.
TONY
[Parodying VICTOR]
I can’t. I’m afraid. I’m fearfully afraid.
CLODIA
[Parodying AGATHA]
You must, dear. It’s for art …
[As CLODIA]
That interest you? I hate art.
It kills people.
BROWN
Believe me. I can understand.
But that’s what’s admirable about your father.
That he kept at it. Me? I gave up writing stories.
My industry only increased frustration.
I saw no market, no future. The more I wrote,
the more my sadness increased. So I sank
in a slow quicksand of paper. What was the point
of trying to write well, to write at all?
I became afraid of art. Any piece of art.
CLODIA
A piece of ass? I’m game. Turn your head, Tony.
BROWN
You have a shock in store for you, miss.
Do you laugh away everything?
TONY
Shit, let her laugh!
Everybody’s so damned solemn about Victor.
Everybody’s taking those gorillas seriously.
CLODIA
What happen? I can’t laugh if I want? Ay-ay!
TONY
Martyrdom. Shit! So French! Pauvre Papa! Victor the Victim! I grew up with that ringing in my ears. I despise the British. Except Aggie. Who’s one of us. I hate the French. I detest anything French that shows in me, and I suppose, although I loved my father, I detested him. He made us cherish taste, and it was the wrong taste for this country, and that makes us useless. The French are shitty colonizers. They create this longing for the metropole in their colonials. But what’s worse is that they also create this longing for paradise in their metropole, and when the intellectualizing bastards get there, the way they fucked up Indochina, Algeria, Tahiti, Martinique, Africa, their whole empire, and that’s their other deceit, they never called it an empire like the British; they called it simply an extension of the metropole, which was a lie; the bastards get so cynical and disappointed about these native paradises, they turn them into hell. They become gross, like my father’s rational opposite, Oswald. They turn into Germans abroad. [He brings over a painting] Victor’s. You think it’s good? I read your review. You’re wrong. It’s muck. God, I remember how my mom would take me up here to try to get him to take us out. He’d kiss us. Give us money. But never … he laboured at it until it just turned to muck. In the end he was delirious and kept calling himself Watteau. If he couldn’t get it in the painting, he’d get it from life. So once he knew that he was Watteau, he didn’t have to paint anymore, you see. He had done it all already. Well, after many doctors, he had one of his lucid periods, and in one of these rational periods, he did the rational thing. No more illusions. No more Cythera! He killed Antoine Watteau. Okay. That’s it. Write that. I’m off. I am sick and tired of hearing about that fraud. I’m walking to the savannah. You staying? [Exits]