What If Columbus
a play in 4 acts about fallacies and other forms of truth
by Serban Anghene
CHARACTERS
MR MAGGIORE also THE ROYAL BUFFOON
MARIA also QUEEN ISABELLA OF CASTILE and THE WOMAN
JEREMY
THE FRIEND
THE OTHER FRIEND
GIPSY
MR MATTHEWS
MARLENE also THE ROYAL ASTRONOMER
MR ADVOCATE
CAMSTRICH also THE BISHOP
THE AGENT/ MR AGENT
THE GENERAL
THE OLD GENTLEMAN
COLUMBUS
FIRST OFFICER
THE PROGRAMMER
Various VOICES of people and crowds
The stage should ideally be set so as to accommodate the following:
The interior of a private jumbo jet;
A squalid squat flat and the remains of the surrounding social housing estate;
The colourful world of a video game;
A railway platform with the corresponding safety yellow line drawn across it (the line is quite important);
A torture chamber;
A dark office in a pentagonal intelligence agency HQ,
A burial place;
A shallow stretch of water between stage and audience (the water’s rather important too);
A bus stop, only if prologue, epilogue and intermezzos apply.
Prologue, intermezzos and epilogue are optional.
PROLOGUE
Obscure MR MATTHEWS is walking home from work.
He looks a little ruffled in his long open overcoat, buckling under a worn off shoulder bag with a folded newspaper sticking out. Stops under the pedestrian refuge in the bus stop, a few steps away from THE OLD GENTLEMAN.
THE OLD GENTLEMAN appears unkempt and dirty, a few dark greasy stains on his crotch.
Far-off to the right stands THE WOMAN dressed in black, wearing sunglasses, deadpan expression.
MR MATTHEWS waits for a while. Gets bored. Decides to carry on walking. As he takes the first step, THE OLD GENTLEMAN grabs his wrist.
MR MATTHEWS: Excuse me... Sir...?
THE OLD GENTLEMAN stares at the other’s watch through his clinched fingers. Releases hand.
THE OLD GENTLEMAN: What-what... time?
MR MATTHEWS: Sorry?
THE OLD GENTLEMAN: What’s.... time?
MR MATTHEWS: Oh, the time. The time...
THE OLD GENTLEMAN: I don’t know.
MR MATTHEWS: The time is precisely. Wait a sec...
THE OLD GENTLEMAN: I don’t know. I have no idea.
MR MATTHEWS: Half four.
MR MATTHEWS turns to leave. THE OLD GENTLEMAN grabs his hand.
THE OLD GENTLEMAN: I for-forgot.
MR MATTHEWS: Half four.
THE OLD GENTLEMAN: The time?
MR MATTHEWS: Half past four, sir. Now if you will excuse me...
MR MATTHEWS starts wandering around the station in search of some human assistance. He notices THE WOMAN.
MR MATTHEWS: Madam...
THE WOMAN: Leave him alone. That’s what you get when you’re senile and leave your home. He deserves it. You know it, I know it, they know it.
Exit THE WOMAN to one side.
THE OLD GENTLEMAN grabs his hand again.
CHAPTER I
SCENE 1
Jet engine noise.
MR MAGGIORE is slouching in a sofa inside his immense private jumbo jet, sipping whisky and smoking a cigar. He is wearing a white suit and braces, a red flower pinned to his immaculate shirt. He looks a charming gentleman, and seriously flap-eared.
Middle-aged MARIA is naturally beautiful in her airhostess uniform. She speaks with a foreign accent.
Fade jet engine noise.
MARIA: ... two at the back, two above the wings, two at the front and two upstairs, above the master bedroom. Please locate the emergency exit nearest to you. (She repeats the phrase at the same pace in another language, possibly her mother tongue.) In the unlikely event of loss in cabin pressure, oxygen masks...
MR MAGGIORE: Cut it out.
MARIA: Standard procedure, sir. My apologies.
MR MAGGIORE: Don’t mention the word “standard” in my house.
MARIA: Sir, it will only take a moment.
MR MAGGIORE: Stop calling me “sir”! (Stares at her. She stares at him.) Anything wrong?
Pause. Increase in engine noise.
Somebody knocks on the airplane door. MR MAGGIORE waves MARIA to look through the window.
MARIA: Some people in black.
MR MAGGIORE: I’ll be receiving them later. Let’s go.
MARIA pressing the cabin talk button: We’re going, Ronny. Yes, to the hatter.
Jet engines raced, MARIA loses balance as the plane starts moving. MR MAGGIORE disturbs sofa cushions looking for something. Retrieves a long sceptre. He holds it forth to MARIA. She clenches to its far end. He slowly pulls her towards him.
SCENE 2
A dark and dirty squat house.
A mattress lies abandoned in one corner, among various pieces of trash and debris. From the opposite corner towers a mound of clothes with a submachine gun on top.
THE FRIEND, THE OTHER FRIEND and GIPSY are gathered around the locked bathroom door.
Every now and then THE FRIEND will clutch at his flanks, paralysed by kidney pain.
THE FRIEND: Hey mate, you alright in there?
THE OTHER FRIEND: Jeremy, can you hear me? Jeremy!
GIPSY: What if he drowned himself?
THE FRIEND: Jeremy, I hope you’re not putting your head in the crapper again. Nobody’ll listen to a stinkin’ mouth.
GIPSY steps away from the door and lights herself a cigarette. She sits down on the floor and smokes.
THE OTHER FRIEND: It’s quite histrionic, don’t you think?
THE FRIEND: What?
THE OTHER FRIEND: The only door we got a proper lock on...
THE FRIEND: In that case it’s ironic.
THE OTHER FRIEND: It’s what?
THE FRIEND: Ironic.
THE OTHER FRIEND: Possibly. But it’s histrionic too.
THE FRIEND unsure: Yeah. Possibly.
SCENE 3
The conspicuous, whispering obscurity of an intelligence headquarters office, doused in cigar smoke. Everything about the place is pentagonal.
THE GENERAL browsing through an unseen dossier: Officially acknowledged richest man in the world ten years ago... equals the cumulated GDP of blah blah blah... Bastard decides to leave the ground for good and settles in his Jumbo Jet. Lands sporadically and unpredictably for fuel and refreshments. Even got a damn swimming pool and a medium-sized cinema up there. Information not confirmed.
Now this is interesting... habitually flies long circumventing routes and sees to his audiences in half an hour swinging slots. Visitors wait for him on the private aerodromes that he owns in every country... even the tiniest enclave state...
His political influence goes beyond... blah blah blah. When was the first time man flew? To have someone living in nearly sustainable gravitational suspension... Give me a break.
I wish the President had picked someone else for the job. What this you wrote here? Code name: God.
Lights slowly fade in over two mahogany desks set in a T to accommodate extended meetings.
THE GENERAL is sitting at the top of the T, under a powerful lamp, smoking a cigar. He is surrounded by paperwork but reads off a small electronic device.
THE AGENT is also present in the office.
THE GENERAL going through the documents: If only we could predict his next landing...
THE AGENT: That’s not all. We have received intelligence confirming the hypothesis of a powerful radar jammer.
THE GENERAL: Care to explain how the hell can somebody have his own parallel airspace? I had to sack four tip top physicists... Know what, ‘hell with them! Our high schools are crying for science teachers as it is... I believe you know that the President asks for “that moron” when he wants his secretary to dial my office. Fine with that too. If I was a bigger moron I’d be working from his. But the mystery dries me out. It’s my personal crave for an answer. Do you understand that? Why the hell can’t he hide on some uncharted island like the rest of his sort?
THE AGENT: He’s not hiding. It’s called defying. With your permission I included a brief meditation on the subject in my report. You’ll find it under “background”.
THE GENERAL scrolling down the e-reader screen: He can’t have all the countries. Don’t tell me there isn’t at least one... (THE AGENT looks him in the eyes. He takes out a banknote and starts folding it into an airplane) Still I can’t get the bastard. If this orgy plan...
THE AGENT: BPP. The Big Party Plan.
THE GENERAL: If he intends to carry it out the way you describe it in your report, then where the hell is he going to get all his fuel and refreshments afterwards? He can’t pull himself out of the whole business.
THE GENERAL launches the banknote airplane. It soars briefly before crashing onto the floor.
THE AGENT: I’m afraid it’s far more complicated than that, however I suppose we can cut down on our worries for now and maybe start reading the whole thing as a diversion, without losing our watchfulness that is.
THE GENERAL: Damn shame we stopped doing things like in the old days.
THE AGENT: I’m afraid the consequences of what you’re suggesting are impossible to estimate. And besides, I’m not quite sure Maggio... God is the one who should be quaking in his boots.
THE GENERAL: President’s a pussy.
THE AGENT: He’s prudent.
THE GENERAL pulling a picture out of the file: How about this Matthews? Does he even have a code name?
THE AGENT: No. We checked on him. As far as we could reach. (THE GENERAL gives him a cross look). I know, right? Anyhow he’s not in our structures.
THE GENERAL: Connections? Spillages?
Pause.
THE AGENT: You could be the connection for all we know.
Pause.
THE GENERAL producing a picture of JEREMY: And The Prophet? Still burning mattresses out in the street and living on small burglary?
THE AGENT: You can refer to him as Jeremy now. The guy couldn’t start a civil war with his mother-in-law. We crossed him out.
THE GENERAL: False Prophet?
THE AGENT: No real connection to God. His mother, from whom he ran away a few years ago, is God’s maid. She lives with the big guy on the plane. Jeremy’s got the fancy talk alright. And he’s horribly flap-eared, but that’s about it.
THE GENERAL: Yes... I suppose it would be a bit too obvious.
They laugh.
THE AGENT: Miracles are perverts by definition.
THE GENERAL peers into the gloom. Thoughtful. He plays with the dimmer. Blackout.