Act one / Scene three
[THIS SCENE TAKES PLACE IN
A TRADITIONAL ORIENTAL CATACOMB. SOUNDS OF CLACKING
CHAINS AND MUFFLED CRIES ARE HEARD. SOMBER MUSIC TO SUITE THIS SETTING SHOULD BE
EMPLOYED]
The Jail-Keeper:
(CALMLY, SLOWLY, EMPHASIZING EVERY WORD)
For they must be yours, I am
sure of that. I am certain of it. For had they been a stolen property, surely they would
have been taken away from you before you were brought here. Surely they would.
So they must be yours, those
shoes. They simply must. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. Why would a
seemingly impoverished and quite an old man like you have a pair of shoes like that. I
don’t know. I don’t understand the wisdom behind such a state of affairs. No I
don’t. I really don’t.
But they simply must be
yours, those shoes. They simply must. And they simply must be new, those shoes, for they
look new, you know? And you simply must be attached to them, for you look quite attached
to them. You really do. You really do.
You have been looking after
them as if they were your own children ever since the day you were brought here. You
haven’t stopped cleaning them and wiping them and wearing them sparingly ever since I
had first laid eyes on you. I haven’t stopped watching you and your shoes, old man,
ever since you came under my care. No I haven’t stopped, old man. No I haven’t
stopped.
So now I know they simply
must be yours, those shoes. Oh, yes I know, I really, really know. {SHOUTING.
ABÛ
QÂSIM GASPS LOUDLY) And if you want them to remain yours, old man, if you want them to
remain in your keep for as long as you, or they, shall last in this dismal abyss,
you’d better start behaving yourself God damn you, you’d better start behaving
yourself. Do you understand me? Do you comprehend? Do you? Do you? Do you?
You’d better stop
bothering me all the time with your meaningless yet constant complaints about the dampness
of the place. You’d better stop reminding me about your fucking age, your fucking
maladies, the injustice of your prison sentence. Because, I don’t care about any of
these things, old man, I don’t. They are all irrelevant to me, quite
irrelevant. You have been here for six months, and you could stay for six thousand more
months and it still would not matter to me, old man, it still would not matter.
I am not here to care for
you, I am not here to protect you, I am not here to sympathize. I am your jail-keeper, for
God’s sake, your torturer, your own personal demon, having been put here to make your
stint here a living hell, do you understand? A living hell. And if necessary, I
shall take your damn shoes away from you and shall burn them in front of your fucking
disbelieving eyes. Do understand me, old man? Do you? Do you? Do you?
[the Jail-Keeper begins to shout in Abū Qāsim’s
face over and over again, as the latter sobs incessantly]
The Jail-Keeper: (IN
A QUIET TONE) [the Jail-Keeper takes one of the iron rod from the
smoldering ashes and heads towards a nearby prisoner chained to a pillar and he rolls the
rod upon The Latter's chest in a casual manner, the prisoner issues a very loud and
painful cry sending Abū Qāsim into another fit of sobs. IN TIME, the cries subside into
soft moans]
The Jail-Keeper: It means, old man, that cries like this one, cries
that I have caused to be issued, pain-ridden cries signifying the death of hope, become
very usual to me. They become part of my daily routine. I produce them in a mechanical
manner, and they bring neither pleasure to me, nor pain. Nothing. They bring me nothing.
They leave not a single imprint upon my soul. I myself have become just another carcass,
it seems, in an abyss full of carcasses. I have become forgotten very much as these stiffs
around me are forgotten. I have become one of you really, a prisoner like you in many
ways, in all the ways that count anyway. So my chains are not as invisible as you might
think at first. Look. These very hot iron rods, these rods, these weapons of torture, are
in fact my chains. Oh yes they are. Oh yes they are. (SHOUTING) So stop complaining to me,
old man. (CALMLY) Oh, please, please, I beg of you stop. But if you do complain,
old man, remember, remember that I can still
take your shoes away from you and burn it, right here in front of you as you watch. And it
would mean nothing to me. Nothing. Not a single thing. (CALMLY) So again let me
tell you to stop complaining to me, old man, please do stop. Your soul is not as old as
mine. Believe me. Mine is the oldest soul around here. Mine the ugliest. Mine is the one
that suffered the greater injustice. Mine is the one burdened with a much greater guilt
than any other soul around here. Mine is the one that is being punished much more than the
rest. I am the poor one here. I am the old one here. I am the one who needs some comfort,
some consolation, some rest. Some rest. Some rest. Do you understand me old man? Do you
understand? [having said this, the Jail-Keeper proceeds to take
another iron rod from the fire, then he rolls it upon another prisoner’s chest. [meanwhile,
One of the soldiers unfolds a roll a paper and begins to read]
The Soldier: In the name of God the Beneficent, the Merciful.
Praise be to God Almighty, Lord of the Worlds, the Distributor of Justice, the Avenger,
the Healer, for our long ailing Ruler has finally returned to full health and has resumed
as of today the full responsibility of leading this nation unto the path of justice and
the true faith. His oldest son, the usurper is hereby denounced, and he who would aid him
in his flight from his father’s just revenge is hereby promised the just reward of
impalement. The prisoners of this dungeon are hereby freed for they have been wrongly
imprisoned. While the guards and jail-keepers are sentenced to be imprisoned for the rest
of their lives or until our Ruler and Lord sees otherwise, for those who cooperate with
the evildoers are as evil as they. These are the wise dictates of our most wise Ruler, may
God keep him forever healthy and prolong his reign, and they shall be carried out. [THE PRISONERS PRAISE GOD
AND THE RULER WITH ONE VOICE THEN PROCEED TO FILE OUT OF THE DUNGEON]
The Soldier: Who amongst you is Abū Qāsim al-Tanbūrī? Abū Qāsim: (rather
hesitantly) Abū Qāsim: But, but I don’t want this job, I am just too
old and frail for it. I just want to go back home, to my old friends, to my old donkey, to
my old job. I am not cut out for this. Please, please, choose somebody else. I beg you.
The Soldier: Orders are orders, old man. I don’t make them, I
can’t change them. Do what you are told, or else. [THE SOLDIER STEPS OUT.
THE DOOR IS CLOSED. SOME SOBS ARE HEARD, AND SOME SNICKERS. THEN SOMEONE CRIES]
A prisoner: Well, how about that for a twist of fate? Abū Qāsim: (STAMMERING) [ABÛ QÂSIM BEGINS TO
SOB. THE BRAYING OF HÂFÎ IS HEARD]
The Shoes
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lust for salvation, Brother, as though it were a woman, and I - a man.
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