Shoes4

Act one / Scene Four

[Abû Qâsim IS STILL SOBBING, HIS SOBS DROWNED IN THE USUAL SOUNDS OF THE DUNGEON]

The Jail-Keeper: (WHILE SNICKERING) Oh come on old man. I am tired of hearing you sobbing. Is this going to be my punishment now, to have to listen to your pitiful sobs? Come on, why don’t you take some time to consider the irony of your situation. (ANGRILY) Come on, old man, damn you.

Abû Qâsim: You…you…you… You wanted to take my shoes away. You. You wanted to burn them in front of my eyes. In front of my fucking eyes, so you said. In front of my fucking eyes. You. You. What would stop me now from hurting you, huh? What? What? Tell me. Answer me. Answer me, damn it.

The Jail-Keeper: (LAUGHING)
Had it been any other prisoner that was chosen to take my place, believe me old man, I would have been terrified. I would have been sobbing right now and begging for mercy though knowing that none will be offered. But you, you of all people, oh God, I think our new First Minister has some wonderful sense of humor, I really do. God, look at you. Your hand is shivering so hard, so hard in fact, I am afraid you might hurt me unintentionally. And you would probably apologize if you did. Oh God, this is so funny, oh so funny. A man in my position shouldn’t be laughing, but I just can’t help myself.

[and the Jail-Keeper bursts into another loud laughter, soon echoed by the other prisoners, and this makes Abû Qâsim mad]

Abû Qâsim: Stop laughing at me God damn you, stop laughing. I am an eighty year old man, if I cannot be feared I should at least be respected for the years I have lived, for the things I have seen, for the wisdom I have accumulated. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

[the laughing continues]

Abû Qâsim: All my life, I have sought respect and got none. All my life I have spent daydreaming of respectability, and I got nowhere. The first action I have ever taken towards fulfilling my lifelong dream was to buy these shoes, and look where this act has lead me. Some respectability I am getting. Well? Well, fuck it all I say. I don’t have to take this, not anymore. I am too old for this I am, I am eighty years too old.

And let my last living words be addressed to you my Lord, and let them be words of discontent and intentional blasphemy. For I don’t deserve such an end. I don’t understand the wisdom behind it. You owed me at least an explanation for it all before the end of it all, but you offer none. None. I am not pleased with you my Lord. Not pleased at all. This is not a suitable end for an eighty-year old man. This is not a suitable end for Abû Qâsim al-Tanbûrî.

The Jail-Keeper: Hey, what are you looking for you idiot? What are you planning to do with that rope? Well, well, well, I see. A hanging? Well, it’s been a while since I have seen one of those. Thank you for the treat old man. You are definitely the nicest jail-keeper anyone could wish for.

[THE SOUND OF A ROPE STRETCHING, CHAIR FALLING, AND SOME GASPS, NOT TOO LOUD]

The Jail-Keeper: Well, gentlemen, we’ve just witnessed the demise of an idiot. A very old idiot.

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