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(Mr. Mephistopheles appears in front of curtain)
Mr. Mephistopheles:
The story until now: Kit Marlowe has written his first play, Henry the IV part one. He is satisfied but sees nothing different in his future. Old Kit does not want to go down in history as a writer of Henrys. Worried about his impending role in history, he makes a deal with the devil. Marlowe wishes what all people who make deals with the devil wish. He wants to live forever However old Marlowe is smart. He does not want some hollow eternity where he will be left to his own muttering crabbiness, eternally long in the tooth. He is smarter than that, he has read that book before. Marlowe, wishes instead to live on through his work. He wishes to live on in the hearts and minds of all who follow him as the quintessential writer in the English language. The devil, as the devil tends to do, grants Marlowe’s wish. Promises of many golden stories spill from that forked tongue. Then, of course, the devil double crosses old Marlowe, as the devil also tends to do. True the darkest of muses will grant Marlowe the most marvelous of stories that will keep him in the communal mind of many generations. However, this new fame will not come in Marlowe’s name. The devil, apparently, wishes to teach Marlowe something of pride. The Devil arranges it that Marlowe must live on in the body and, more importantly, in the name of “Shake Spear”, a particularly sniveling demon created by the devil mostly to mock Marlowe’s own “Fall Staff”. The deal was always, of course, for Marlowe’s soul. It is a price the devil takes immediately. Ordinarily this satan would deposit this soul in an interest bearing savings account with the rest of his conquests. However, he has something different in mind. Satan, after installing the soul of Marlowe into the demon “Shake Spear” then proceeds to install this new Shakespeare as the new king of hell. It seems that the Devil’s crown is growing heavy and he tires of the bores of hell. Usurping Marlowe’s now hollow body the newly free Satan does what we would expect Satan to do. In short, he spends his days and nights a drinkin’, eventually provokes his own murder and dying by knife. All of this allowing him, it is assumed, a planned clandestine return through the gates of heaven. This leaves this new Shakespeare as interim Satan, left to make deals of his own, and left to collect on his promised stories.
ACT I “Isis and Avon”
Empty stage save a beautiful woman drawing large circle
Cleopatra: (With power and force. A Cleopatra’s Cleopatra.) Sint mihi dei Acherontis propitii! Valeat numen triplex Jehovoe!
Ignei, aerii, aquatani spiritus, salvete! Orientis princeps
Belzebub, inferni ardentis monarcha, et Demogorgon, propitiamus
vos, ut appareat et surgat Mephistophilis, quod tumeraris:
per Jehovam, Gehennam, et consecratam aquam quam nunc spargo,
signumque crucis quod nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc
surgat nobis dicatus Mephistophilis!
Cleopatra not noticing anything happening in he circle turns ‘round and begins a poem.
Cleopatra: (She begins to recite poem. Now she is a very different Cleopatra, walking around dreamily)
Love,
a rambling branch
once green but now grown solid
We are a wooded forest
with leaves as hands
stretched out,
the envy of the stars,
we sit in those marked V’s
and laugh a new shepherd’s laugh
We want to feel the spring
a white egg wobbling
down green hills
sticking ever so slightly on the dew
cracking into new life
like a woolly sunrise
Shakespeare, a man dressed in a perfectly modern suit that seems to fit in best somewhere between Wall Street and Savile Row enters through circle.
We see ourselves in the stars,
you are my Ram
sweet Antony
your illecebrous horn
tipped in pulchritude …
Shakespeare: (interrupting) Oh that is quite enough of Antony’s horn! Always with Antony’s horn! Antony, Antony, Antony, that is all I hear! Illecebrous horn tipped in pulchritude? More of an inkhorn than anything if you ask me. Oh Cleopatra, why have you called me? Actually why have you called my Mephistopheles, my secretary? Actually, where is my Mephistopheles? (Yelling into the circle) My Mephistopheles! Oh My Mephistopheles! Jesus, this is a pretty circle. What is that, chalk?
Cleopatra: Actually, he is gone, your Mr. Mephistopheles. You know, doing a little bidding for me. I thought if I called him when he was away that I might get hold of you.
Shakespeare: Oh so you just up and called me? You do know who I am do you not? You know my job? Don’t you think I am just a little busy? Jesus, woman who taught you Latin anyway?
Cleopatra: Well…
Shakespeare: Yes, of course, I know. Those damn Romans, always with their conquering and their insistence on language. A banner day when that thing died. (bit of shock from Cliio) So, you’ve called me to your presence, eh? Nice little circle you’ve got here, pretty little symbols. So what do you want? I thought we had this agreement all worked out.
Cleopatra: Well, I think that I have, well in my thoughts…I mean, do you know how to speak about love? I mean a love…
Shakespeare: Speak plainly dear woman and with focus. The bush has developed a moat you’ve beat ‘round it so badly….
Cleopatra: I think it should be an asp in a basket!
Shakespeare: (mocking surprise) An asp in a basket!
Cleopatra: An asp in a basket.
Shakespeare: That’s how you want to die? An asp in a basket? Okay. It is your funeral. (He writes this information in a small book)
Cleopatra: Yes, I think it would be very…
Shakespeare puts his hand up to stop her from talking. He is busy writing in his book.
Shakespeare: (Looking up) You sure you don’t want it to be a viper on the veranda? You know, “Asp in a basket”, it just sounds so strange. Or maybe a cobra cocktail, eh? The cobra is the king of snakes you know.
Cleopatra: I thought that was the kingsnake.
Shakespeare: Whatever
Cleopatra: No, no it must be an asp.
Shakespeare: And what do you do with this asp? You gonna tie it ‘round your neck?
Cleopatra: No, I affix one to my arm and one to my (slight pause) breast.
Shakespeare: (Looking her up and down) Ah, Yes, breast. (Clears throat and seems to write the word breast in his little bookt) All right, asp in a basket it is.
Cleopatra: Oh and be sure to put my poem in there too!
Shakespeare: Yeah, I’ll be sure to do that. So business is tidy; the deal is done. (Closes book) Now tell me what you’ve done with my Mr. Mephistopheles. I am not so well off without him. The office phone’s been ringing off the hook. It’s driving me natters.
Cleopatra: Phone? Ringing?
Shakespeare: Oh Never mind. Just where is my Mephistopheles?
Cleopatra: He is on errand.
Shakespeare: He is on errand? And what might this errand be?
Cleopatra: He is looking into bust for me, marble I think.
Shakespeare: A bust! Ha, don’t you know you’ll not be the one remembered by some
bust?
Cleopatra: Well, I thought I should cover my bases in case this little plan of yours doesn’t pan out. Sounds more like pandemonium to me, this paper…
Shakespeare: I tell you woman there is no greater phallus than the pen! Waves his pen around Nothing in this world makes a better human. Nothing else can kiss a sweeter life into your lips once you’re gone. It is the pen, not some cold marble or some sick canvas! It is on the page, the written page, that people grow, that there is breath, that there is life. If you want people to remember you, even more than your actions it is your stories that must be clear. They are what will chime through time. Trust me honey, you just stick with me. Leave that passionless marble to the Romans, their eyes are already stony.
Cleopatra: But a play, it seems so…intangible.
Shakespeare: Remember even marble fades- it goes all round with time back to the lump from which it was carved- all soft edges. But plays are alive; plays are timeless.
Cleopatra: Yes, I guess I understand what you are saying. I mean I know what your saying. Remember, I did give you that story. It’s just…well it’s not that I don’t believe everything you’re telling me. It is just that sometimes it is hard to…
Shakepeare: (Shakespeare is lost in thought He rouses himselft enough to quiet Cleopatra) Shh! Quiet Clio, I really am trying to think.
Cleopatra: Enraged You shush? You shush, me? She positions herself in a dramatic pose and bellows the following lines as though it where the last to ever be spoken You call ME Clio? You forget, dear WILL, that I AM STILL A QUEEN!
Shakespeare: (quite uninterested) Yes, a queen of drama.
Cleopatra: (mostly looking towards audience) I am NO drama queen!
Shakespeare: Say that to me and not to them points to crowd and I’ll believe it. Look Cleopatra (uses her full name slowly as a concession to her)…
Cleopatra: (she reciprocates) William…
Shakespeare: I prefer “Christopher”, actually.
Cleopatra: Well, I prefer “My Queen”.
Shakespeare: Uh, I’d prefer not to. Alright, Cleopatra…
Cleopatra: William…
Shakespeare: Okay, I was just thinking why it is that my Mephistopheles is doing your work when his orders state most explicitly that he is to be my Mephistopheles?
Cleopatra: When given a choice any man or anyTHING will choose passion over order.
You should know that by now. (She winks)
Shakespeare: So that’s it. (He smiles, catching on) You’ve netted another one haven’t you Cleopatra? Another horse in your stable, eh? Your wiles certainly have ways about them.
Cleopatra: So I am told.
Shakespeare: I bet you didn’t even have to bed him? Just a look in your almond eyes I am sure.
Cleopatra: Demons have such tender hearts.
Shakespeare: Don’t be so sure. All he wants to do is cart that soul of yours back to hell. I am afraid to disappoint you but unlike so many before him my Mephistopheles is not just interested in your body. He wants you for your soul. Actually rather sweet now that I think about it, bet you’ve never gotten that before, eh? Better make the best of it now, while it lasts.
Cleopatra: Why are you so mean to me, Will?
Shakespeare: Honestly? Because you woke me up a bit too early. Jet-lag from Hell is a something I wouldn’t wish on mine enemy worst and I haven’t had a proper coffee yet.
Cleopatra: Well for that I am sorry.
Shakespeare: Apology accepted. Well I am off. I’ve got a banger of a story working up in Italy. Two kids like you wouldn’t believe. They want the happily ever after but I think I’ve half committed the girl to a suicide. She is a little fireball that one, not too cute, but we can fix that.
Cleopatra: Goodbye then. (About to let him leave but catches him at last second) No… wait!
Shakespeare: What is it now woman?
Cleopatra: You know as well as I do that I could have had Mr. Mephistopheles record the last bit of my play. I just though that, you know, I thought that I could talk to you, (She Gently caresses his arm and draws him out of the circle) Will. (it is evident that this “Will” is one of affection)
Shakespeare: (Looking at her touching his arm) Oh, I guess I could do that. (Her beauty is not lost on him. They sit.)
Cleopatra: Will?
Shakespeare: Clio.
Cleopatra: It is just that sometimes it is hard to figure out how to properly go about this. I want to make it exciting.
Shakespeare: (He swallows not knowing exactly what she is talking about) It?
Cleopatra: My story. (yawn from Shakepeare) I want to make it exciting so they’ll remember me but I don’t want to do it at the sacrifice of their love for me. Then on the other end of that I don’t want it to be a saccharine fool of a thing, you know?
Shakespeare: (bored) Uh Huh.
Cleopatra: You don’t know how hard it is to balance everything. I want them to love me but I want the story to be good too, you know? It is just too hard.
Shakespeare: Yes, an absolute tragedy.
Cleopatra: Oh, William, you play fast and loose with my emotions!
Shakespeare: Please woman, enough with the cliché’s. They burn my ears. (HA! Mild joke here. It sounds as if Shakespeare merely doesn’t like the sound of cliché. But, of course, to “play fast and loose” is one of his own coined terms. Therefore his burning ears refer both to his distaste for cliché’ and the fact that someone is talking about him. Oh I kill me…. Sorry ‘bout that. )
Cleopatra: Well, you don’t listen to me William!
Shakespeare: Look, I’ve written you all the riches and beauty you could ever want. But, lets face it, there are many rich and beautiful women in the world of whom no one even has the luxury of thinking twice about. It is up to you to squander all of it. That’s how you get to be remembered.
Cleopatra: Well, yes, I get it. But I guess what I am asking, I mean… Will, you obviously know what it going to happen with all this, right?
Shakespeare: Yes, like the play I am also timeless, for the time being at least.
Cleopatra: Well, what I really wanted know is, I guess. Well, you know, I am just worried because of everything I put in there, into the play. I just thought that maybe they wouldn’t… I guess I am asking, well, Will?
Shakespeare: Uh huh?
Cleopatra: Do they LIKE me?
Shakespeare: Oh Clio, the play loves you and they love the play. It will be celebrated for many many years, experiencing rebirths of on it’s own. It’s life blood is so strong.
Cleopatra: Yes, but will they LIKE me?
Shakespeare: Clio, you ARE drama. Do you understand that? You breath in your daily step what it is to be the stage so the play absolutely loves you. Other than that a man, or woman, can ask for no more.
Cleopatra: Really?
Shakespeare: Really, I should know. Stories, the stage, that is what is important, not some false emotion hung under the label of truth. Look at me, no play about me will ever be written, if so it is bound to be trite and eminently forgettable. I am stuck as some sick scrivener, just always in the writing down. You actually live in the living. And that is how people will remember you. Trust me, you are best off. You’ve got the life and the story.
Cleopatra: But you, at least, are really immortal. I mean you are the real ONE aren’t you?
Shakespeare: The real ONE what?
Cleopatra: You know, I mean those silly clothes and everything…
Shakespeare: Well I am not THE only one, you know, down there. points “down there” It is an absolute unholy triumvirate. Me, Beezlebub, and Osiris all fighting it out, blazing fists.
Cleopatra: Really?
Shakespeare: Oh Clio, you don’t want the answer to that question. But let me tell you this, the immortality you see in gods and pyramids is nothing compared to the shortest life of the simplest word.
Cleopatra: (She smiles) You know, I like my play.
Shakespeare: Hey, I like it too.
Cleopatra: I don’t care what they blame on me. It is a damn good play.
And that is what they’re going to remember, that I made a damn good play work.
Shakespeare: Yes, and they will love you for it. These people, they need plays and things just to survive in the world they’ve made for themselves. Why do you think I am their devil?
Cleopatra: (Apparently mollified and happier) Okay, well answer me just one more thing before you go. (Excited like a particularly excited school girl) Who are you going to get to play me?
Shakespeare: Play you? Why hundreds and hundreds of women will play you. Not all beautiful to begin with but all beautiful in your words.
Cleopatra: Oh, your no fun Will! That’s not what I want to hear! Tell me of the FIRST person to play me! Tell me of her!
Shakespeare: Uh, HER. Yes well,….SHEEEE…um…... did a very good job.
Cleopatra: No, no. Tell me something good. Is she as tall as me? How does she deliver her lines? Is she shrill-tongued or low? Is she as beautiful as me?
Shakespeare: Oh, Clio, I know women. These questions are asps in themselves, barbed with poison. I will tell you this though: the first person to play you, although brilliantly talented, is in no imaginable way a better woman than you are. (he looks her up and down)
Cleopatra: Oh, William, you are so sweet.
Shakespeare: It is something I work on.
Cleopatra: Well, I think you are doing a very good job.
Shakespeare: Thank you.
And uncomfortable amount of time passes. The actors look like they don’t know what to do, a bit bored.
Shakespeare: So, do you want to go ‘round to the back for a nice fuck?
Brief Pause
Cleopatra: Okay.
Exeunt. |
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