Scene Four



 

In the darkness, we hear DE KOVEN's voice, and when the lights rise, we see part of the kitchen in his "spiritual center" in Bucks County. De Koven is, if possible, fatter than when last we saw him. His cook, MILOS, is a young Czechoslovakian about 1/8th the size of his guru. MILOS is cutting up vegetables as DE KOVEN paces the floor, a newspaper clutched in his hand.
        DE KOVEN That fraud! That charlatan! Look at this, Milos! That pissy book of hers just went into its fourth printing!

MILOS

Tsk...tsk...

DE KOVEN

Twelve Years With The Masters, indeed. That woman wouldn't know Kampur from a hole in the ground. And Kampur has plenty of holes in the ground, let me tell you. And I hear that spiritual center of hers up in the Adirondacks has over two thousand. It's flummoxers like her that make it hard on the rest of us. And you know that big hunk of beef who's always following her around? They say she's having some hanky-panky with him! Can you imagine? He's got to be forty years her junior!

MILOS

Tsk..tsk...

DE KOVEN

I tell you, Milos, I'm going to expose that bamboozler if it's the last thing I do!
                                                                      (suddenly aware of what Milos is preparing)
What's that? Zucchini fettucini?
                                                                      (MILOS nods.)
Yummy-yummy. And what's for pudding?

MILOS

                                                                     (in a high pitched voice)

Me.

DE KOVEN

                                                                    (grabbing his ass, hard)
Double yummy-yummy.
 
  (BLACKOUT. The set of IRENE's bedroom slides on. It is night, and IRENE is at her dressing table, staring at herself in the mirror. SHE pulls the loose skin back tightly over her face. A slight tap at the door.)
IRENE
Butchie? (BUTCH enters, looking even handsomer and more virile.)
BUTCH
I couldn't sleep.

IRENE

I know that.

BUTCH

How?

IRENE

                                                                         (with a shrug)
The Masters.

BUTCH

I wish some day I could meet the Masters.

IRENE

Maybe if you are a good boy and eat all your Ovaltine...

                                                                         (HE laughs, goes to her and kisses the back of her neck.)

BUTCH

You're the most fascinating person I've ever known.

IRENE

                                                                          (gazing again the mirror)
Oh, Butchie...

BUTCH

I mean it!

IRENE

I used to be a beauty once,
I wasn't what you see;
It's hard for you to believe it---
It's even hard for me.
The mirror's a mirror I could not look worse in,
I think to myself, "That's some other person."
To age like this could not be obscener,

BUTCH

Please, please, don't say that,
My dearest Faina.

Age is a matter of numbers,
Thirty-six, seventeen---
What does it mean?
They're simply digits,
And digits are blind;
They don't show you the soul,
They don't show you the mind.

Age is a matter of numbers,
Sixty-five, twenty-two---
None of it's true.
None of it's valid,
None of it's real---
It's not an emotion,
It's not how you feel.
Age is a matter of numbers,
And what can numbers
Possibly reveal?


                                                      (HE lifts her from the chair and crushes her in his arms.)

IRENE

Oh, Butchie...you are such a wonderful liar...
 
 


BLACKOUT