Notes from a Black Woman's Diary by Kathleen Collins

Author:Kathleen Collins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-01-14T05:00:00+00:00

Begin the Beguine: A Play in One Act

for

RUBY and GUY

THE CHARACTERS*

* * *

A YOUNG MAN, around twenty-five.

An OLDER WOMAN, around fifty-five.

THE PLACE

* * *

A space that resembles a park.

THE TIME

* * *

The present.

[A YOUNG MAN, around twenty-five, comes onstage dressed in black. He moves restlessly across the space with long, intense strides, a preoccupied manner, as if containing much emotion. It’s important that he move gracefully and with tremendous ease.

HE sits down on a park bench and begins to whistle several show tunes, beginning with “Night and Day,” followed by “Just One of Those Things,” and growing louder and more violent as he drifts finally into “From This Moment On,” at which point an OLDER WOMAN, around fifty-five, wanders onto the stage dressed in a calf-length ’30s-type dress. She should be small, delicate-looking, vague of manner. She sees the young man and hesitates.]

THE WOMAN. I won’t continue the fight in public.

[The YOUNG MAN stops whistling.]

THE YOUNG MAN. I didn’t ask you to.

THE WOMAN. I came here to breathe, the air at home is . . .

THE YOUNG MAN. [completing her sentence] Cloudy.

THE WOMAN. [defensively] That’s not my kind of word, cloudy . . .

THE YOUNG MAN. It fits. You can’t see that it fits because you don’t even know who you are. If you did, you’d recognize that there are clouds all over the place.

THE WOMAN. Staring at me . . .

THE YOUNG MAN. What do you mean?

THE WOMAN. I recognize that much, that they’re staring at me . . .

THE YOUNG MAN. [laughing] No, you still got it wrong, they’re not staring at you, you’re inside the goddamn things, you are the cloud.

THE WOMAN. Now you’re being offensive.

THE YOUNG MAN. Now you’re playing ma mère, momma, mommacita, Norma, which you’re not . . .

THE WOMAN. [switching] What’s the black for . . .

THE YOUNG MAN. What are you talking about?

THE WOMAN. The black pants and jacket, up to and including the shirt.

THE YOUNG MAN. Before you came, I was whistling. Old show tunes. ‘I Get a Kick Out of You,’ ‘Love for Sale.’ That kind of stuff, Broadway Americana. I was thinking I might tap dance next.

THE WOMAN. I once played Zora Neale Hurston.

THE YOUNG MAN. I know.

THE WOMAN. I’m convinced that somewhere in this universe there’s a vagabond black spirit . . .

THE YOUNG MAN. I know.

[The WOMAN turns away to cry. The YOUNG MAN watches her dispassionately.]

THE YOUNG MAN. You’re a pretty woman . . . small and delicate, I miss you all the time, I have always missed you, even before I was conceived. The missing grows stronger as you grow older and I grow less sure of the memories we have in common.

THE WOMAN. [still tearful] This dress reminds me of Zora Neale Hurston . . .

[The YOUNG MAN gets up, takes out his harmonica, plays an old folk tune, while the WOMAN claps.]

THE WOMAN. Did I ever tell you the story about Mrs. Wind . . .

[The YOUNG MAN nods a yes but keeps playing.

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