Vieux Carre by Tennessee Williams Read Free Book Online Page B

writer undresses. Nightingale sits on his cot. Tye and Jane begin to make love. Downstairs, Nursie mops the floor, singing to herself. The writer moves slowly to his bed and places his hand on the warm sheets that Tye has left. The light dims
.
    [
There is a passage of time
.]

SCENE FIVE
    The attic rooms are dimly lit. Nightingale is adjusting a neckerchief about his wasted throat. He enters the writer’s cubicle without knocking
.
    NIGHTINGALE : May I intrude once more? It’s embarrassing— this incident. Not of any importance, nothing worth a second thought. [
He coughs
.] Oh Christ. You know my mattress is full of bedbugs. Last night I smashed one at least the size of my thumbnail, it left a big blood spot on the pillow. [
He coughs and gasps for breath
.] I showed it to the colored woman that the witch calls Nursie, and Nursie told her about it, and she came charging up here and demanded that I exhibit the bug, which I naturally . . . [
A note of uncertainty and fear enters his voice
.]
    WRITER : . . . removed from the pillow.
    NIGHTINGALE : Who in hell wouldn’t remove the remains of a squashed bedbug from his pillow? Nobody I’d want social or any acquaintance with . . . she even . . . intimated that I coughed up the blood, as if I had . . . [
coughs
] consumption.
    WRITER [
stripped to his shorts and about to go to bed
]: I think with that persistent cough of yours you should get more rest.
    NIGHTINGALE : Restlessness. Insomnia. I can’t imagine a worse affliction, and I’ve suffered from it nearly all my life. I consulted a doctor about it once, and he said, “You don’t sleep because it reminds you of death.” A ludicrous assumption— the only true regret I’d have over leaving this world is that I’d leave so much of my serious work unfinished.
    WRITER [
holding the bedsheet up to his chin
]: Do show me your serious work.
    NIGHTINGALE : I know why you’re taking this tone.
    WRITER : I am not taking any tone.
    NIGHTINGALE : Oh yes you are, you’re very annoyed with me because my restlessness, my loneliness, made me so indiscreet as to— offer my attentions to that stupid but— physically appealing young man you’d put on that cot with the idea of reserving him for yourself. And so I do think your tone is a bit hypocritical, don’t you?
    WRITER : All right, I do admit I find him attractive, too, but I did
not
make a pass at him.
    NIGHTINGALE : I heard him warn you.
    WRITER : I simply removed his wet shoes.
    NIGHTINGALE : Little man, you are sensual, but I, I— am rapacious.
    WRITER : And I am tired.
    NIGHTINGALE : Too tired to return my visits? Not very appreciative of you, but lack of appreciation is something I’ve come to expect and almost to accept as if God— the alleged— had stamped on me a sign at birth— “This man will offer himself and not be accepted, not by anyone ever!”
    WRITER : Please don’t light that candle.
    NIGHTINGALE : I shall, the candle is lit.
    WRITER : I do wish that you’d return to your side of the wall— well, now I am taking a tone, but it’s . . . justified. Now doplease get out, get out, I mean it, when I blow out the candle I want to be alone.
    NIGHTINGALE : You know, you’re going to grow into a selfish, callous man. Returning no visits, reciprocating no . . . caring.
    WRITER : . . . Why do you predict that?
    NIGHTINGALE : That little opacity on your left eye pupil could mean a like thing happening to your heart. [
He sits on the cot
.]
    WRITER : You have to protect your heart.
    NIGHTINGALE : With a shell of calcium? Would that improve your work?
    WRITER : You talk like you have a fever, I . . .
    NIGHTINGALE : I have a fever you’d be lucky to catch, a fever to hold and be held! [
He throws off his tattered silk robe
.] Hold me! Please, please hold me.
    WRITER : I’m afraid I’m tired, I need to