Infinite Banquet

By Alberto Pedro Torriente

Translated from Spanish by Linda S. Howe

The author and context

Cuba’s Special Period(1990-2000) encompasses the economic crisis caused by the abrupt disappearance of the Soviet Union and its subsidies. The Castro government was overwhelmed, triggering Cubans’ fear for their literal survival. Artists and writers zeroed in on the national moral compass gone haywire. In addition to Manteca (Lard, 1993), addressing the full social implications of imminent starvation, Alberto Pedro Torriente wrote plays based on Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita (Desamparado / Defenseless, 1991), and Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, although no version of the latter was published. These adaptations reveal the myriad influences and altering context within which Torriente framed his final version of El banquete infinito / Infinite Banquet, in process from 1996 to 2003. Both pay homage to censored writers who convey dangerous views on individual and national torment, crushed dreams, and disillusionment under totalitarian rule.

Bulgakov’s allegorical novel is a satirical comment on state repression of literature: when the Master burns his manuscript, Margarita, his lover and a witch, magically restores the burnt pages with the aid of Woland, the devil incarnate. In fact, Bulgakov did burn the first manuscript of the novel in 1930 yet continued to rewrite it until weeks before his death in 1940. It was finally published in 1967. Torriente’s Defenseless embodies the dilemma of unruly “dissidents” who kept rewriting “scorched” manuscripts, tucked away in drawers (obras engavetadas). During the Special Period, Cuban writers shared their censored texts with friends in an underground exchange. They also swapped books by such international dissidents as Bulgakov, Anna Akhmatova, and Milan Kundera, wrapping them in craft or recycled paper or discarded pages of Granma, the official government mouthpiece, to hide their titles and elude suspicion. Defenseless calls attention to these incendiary devices floating through Cuba’s mythical postrevolutionary archive.

Cuban theater was, perhaps, more boldly critical of postrevolutionary society and government than Defenseless might imply. Torriente was a prominent proponent of both fierce realism and the theater of the absurd associated with the notoriously purged Cuban playwrights Virgilio Piñera and José Triana. Piñera’s Los siervos (Serfs, 1955) highlights illogical and irrational elements of a totalitarian regime like Stalin’s, and El flaco y el gordo (The Thin Man and the Fat Man, 1959) exposes hunger and corrupt struggles for power. Los dos viejos pánicos (Two Old People in a Panic, 1967) portrays two aged paranoics entrapped in sorrow and loneliness. Triana’s La noche de los asesinos (Night of the Assassins,1965), initially interpreted as a criticism of prerevolutionary society, familial authoritarianism, cruelty, ritual, and madness, was later censored as an antirevolutionary piece.

Torriente infused these plays with Cuban choteo, or jokes mocking personal and national predicaments, absurd realities, contradictions, and chimeric solutions. Other writers and artists used its morbid or grotesque tone just to trigger a laugh or shock. Torriente’s biting choteo lampoons, not only tough political, social, and economic situations, but society’s complex responses. It pokes fun at individual or collective inertia or actions, where hysteria or paranoia denotes a wretched and often pathetic madness. In the 1990s, choteo refers to dire circumstances that are no laughing matter, and Cubans are the butt of the joke. And yet, they laugh! 

Weighing in on State mega-projects of the 1960s and 1970s, 1990s playwrights show how, despite all their romantic, patriotic sacrifices, Cubans were still living with hunger, absurdity, and the threat of yet another brutal crisis. Fidel Castro sent Cubans to sugarcane plantations, farms, and factories to cultivate and harvest a better future (“un futuro mejor”) and to boost national pride. In 1968, mass mobilization of volunteers to plant coffeein the “green belt” of Havana (“El Cordon de La Habana”) displaced thousands of small farmers who lived off their fruit harvests; and the 1970 “Zafra de los Diez Millones,” or ten-million-ton sugarcane harvest, forced millions to sacrifice everything to the notion that they were saving “the nation”. Many Cubans spent their lives “volunteering” for these collective, colossal projects, conceived by officials to assure the survival of the besieged nation, which was not synonymous with its people.

After the Special Period hit, the romanticism of these macrocosmic national projects gave way to microcosmic slog. Cubans had to come up with their own solutions just to put food on the table. In Lard, Torriente portrays disillusionment in the informal behavior and everyday life of three siblings, who encapsulate different notions of sacrifice and blind patriotism. Spurred by the existential threat of disappearance, they illegally raise a foul-smelling pig in the bathtub of their urban apartment. The ritual of first nurturing, then sacrificing their “pet” to save their skins exposes an open secret. Thousands of Cubans did raise pigs in tubs and chickens on their balconies. Here, Torriente raises a quandary: after expressing reluctance, the siblings will have to live with the burden of sacrificing their potential savior. They wonder about the many ways they might use the dead pig without actually eating it. This contemplation recalls a bitter history: the gargantuan contingents toiling in the name of Utopia. Perhaps Torriente’s martyred tub-grown pig suggests that the revolution’s prescribed national goals, although a significant component of Cuban identity, are on the verge of flaming out.

In an unpublished interview (December, 2003 and January, 2004), Torriente said he dedicates his theatrical work to his father, whom Cuban cultural officials ostracized in the 1960s:

My adolescence was marked by a period of intolerance. Here, you were persecuted for wearing an afro. It was a terrible time, and even my father was accused of being the founder of the Black Power movement; a leader along with Tomás González and Sara Gómez. He was marginalized, tronado [officially disciplined] as they say in Cuba. His books … did not get published, and this lasted until near the end of his life, when he left the country, and was finally able to experience a different life. I’m telling you this to explain what shaped my work.

Later, comparing Lard and Infinite Banquet Torriente pointed out that, over time, he began to scrutinize the nation’s failed utopian goals, when it no longer seemed possible to ever achieve such objectives:

Everything is in that play [Infinite Banquet], but above all, the loss of Utopia. In Lard, there is discussion about the Soviet Union, and the errors that were made, in part, due to the imposed transplantation of phenomena to an island in the middle of the Caribbean. But Infinite Banquet surpasses those ideas, and here I talk about something absolute that gets to the essence of the matter—it’s the risk, the search for a different model, more just, where everyone has food to eat. Banquet deals with a more essential question, hits on the contradictions, because in the end you can change all of the terminology, but the actual system continues to persist, unchanged.

Torriente accepted the idea that he lived in a failed utopia and chose a scathing, if absurd, realism to expose how citizens make accommodations, even if inadvertently, to sustain autocratic systems. The epigraph of Infinite Banquet, citing Bertolt Brecht, might suggest the play is a straightforward morality lesson in the vein of Mother Courage and Her Children or The Good Person of Szechwan. Torriente does make use of Brecht’s alienation effect and offers a moralistic view of human existence and abusive and corrupt power, but in a theater-of-the-absurd musical, the likes of Threepenny Opera, infused with gluttony, abuse, subterfuge, and madness. His raw satire of totalitarianism explores the existential ambiguities addressed by Beckett and Ionesco as well as the incoherent solutions, pseudo-science, and meaningless polls offered in Alfred Jarry’s Ubu Roi.

Brecht was the quintessential theatrical reformer. Near the end of his life, he also rewrote Beckett’s Waiting for Godot but died in 1956, before he could complete it. Converting absurd theater, with its pathetic characters and repetitive and meaningless language mocking social orthodoxy, into activist Lehrstucke may have been an impossible task, although both modernist approaches share use of the circus, anti-illusionist mimes, and masks. Torriente admired these radical experimental forms. He had his own obsession with adapting Waiting for Godot and rewrote Infinite Banquet in 1996, 1999, and 2003. He died of cirrhosis of the liver in 2005. The final version was published in Vivian Martínez Tabares’s compilation, Alberto Pedro (Letras Cubanas Havana, 2009). It was first staged in October 2017 by Teatro de la Luna (dir. Raul Martín).

The play. Infinite Banquet reveals how the State’s leadership hangs on even while running on empty. It fights inertia, rehashing debates and killing time in an endless endgame to sustain power. This skeptical, socio-political play is didactic, but the lesson plan is radically unconventional, and the criticism points to cultural authorities and their contradictory policies and practices, including indoctrination and the persistent memory reinforced by false teque-teque (official discourse). The leadership of an unnamed country makes a dramatic effort to replace their former leader Hierarch, purportedly, yet never really deposed. Hierarch’s arrogance hints at the treachery of Shakespeare’s Richard III.  He manipulates the leadership into performing an unhooding ceremony to install the “new’ leader Paradigm, who suspiciously looks exactly like him and is played by the same actor. Torriente splits the character between the former oppressive and cruel Hierarch and the egalitarian Paradigm, the model of reform, generosity, and equality for all.

Paradigm is charged with reforming the system within twenty-four hours. Unfortunately, he is doomed from the beginning, as he huddles with his “captains” and other members of his entourage to create a fresh plan. They invent futile, nonsensical schemes and unrealistic goals to transform a corrupt and beleaguered country into a Utopia without affecting the abundance of food or other essential goods. The masses, euphemistically called the conglomerate, see no real benefits. Paradigm’s ambiguously gendered captains, Virileone, Viriletwo, and Virilethree, use mime and subterfuge to gain clout but maintain secrets. Their mystery is a travesty of power. Sycophant, the court clown, bootlicks with song and dance. He guides Paradigm to make brilliant speeches, providing him with the precise euphemistic and manipulative language necessary to lead the masses. At times, he morphs into a comical version of Lady Macbeth, surreptitiously working toward killing off the leader and clinging to the throne. In contrast, Rarebird, both leaders’ lover, is a mish-mash of eroticism, passion, and grassroots authenticity: she claims to belong to the rabble and to have suffered hunger and scarcity. She stuffs her face and her bags with food from the grand banquet table, and between bites, has sex with Paradigm. She spouts her own philosophy, or rabbleology, on behalf of the downtrodden and criticizes the government’s privileged bubble, cynically speaking down to them.

Her complaints go unheeded. Spies and opportunists lurk about the citadel, and corrupt officials deliberately waste the little time they have on absurd rituals like the unhooding of Hierarch/Paradigm. They can’t decide whether to call the system a democracy or a dictatorship and conclude that whatever is not a democracy is a dictatorship and vice versa.

Paradigm hosts a series of officially sponsored meals; distinct signs posted onstage announce “Workers’ Breakfast”, “Workers’ Snack”, and “Workers’ Lunch”, while the government gorges at the colossal banquet table nonstop. The absurdist food orgies, the nonsensical debates and plans, and the ridiculous and frivolous songs highlight the seriousness of the real workers’ plight. The government gorges on scandal and hearsay at the expense of the masses. The sardonic humor and outlandish, questionable Machiavellian principles conjure the court of Alfred Jarry’s pear-shaped King Ubu. In the end, the banquet’s illogical ideas, fake science, and worthless surveys resemble the shenanigans of Jarry’s Pataphysics. Torriente exposes the corruption and abuses, idiocy and greed of privileged leadership. Absurd disclaimers are part of the tradition.

Infinite Banquet takes place in an unnamed country, as does Ubu Roi; Jarry and later authors of theater of the absurd deny geographical and historical specificity to amplify the dreadfulness of a specific fascist or totalitarian system. Ubu Roi’s unnamed country is Poland; Jean Genet’s The Balcony is about Franco’s Spain; and Ionesco’s Rhinoceros allegorizes Nazi Germany. In Infinite Banquet, Torriente hints at a fantastic island that lost its Utopia as his characters struggle to name the leader and the system and create ridiculous poems and songs to celebrate their efforts. The techniques and language of absurdism remind us of the futility of language and logic; they challenge any notion of objective perception with illogical scenarios of fragmented realities. Torriente asks, what should the writing and rewriting of this fantasy-fiasco cycle look like?

The translation. The play draws its complexity from Cuban cultural references, both contemporary and historical, popular music (salsa, son, son-guaguancó, rhumba, and rap), realist and absurdist language, political speeches, colloquialisms, and the lingo of pseudoscience. The popular language and heavy-duty official rhetoric are challenging for any actor or audience, but automatic writing—riffs on excessive potholes and threatening plagues and everyday speech—also play significant roles. Some of the sardonic political monologues and dialogues are treated as road-kill; none of the characters seriously believes in their own words. Torriente’s spectacle boasts flimflammers mouthing motley metaphors and non sequiturs. They dance, fight, and perform a series of disjointed, sexualized musical numbers.

As an avid reader of, and participant in, Cuban culture, especially theater, I’ve been translating works into English for the past 25 years. I worked on Infinite Banquet after I had translated the absurdist wordplay and humorous ticks in Virgilio Piñera’s The Serfs. Torriente injects humor and uncanny imagery into a realist lexicon. The allegorical characters use nonsensical verbiage and zany lyrics. It was a joy to translate the silly-season songs that accompany the bread-and-circus antics.

Before I translated Infinite Banquet and other works, I was asked to repair a translation someone had completed for Torriente’s Delirio Habanero (Havana Delirium, 1994). This task compelled me to take a deeper dive into Cuban culture and history and Torriente’s life and works. I attended several rehearsals and staged versions of his plays, and Cuban theater director Raul Martín and I read sections of the play aloud, both in the original Spanish and my translation. We concentrated on the distorted political vocabulary, the precise and cutting phasing, the quasi-idioms, the silly lyrics for the rhumba rap songs, and Torriente’s signature whacky yet dangerous humor.

I first met him and Miriam Lezcano at Teatro Mio’s staging of Delirio Habanero in Havana in 2003. I interviewed him in Havana in December, 2003 and we followed up on the interview, via email, in January 2004.

Alberto Pedro Torriente (1954-2005) wrote nitty-gritty satirical plays that resonate throughout Cuban and international theater. The celebrated playwright, director, and actor graduated from the Superior Institute of Arts in Havana and taught theater courses there and in Spain, Canada, and Venezuela. In 1987, he and director Miriam Lezcano founded Teatro Mío (My Theater), which served as a workshop for the constant revision of his plays in situ. Among his most noted works are Weekend en Bahia (Weekend in Bahia,1987), Delirio habanero (Havana Delirium,1990), Desamparado (Defenseless, 1991), Manteca (Lard, 1993), Mar nuestro (Our Sea,1997), and El banquete infinito (Infinite Banquet, 1996-2003).

Linda S. Howe, Associate Professor of Spanish at Wake Forest University, Winston-Salem, North Carolina, USA, teaches Latin American and Caribbean studies and writes about contemporary Cuban culture. Her works include Transgression and Conformity: Cuban Writers and Artists after the Revolution (U of Wisconsin Press, 2004), Cuban Artists’ Books and Prints / Libros y grabados de artistas cubanos (La Verne Press, 2009), and translations of plays, poems, short stories, and art criticism by Nancy Morejón, Gastón Baquero, Cristina García, Miguel Barnet, Zaida del Río, Abilio Estévez, and Virgilio Piñera (1998-2024).

INFINITE BANQUET

(A lofty farce in a single day with Prologue and Epilogue)

By Alberto Pedro Torriente

Translated by Linda S. Howe, Wake Forest University

Amongst the privileged class,
it’s undignified to talk about food.

The fact is: they have already eaten.

Bertolt Brecht

History never repeats itself. Man always does.

Voltaire

Characters

Hierarch

Paradigm

Sycophant

Rarebird

Virileone

Viriletwo

Virilethree

The author sees the first two characters played by the same actor.

Costumes: The costumes are a combination of suit pieces and elements representing different decades of fashion. The characters change costumes according to stage directions, not to make a fashion statement nor to focus on any particular style of dress; rather, it is ceremonial or routine preparation for different moments of this extraordinary banquet. The costumes are from different epochs, but only twenty-four hours actually transpire.

Scenery: The scenery does not represent any particular historical period. None of the components evokes a concrete location. At the extreme end of stage right, a huge staircase leads to an accessible window from which the characters observe the Conglomerate (“the masses”) below. It’s important to leave ample space between each step so that the audience can see the characters when they climb the stairs or when they sit, stand, eat, or speak on the steps. Variable menus, representing different situations that evolve during the infinite banquet, are placed on several long rolling tables, similar to the one in The Last Supper but on wheels. As indicated by the stage directions, distinct signs will announce specific occasions: “Workers’ Breakfast”, “Workers’ Snack”, “Workers’ Lunch”, etc. The stage is a white set design or theater box. Two rope ladders are mechanically lowered from above the stage during the scenes with Paradigm and Rarebird.

Characters: Although the play is a farce, this idea should be limited to the characters’ appearance (make-up, hair, costumes). The actors should defend a distinct verisimilitude, without stereotypes or preconceptions. Verisimilitude should be a weapon and an obsession in their theatrical performances. Humor, irony, and sarcasm should flourish as a result of the actors’ interpretations of the text with utmost dramatic sincerity. The grandiloquence of events and situations generates the valiance or lyricism of their representations. Virility is only a concept. The “Virile” characters make no allusions to, nor focus on, their actual gender. Transvestitism is a way of life, a philosophy. The author imagines the same actor playing both Hierarch and Paradigm. 

Lighting: Lights must have the technical capacity to depict the passing of twenty-four hours. At the same time, they indicate different atmospheres and project distinct tones from one scene to the next. Lighting changes are projected onto a large mural covering the back wall of the white stage box to create essential effects.

PROLOGUE

A broad, dark stage. Off stage, a conga is heard, initially from a distance, but as the lights go up, it seems to approach, and the volume increases. Hierarch enters, dancing awkwardly and trying to keep in sync with the drumbeats. He wears a dark suit and a white presidential sash bearing the enormous letter H, a symbol of power. In one hand, he holds a bottle of wine, from which he swigs, and in the other, a turkey drumstick he constantly and hungrily chews on while roaring with laughter. He’s drunk.

Hierarch: (He continues dancing and moves toward the window, where the music enters.) Yeah, that’s it! (Acts like a salsa singer in front of an audience.) Come on, come on, hands in the air! (He raises his arms, moves his hips, and dances excitedly to the beat; at the same time, he looks toward the window and yells) And the chorus sings!

Off stage, the voice of the chorus joins the drumbeats.

Chorus:           Outta my way,

 Blowin’ you away,

 cravin-n-shakin booty!

 Killin’ it, wow!

One, two, and three,

such a cool move,

such a cool move,

my conga move.

This ain’t no trick,

I say it again:

Outta my way,

Cravin-n-shakin booty! 

One, two, and three,

one, two, and three . . . .

The drumbeats continue.

Hierarch: (Now bad-tempered) Cravin’, cravin’! (He faces the window and yells.) Not everyone can satiate his craving. (Takes a deep breath, sits down, and relaxes.) Isn’t that right, Sycophant? (No answer.) Sycophant! (Becomes furious) Where are you, Sycophant? (He sits down again, takes a deep breath, and relaxes.) Ok, be that way, just stay where you are. I understand why you don’t poke your snout around here. I’ve got you figured out, Sycophant. You’re fed up, too. And everyone who is fed up is also implicated, in my hierarchy, for failing to account for the cravings of the masses. Yes, Sycophant, everybody who joined the banquet is an accessory to my hierarchy unless he can prove otherwise—if allowed. Have you ever heard such perverse drums, so tribal a melody, such primitive lyrics? 

Chorus: This ain’t no trick,

             I say it again:

 Outta my way,

Cravin-n-shakin booty!

Hierarch: (He gets up again, angry, faces the window, and yells.) Not everyone can put an end to his own fasting, no matter what that ringleader of this cannibal dance goes about claiming to drumbeats that have everyone dancing and singing!!! What are they up to? Indeed, what do our people really want?! To have me fade away, vanish into thin air?! Unhappy souls…!  They think that just because this show-off takes my place—the place of his Hierarch, legally elected by you, the same people who now want me out—he will promptly provide for everyone: breakfast, lunch, double snacks, dinner, and churros with chocolate before bedtime. And in no less than twenty-four hours, as promised by the campaigning ringleader and general director, who is also the choreographer of this belligerent carnival. That’s what they believe, right? Ok, all right, I wash my hands of it. Your Hierarch will exit the stage, a historic exit, but not before wishing all participants of this tumultuous affair—no matter their beliefs, political tendencies, skin color, sexual preferences, et cetera, et cetera—a burgeoning banquet and a delightful dessert. I have spoken! 

He begins his announced exit with pronounced gravity. Suddenly, he stops.

Hierarch: (Now furious) And why do I have to make an exit, if the final phase of my official mandate hasn’t yet expired?  Seems like only yesterday they adorned me with this sublime sash. (Transition: he convinces himself.) Seems? No—it was just yesterday! Yes, Sycophant, just yesterday, for the first time, I was sitting there on that piece of furniture. The ringleader wants to muddy the waters, but it was just yesterday when they conferred this distinction upon me in the name of the very people whose collective pelvises are joyfully and with no sense of civic decency swaying to and fro today. Yes, Sycophant, I was sitting in that chair just an instant ago, and while I have not completed my term of office, I repeat, the ringleader attempts to push me out.

(Whispering) We’re suffering a coup d’état, Sycophant! Haven’t you noticed? But I won’t abdicate because, although the working classes themselves don’t know it, this is what they want: their Hierarch must endure. The thorny part is that they’re confused by the unrestrained drumbeats—by the drumbeats?—no, by their own guts, those empty guts that the sinister ringleader, demagogue of this conventional tropical jubilee, has promised to stuff with red meat within twenty-four hours. (He turns to the window and yells.) Not everyone has access to the banquet! At least not everyone at the same time and not to the same class of banquet!

(He takes a swig and calms down.) I was wrong to swear in public that it could be done! Back then, I wasn’t as wise as I am now, but neither were you. We were such babes-in-the-woods when that war ended, culminating in the defeat of the Plague. That’s why they followed me—we followed each other—with that impulse, that devotion, which led to such blessed naïveté, fueling my own diatribes, which culminated in the triumph of supreme histrionic stupidity, the most incredible atrocity known to mankind, after the defeat of the Plague! And what did we do, I ask, what did we do?! Fornicate, fornicate! We threw the thoughts of the great Malthus onto the bonfire of our daily lechery, while the hole in the ozone layer grew to the size of a great lake, and the forests rhythmically burned, setting alight the eyes of baby rabbits, who were horrified by our reproductive capacity… Fornicate, fornicate! After the defeat of the Plague, we balked at the era of the condom, hurling ourselves without restraint into the ultimate sexual revolution. After such restraint, “Don’t hold back! Get it while you can!”—that was the new slogan. Have you forgotten?  And now, it turns out, there are food shortages because after the defeat of the Plague, we are so many; there are too many of us. All right, everyone, enough self-pity. We can’t blame this phenomenon purely on outside influences—our lechery isn’t an import—the enemy didn’t pass this on to us. It’s a native tropical product. Just listen to those drums! Those people shaking their booty—their ears aren’t in sync with the mind—no, the ear is genetically linked to the booty. Far beyond “the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer,” and the wars, and all that jazz. 

So now what’s to be done? I ask, what’s to be done? Again, I have only one answer: cut down on the conga dancing and return, return to our roots! Recover the quintessence of that epic poem called “Existence”, which can only come about if you restrict the booty-shaking, limit the use of drums to nights and weekends, and work! Everyone must pay his own way, earn his own rice and beans, his yucca, his corn, or his sweet potato, farming his plot of land with his own hands, with discipline, composure, along with his clan—not cagily eying the row his neighbor hoes and not fretting if what’s-her-name’s beans soften as quickly as so-and-so’s; if what’s-his-name eats the better, fine-grained rice; if so-and-so makes superior tamales because she uses tender corn, and not worrying about where certain citizens buy those spicy peppers—cause we’ll only end up retracing our steps back to where we started, always at the threshold of a new skirmish. Cutting down on the conga dancing is the key. Return to the terrestrial, to the roots, respectful, tasteful. I know it’ll be a rough start, but little by little, before you know it, our perversions will fade away, and one day, we’ll unexpectedly awaken to Eden, revealed to us through our shining and serene struggle. Let’s get to work! To work!

Chorus: This ain’t no trick,

             I say it again:

 Outta my way,

 Cravin-n-shakin booty!

Hierarch: (Angry) Ah, now it dawns on me—indeed, no one wants to work! It’s the ringleader’s marvelously mouthwatering offer: it’ll be raining manna within twenty-four hours. Bounteous banquet, bounteous and cut-rate, in twenty-four hours, in twenty-four hours! (Furious, he rises.) To me, soldiers! Bring to me, dead or alive, this divisive ringleader! I’ll show that idiot the cost of unleashing mob anger with the promise of filling their bellies. (He pulls out a rifle hidden under the furniture.) This is my chair! Don’t be led astray by your rumbling guts making all that racket. How can they swallow the notion that bread and fish will multiply in twenty-four hours? Make no mistake, the world is in such a bad state that any crackpot can promise the moon, and, presto, everyone believes the Messiah has come. Listen to me! I’ve already made my mistakes, and he hasn’t made any yet—at any rate, I still have the advantage. Let’s give caution a chance! Hear me out! 

Chorus (Much louder): One, two, and three,

One, two, and three,

one, two, and three,

such a cool move,

such a cool move,

my conga move. . ..

Hierarch: (Yelling as loudly as he can, over the chorus) I know I’m surrounded by the feeble horde! (Waves the firearm) But this is my chair, my chair, and they’ll take it from me over my dead body. This is my chair, my chair, my chair! (He points the firearm in all directions.)

Sudden blackout. Drums are heard in the distance. The chorus goes silent.

One Single Day

The stage lights go up gradually. Sycophant peeks out timidly from behind the now-empty Government Chair. He sneaks from his hiding place, intending to escape, but something holds him back, and he quickly hides again. Virileone enters with a sword in hand. She stops for a moment to observe her surroundings. She signals to Viriletwo, who enters with lance at the ready and, in turn, signals to Virilethree, who quickly enters, crossbow in hand. At Virileone’s next signal, all three captains scramble to take up different strategic positions on stage.

Viriletwo: Give yourself up, Hierarch! We’ve taken over the Government Palace.

Virilethree: Your corpulent captains escaped or turned themselves in, and so did your anorexic soldiers!

Viriletwo: We’ve searched all the rooms and blocked all the exits. We know you’re hiding in here! Come out now, or we’ll dynamite the palace! We’ll blow it to smithereens with you in it—we’ll spare you the trial.

Virileone expressively moves her fan. From this moment on, it is her manner of “speaking,” and the stage directions will specify “she communicates with the fan”

Viriletwo: (Bothered) I don’t understand, Virilethree! What is Virileone saying?

Virilethree: (Interprets) She says stop babbling and look under the table, while I cover her back, so she can check behind the Government Chair.

Viriletwo: (Bothered) Yes, sir!

Each carries out her orders, and, suddenly, Sycophant leaps out from his hiding place with his hands in the air.

Sycophant: (Terrified) Don’t shoot! I surrender! I’m innocent!

Viriletwo: (Surprised) Look what the cat dragged in! Hierarch’s parrot!

Virilethree: (Laughing cheerfully) Sycophant! (Takes a small notebook from her pocket and offers it to him.) Please! (Sycophant takes a pen out of his pocket, signs the notebook, and returns it to her. She’s moved.) Thanks! (Attempts to get serious again) Sycophant!

Virileone: (Drastically communicates with the fan at Sycophant)

Viriletwo: (Interprets) She says you’d be better off cooperating. We have no time to lose with only twenty-four hours remaining, as stipulated by the new constitution.

Sycophant: New constitution?! Twenty-four hours? I don’t understand damsels!

Viriletwo: We’re not damsels!

Sycophant: You look like nymphs!

Virilethree: Not nymphs either!

Sycophant: I don’t know where Hierarch is, adorable vestal virgins!

Viriletwo: We’re not vestal virgins!

Sycophant: I don’t know where Hierarch is, gentlemen!

Virilethree: Not gentlemen either!

Sycophant: Then what are you?

Virileone: (She communicates with the fan)

Virilethree: She says that the gender issue will be addressed at the Sexology Conference.

Viriletwo: Where is the Hierarch? Fess up! I already told you, we have only twenty-four hours!

Sycophant: (Confused) Twenty-four hours for what? (Viriletwo pokes him with the point of her lance.) I already told you, I don’t know where the Hierarch is.

Virilethree: (In a softer tone) If you don’t mind, Mr. Sycophant, would you be so kind as to point to the door?

Sycophant: What door?

Viriletwo: (Violent) The secret one!

Virilethree: (With sincere kindness) The one that leads to the passageway, Mr. Sycophant.

Sycophant: What passageway?

Viriletwo: Stop acting like a knucklehead or some half-wit!

Virilethree: Come on, Sycophant, confess! All hierarchs have a secret door and a passageway. For the sake of all that’s dear to you, answer, cause Viriletwo is a tough character. I know her, and this could get ugly. Notice how she locks in on you with those killer eyes like ballistic missiles. Surely she thinks you’re making us play the waiting game, wasting the only twenty-four hours we have to demonstrate what has to be done.

Sycophant: I swear I know nothing about secret doors or what must be done in twenty-four hours!

Viriletwo: Where’s the emergency exit? Answer! (Sycophant doesn’t know what to say or do.) Your time is up, parrot clone! (Takes aim) After I split your big repulsive breast in two, no one will even bother with a court martial! (She gets ready to spear Sycophant in the chest, but Paradigm’s voice stops her.)

Paradigm’s voice: (From above) Viriletwo, control yourself!

Viriletwo: (Standing at attention, looks up to speak) One day at a time!

Virilethree: (She does the same move) One day at a time!

Paradigm: (Slowly descending a rope ladder, followed from above on the second rope by Rarebird. Paradigm is wearing a hood that masks his face. Still on the foot of the ladder, he returns the Viriles’ salute.) Happy twenty-four hours! (Checking his watch) It’s funny, a few moments ago, outside, I sensed that time was truly flying. (He laughs.) Could it be that I was infected with the same virus that afflicted the Hierarch? (Everyone laughs.) No, Viriletwo, no, bellicosity can’t be our style. If, at one time, force was used, it was actually the prolonged effect of excessive alcohol consumption that submerged the Hierarch into a memory lapse so vast that he could no longer sense time passing, and, once his term limit ended, he lapsed into a dysfunctional term, which exhausted our patience. What does it matter where he is now? There stands an empty chair, testimony to his unquestionable “cut, that’s a take,” as they say in the film business. (Everyone laughs.)

(Serious.) Take it easy, Sycophant! Even though many of us were subjected to incessant persecution and torture, as in Virilethree’s case, on the Hierarch’s orders, and your voice continued to broadcast over the radio—your voice, drunk with fanaticism, crooning zealous buzzwords of bliss, continued to echo—there’ll be no vengeance. From this precise moment, you’re free to use your voice and sing praises for whichever side you wish to support. (Pause) If, a few moments ago, I was overcome with joy and ordered a search for the defeated one—no, sorry, if I was overcome with joy and ordered a thorough search—no, if, a few moments ago, we were overcome with joy and, by consensus, began the thorough search, then allow me to remind you that it’s not productive to waste even a millisecond. We’re not here, not at all, to behead a degenerate and joyfully parade his head in front of the people—no, wait, not in front of the people since we all know that the word people —outdated and overused —annoys those folks organizing crowds out there!

Sycophant: And why don’t you call them the Conglomerate?

Paradigm: (After pausing to reflect for a moment) We are here, I repeat, to demonstrate to the Conglomerate that our program, I mean, our—

Sycophant. Our Framework!

Paradigm: (Reflecting again) We are here to demonstrate every twenty-four hours that our Framework is entirely unprecedented.

Sycophant: Virgin!

Paradigm: We are here to demonstrate that our Framework is downright Virgin.

Sycophant: Honorably virgin!

Viriletwo: Shut up, you cloned parrot! (She tries to attack with her lance, but Paradigm prevents her.)

Paradigm: We’re here to demonstrate that our Framework is honorably Virgin, as the New Constitution stipulates.

Sycophant: How well he puts forth the most unequivocal proposal of proposals!

Paradigm: We’re here to demonstrate that our Framework is conclusively unprecedented, as put forth in the unequivocal proposal of proposals. Only by demonstrating every single day the virginity of our Framework can we continue to protect our status. Otherwise, we’ll be abruptly replaced.

Sycophant: Does that mean that from now on, there will be elections every day?

Paradigm: Exactly. And that’s not extravagance, but inevitability! The Conglomerate is fed up with promises. The law of twenty-four hours—that is, the proclamation of twenty-four hours, to use a gentler, kinder totalitarian turn of phrase—is the unshakable daughter of global gloom. Nobody wants to hear any more about what happened yesterday and even less about what’ll happen tomorrow. Everyone wants to know what’ll happen this very instant—what’s the latest, not what will be the latest. And we have to demonstrate this every day without wasting even a single-micro millionth of a second! Otherwise, it’ll be impossible for us to make our Framework a reality. 

Sycophant: Any effort to make our Framework a reality would be a mere pipedream.

Viriletwo: (Tries to attack him once again with the lance) Our Framework! And who told you that our Framework is also yours, cloned parrot?!

Paradigm: That’s enough hostility, Viriletwo! Any belligerent act is obsolete. I don’t want to hear another word that brings to mind the term blood, unless it’s to verify that we’ve wiped out anemia. Throw down your arms!

The three captains toss their arms to the floor. Sycophant timidly applauds. Paradigm ends his descent of the rope ladder and keeps his distance from the group, meditating. Rarebird remains perched on her ladder.

Paradigm: (After a pause) Close your eyes and listen, listen—listen to the silence of the Conglomerate! Their anticipation of the paramount sign is palpable. What could they be waiting for? What urgent proof does their silence plead for? A silence we envision in the form of a Sphinx, thanks to our perceptive inward search? We’ll have to decipher the first enigma before our foreseeable time runs out. We must quickly detect the Conglomerate’s highly anticipated top revelation for which this haunting soundlessness pleads.

A sign with large letters, lowered from above the stage, reads: “WORKERS’ BREAKFAST”. Paradigm and his General Staff remove black suit jackets from a clothes rack and, quickly putting them on, take a seat at the table. They eat breakfast. A long silence.

Paradigm: Any suggestions? Time is fleeting!

Silence.

Virileone communicates with the fan.

Virilethree: Virileone says we must act quickly. The Conglomerate might become bad-tempered, considering that a new bureaucratic measure requires them to endure exposure to the elements, standing, without breakfast, putting up with bad weather, while we eat breakfast under a roof and sit in comfortable chairs, enjoying the acclimatized ambience of these halls—all of which boils down to their guide’s first indefensible response.

Paradigm: (Bothered) Guide! How many times do I have to repeat that no one calls me a guide or leader or pharaoh or mandarin or emperor or president, much less hierarch, or anything that harkens back to the outdated exercise of that power that, beyond all proof, frightened and still frightens the Conglomerate!

Virileone communicates with the fan.

Virilethree: (Interprets) Well, some way or another, they’ll have to summon you by name. The hour of your unhooding approaches!

Paradigm: (Stands up unexpectedly) I know, my Viriles, I haven’t forgotten! To that effect, I have decided that my unhooding before the Conglomerate’s very eyes constitutes a profound act of humility, without doves, balloons, rockets, gun salutes, or pyrotechnic ceremonies of any kind. When the time comes, as I said, I’ll nonchalantly take off this historic hood and go back to being who I always was: JC!

Silence. Those present give each other weighty looks. Rarebird rapidly descends her rope ladder.

Rarebird: (Violent) Rarebird doesn’t understand! What’s so amazing? Which collective vision? That’s his name, JC, did you forget? You haven’t even finished installing yourselves up here, so to speak, and you’ve already forgotten what happened down below. (Blackout. A night-sky glows before her. Violins begin to play.) JC! (Now moved) That’s what we first called him–JC—when there were just two or three of us, the same ones, I believe, who are here right now, except for you (Directed at Sycophant), before he put on his mask to join the underground, as everyone here knows (pointing to Sycophant), except you. That’s his name, the real one, the one he had to hide for strategic purposes until today. (She is about to cry.) JC, yes, JC, JC, as he clearly said, simply JC!

The violins stop.

Paradigm: Let’s proceed with my unhooding!

The lights go up. Paradigm takes off his jacket and hangs it on the clothes rack. His captains do the same. Paradigm starts up the ladder, slowly, murmuring an unintelligible prayer.

Paradigm: (He now stands near the window and tries to untie the knot of the hood but fails. Bothered) Incredible, there’s no untying this knot! Then again, one of our guaranteed security measures was this fail-safe knot. Such is the struggle!

Sycophant runs behind the furniture, takes out a pair of scissors, and ceremoniously hands it to Virilethree, who, likewise, hands it to Viriletwo, who hands it to Virileone. The ritual culminates when she hands it to Rarebird, who ascends and hands it to Paradigm.

Paradigm: The hour has arrived! I can’t even remember my face because I was no longer me and should have defended myself. Not defended myself. I should have defended mysignificance. Yes, my captains, because, in these matters, let’s never forget, you’re never who you are because you must embody your significance.

He attempts to cut the knot but is stopped by Rarebird’s scream.

Rarebird: Wait, JC!

She runs down the stairs, takes a piece of bread off the table, runs up the stairs, cuts the knot off Paradigm’s hood with the scissors, and hands him the bread. He stands at the window with the piece of bread in hand, still wearing the hood.

Rarebird: (After giving him a pat on the shoulder) Now, go for it! Do it!

Rarebird quickly descends the stairs, while Paradigm slowly begins to reveal his face. He’s about to remove the hood completely when Rarebird lets out a heartrending scream.

Rarebird: JC, remember the bread!

Paradigm heroically tosses the bread out the window, finally removes the hood with similar affectation, and waves his arms to greet the Conglomerate. A thundering ovation is heard! The lights blink merrily. Fireworks go off. The Chorus, off stage, raps to a tune.

Chorus:  Eat bread with beef,

 chug a cold beer.

 Hierarch is chief,

 Hier, hear, hear!

Everyone dances and sings, caught up in the rhythm, except for Paradigm, who stands at the window, his back to the audience, facing the Conglomerate.

Paradigm: (Desperately yells) I’m not the Hierarch!

The music stops. The dance is interrupted. Paradigm suddenly turns to face those present, covering his face with his hands. Pause. He slowly reveals his face. It’s identical to Hierarch’s face, but then his voice does not have the boozy tone, and he looks younger.

Paradigm: (Surprised) What’s going on, captains? Rarebird, what’s the matter?

Rarebird: That’s what I want to know. What’s the matter with you?

Paradigm: Why is everyone looking at me that way?

Rarebird: What way?

Paradigm: (He pats his face.) How do I look?

Rarebird: Mouthwatering!  A lot sexier than before you put on the hood. (To the others) Isn’t that right?

They murmur their approval.

Sycophant: (Above the murmurs) You shine! It must be the very aura of your significance. How could you hide such brilliance under a hood?

Sycophant runs behind the Government Chair and takes out a guitar. He warms up with a few chords.

Sycophant: (Song with his guitar accompaniment)

The brilliance, the brilliance,

the brilliance of his skin

of his skin, of his skin,

the skin of his brilliance.

Paradigm: (Annoyed) Enough already with the flattery! (Sycophant stops singing.) Didn’t you hear the Conglomerate’s answer?

He’s starts to climb the stairs. Rarebird holds him back and, this time, gives him two pieces of bread. Paradigm holds them up like a banner while slowly going up the stairs, murmuring the calming prayer. He stands near the window and tosses the bread out. Promptly, the Chorus sings.

Chorus: Eat bread with beef,

chug a cold beer.

Hierarch is chief,

Hier, hear, hear!

Oh, daddy, daddy!

Think it’s kinda weird?

He’s brought back, uh huh,

the art of the epicure.

Paradigm: (He grabs his chest as if in pain.) I’m not the Hierarch! (Gestures to the others not to come to his aid) Stay back, it’s nothing! (He sits down on a step.) And even if it were serious, what would it matter? Any one of my captains could replace me.

Silence. The captains exchange meaningful looks.

Rarebird: (Hysterical) That won’t happen! It can’t happen.

Rarebird takes two pieces of bread off the table and gives them to Paradigm, who climbs the stairs, waving them high in the air. When he gets to the window, he murmurs the calming prayer and throws the pieces out, one at a time, always with a heroic gesture. The Chorus sings.

Chorus: Eat bread with beef,

chug a cold beer.

Hierarch is Chief,

Hier, hear, hear!

Oh mama, mama, I told ya so,

hammered out the plan, and now we roll!

 Paradigm, again, suddenly moves back from the window. He writhes with pain. Music stops.

Paradigm: (Repeats gesture, refusing to accept help) It’s nothing! (He strikes his chest a few times, murmurs the calming prayer.) Why do they insist on calling me that? Why? Do I look like the Hierarch? (He pats his face. Now violent) I need a mirror! A mirror!

Sycophant runs behind the chair and takes out a mirror, intending to give it to Paradigm.

Rarebird: (More hysterical than ever) We don’t need a mirror here! (Sycophant quickly puts it away.) This isn’t a beauty salon! The most important thing is the food, the pot of gumbo, the concoctions, stewed vegetables, the Conglomerate’s grub! The best answer is the one you’re giving. I’m telling you this because I actually come from the rabble.

Virilethree: (Evidently believes the comments are directed at her) Listen, sweetheart, I’m well aware that you’re quite the expert on “Rabbleology”, but even though I don’t come from below, you can bet your rabble ass I wasn’t delivered out of the blue in a prophylactic sack to this salon. And I know all-too-well that, from now on, we have to make it clear to the Conglomerate that not every no-name who shows up at that window automatically becomes the Hierarch because, if that were the case, there’d be no end to the pandemonium.

Silence. Paradigm murmurs the calming prayer.

Paradigm: (Awkward moment, after patting his face) You’re right. Virilethree. We’ll use every means at our disposal because we must clarify this issue immediately.

Viriletwo: (She stands at attention.) Understood. The artillery is ready. The air force is remarkably fired up and battle-ready as are the navy and the infantry. On your orders, I’ll send the tanks into the streets.

Paradigm: (Annoyed) We’re not going to use weapons! If we didn’t use them against the Hierarch to keep the Conglomerate and nature out of harm’s way, it’s highly unlikely we’d use them now. I meant by other means, Viriletwo.

Viriletwo: I understand: We have to take over the central television tower with helicopters and marines. The brigade of sharpshooters can handle the major newspapers…

Paradigm: (Furious) Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?  We’re not going to use weapons!

Virilethree: Of course not. (Under her breath to Virileone, referring to Viriletwo) As always, wielding her erect cannon!

Viriletwo: (Grumbling) We have to flex our muscles and show the media our power!

Virileone communicates with the fan.

Virilethree: Virileone says that you should give all this sabre-rattling a rest cause it’s nothing more than a sign of weakness, and it’s not worth wasting our energy when everyone knows the Conglomerate hasn’t trusted the media for ages.

Paradigm: It’s true. That became obvious during the latest public burning of televisions sets by the students. We should find another way.

Sycophant: And why don’t we talk to the Street Theater comedians? For some time now, their humor is the only thing anyone takes seriously.

Viriletwo: Stop sticking your beak where it doesn’t belong, parrot clone!

Paradigm: (Gestures to prevent Viriletwo from attacking Sycophant with the lance) Control yourself! (Pause) I believe it’s a wonderful idea to put the theater comedians in charge of conveying our messages to the spectators through their performances, and we want to maximize the use of gossip to spread these messages rapidly, while also counting on the shameful, two-faced media. What is more, creating such events dovetails with our own virgin way of working. My Viriles, you’ll take charge of this historic mission together with Sycophant. Don’t count me in; I prefer not to make personal appearances in theater, photos, films to prevent the Conglomerate’s snarky snouts from sniffing out an electoral campaign.

Virilethree: Good—and even though we won’t launch balloons or doves, it seems to me Sycophant could compose a march.

Sycophant: An assignment that would honor me! It’s only that—I don’t know if I have adequate time to attempt such a complicated undertaking.

Virilethree: Well, some hymn! We need our own music.

Sycophant: Let me reiterate that, under the circumstances, I’m not sure I’ll have sufficient time for such a complicated undertaking! It’s general knowledge that we have only twenty-four hours!

Viriletwo: Stop begging him. He shouldn’t do it if he doesn’t want to. We’ll find another singer! It’s already bad that we didn’t execute him after what he’d done. How do we know if the song-and-dance going on out there isn’t one of his specific “illegal inspirations” per instructions left by the Hierarch? (She threatens him with her lance.) Cloned parrot! 

Paradigm: Viriletwo, control yourself. I said there’ll be no vengeance! (Viriletwo lowers her lance.) Again, as I’ve said, Sycophant, you’re free to offer your vocal sentimentalities, even your silence, to support whichever side you wish; and naturally, you’ll also be held accountable for your actions. The Conglomerate itself will be your only judge, and even then, in spite of time constraints, you can count on our support to safeguard your physical integrity.

Virileone communicates with the fan.

Virilethree: Virileone says that if you deem it necessary to provide him with escorts, bodyguards, or both, she’ll take care of it. (She stops translating.) And I will, too.

Viriletwo: Me, too.

Sycophant: (He can’t conceal his nervousness.) That won’t be necessary! One might piece together some petite theme—yes, a petite theme! Since I’m an artist, I aspire to perfection, but if this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity requires haste, then noblesse oblige—I’ll sacrifice said perfection. Unquestionably, I’ll devote myself to it.

Paradigm: Ok, but I prohibit any reference to my person in your works. As for you, Rarebird, bearing in mind the unbreakable ties that bind us, I don’t believe it’s convenient for you to be directly involved in any of this persistent plan of action until we have agreed upon a title for your honorable role in this domain; of course, it will never be First Lady.

Rarebird: (Very serious) Don’t anyone even dare call me Virilefour. Fair warning—from now on, not a single stupid joke!

Paradigm: (Addressing the rest) We must carry out this undertaking immediately. Any other questions?

Sycophant: (He timidly raises his hand.) Yes. (Paradigm motions for him to speak.) You haven’t yet conceived a name for your position. I don’t say this for my sake, but for the Conglomerate’s. When I compose my wide-ranging and epic tribute, inevitably it will be associated with your leading role, without having to mention your name. But I ask myself: how are the captains going to address you? In my humble opinion, it’s not appropriate to reference your significance by saying, for example, “That man says that he is there now” or “You-know-who wants you to know this.”

Pause. Paradigm goes to the clothes rack, removes the jacket, and puts it on. He sits down at the table. The captains do the same. Sycophant pulls out some rhythm sticks from behind the chair. He plays them and sings. Paradigm eats and drinks with his General Staff while he reflects. Another sign is lowered from above stage: “WORKERS’ SNACK.” Rarebird remains seated on the stairs; she eats with her hands directly from the tray she holds between her legs.

Sycophant: (Sings while clacking the claves)

No name, no name,

but still the flame,

that flame, that flame,

no one knows by name.

But it’s a flame, a heavy flame

Inflaming us; we are inflamed…

Virilethree: (Eating) Why don’t we replace what we call his significance with Leader?

Paradigm: Not Leader either! More orange juice, please.

Viriletwo pours orange juice in Paradigm’s glass from a pitcher on the table.

Virileone communicates with the fan.

Virilethree: Virileone says it’s already clear; we simply call his significance JC, like Rarebird said. But I don’t agree,

Virileone. JC can’t be the name for our model, our prototype, our paradigm.

Sycophant: (Sings to a rap rhythm)

He’s a model, prototype,

role model, mirror, canon, norm.

He’s a mirror, paradigm,

prototype,

canon, norm…

Rarebird: (Her face suddenly lights up.) Then why don’t we call him just that, Paradigm?!

Viriletwo: JC Paradigm?

Rarebird: Paradigm, nothing more. (She sits back down on the stairs.) No last name.

Sycophant: (Enthusiastic, sings) Paradigm, Paradigm, Paradigm, Paradigm!

Paradigm suddenly gets up. Sycophant stops singing. Paradigm murmurs the calming prayer.

Paradigm: (Shrugs his shoulders in resignation) Well, if we have to somehow name my significance, that’s the one! The important thing is to get the job done as soon as possible. Any other questions? (Silence.) Then let’s do it!  (He stands at attention. The captains follow suit.) One day at a time!

Viriles: (In unison) One day at a time!

Paradigm: Happy twenty-four hours!

The captains leave. Sycophant follows them, singing.

Sycophant: Paradigm, Paradigm!

Paradigm and Rarebird stay behind. For a few moments, they observe each other in silence. She descends the stairs and places a tray on the table. She stretches her limbs. She sighs. She caresses her hair, neck, breasts. She pours wine in each glass and moves toward Paradigm with a pornographic swagger. 

Rarebird: We have to make a toast.

Paradigm: You know I haven’t had a drink in ages.

Rarebird: We can toast with orange juice.

She takes a pitcher from the table and pours juice in each glass. She gives one to Paradigm.

Paradigm: A toast to what?

Rarebird: What else? To your baptism. (She raises the glass.) Long live Paradigm!

Paradigm moves away from her, leaving the glass on the table.

Paradigm: I don’t like being called Paradigm!

Rarebird: And why not? It’s an attractive name. I don’t know anyone named Paradigm. (From this point on, the whole time she talks, she tastes all the food on the table.) And since everything here has to be a first, I thought: “Paradigm, that’s it!” You should have said you didn’t like it.

Paradigm: It wasn’t the right moment. I felt obligated to forego a personal preference for the sake of time.

Rarebird: You got that right; it’s easy to forget when you’re wrapped up in the happiness of the twenty-four hours! (She starts gobbling.) We’ve got to get moving!

Paradigm: (Annoyed) Enough with fondling the food—you haven’t even washed your hands! Don’t you have the slightest notion of hygiene?

Rarebird: (Embarrassed) I didn’t realize it. Everything looks so tasty. I didn’t mean it. I come from the rabble, but I’m no rat, Paradigm!

Paradigm: I don’t like being called Paradigm. I’m a person!

Rarebird: You just said you aren’t you, but your significance. So the only person, what we’d call a person, here on the inside, is me—the only one. Because it’s absurd to call those Viriles people. Let’s not even bother with Sycophant. (She sees Paradigm attempting to climb the rope ladder.) And where are you going?

Paradigm: I’m going back outside, without a mask.

Rarebird: (To herself but aloud.) Ay, he’s gone mad!

Paradigm: Don’t anyone try to stop me! I’ll go to the very epicenter of the Conglomerate, and there I’ll personally find out what’s going on with my face!

Rarebird: I already told you that nothing’s the matter, and they’ve already written a song for you. (She sings.) “The brilliance / the brilliance / the brilliance/ of your very–”  They’ve called you that up till now because they don’t know any other name. You’ll see how, from this moment on, they’ll begin to call you Paradigm, and if you don’t like it, we’ll invent another name; we’ll talk with the comedians again, and presto! Relax! (She sings.) “Your very skin / your very skin.”

Paradigm: I can’t, I can’t. Don’t they realize it? It’s as if I’m living with another man’s face! (He yells.) I need a mirror!

Rarebird stops singing. She runs behind the Government Chair, takes out a mirror, and holds it up to Paradigm’s face.

Rarebird: There you are!

Pause. Paradigm turns his back to the mirror and recites the calming prayer. He breathes deeply and, gathering all his courage, turns around, determined to recognize his own face.

Paradigm: (After a pause, without being able to take in what he sees) I am me, Rarebird. I am, I am—me, me, me, me!

Rarebird: Yes, yes, yes—you, you, you!

Paradigm: There’s no resemblance to Hierarch – there’s no resemblance!

Rarebird: (She’s truly moved. She doesn’t exactly see JC, but she doesn’t put on a hypocritical act as if she were a vassal, kowtowing to the Emperor-with-no-clothes.) Of course not! I already told you. Besides, as I said, you look so much sexier than you did before you took off the hood! With that caramel-colored skin and that broad but Roman nose, that fine, soft mouth, and those eyes the color of the ages. You’re the best; you’re—the bronze one! Your north-and-south blend, as you say, excites my carnal compass to go haywire. I can’t tell if this gushing wetness between my thighs is a sultry storm or a snowsquall!

She suddenly embraces him. They kiss passionately.

Paradigm: (Abruptly steps away from her) Why does the Conglomerate call me Hierarch? Why?

Rarebird: We’ve already discussed this! Are you, by chance, having one of those alcoholic memory lapses you talk about?

Paradigm: No, Rarebird, no, I’ve never been so sober! It’s hard to believe the Conglomerate is mistaken. I do look like Hierarch. (Secretively) The thing is that, here on the inside, no one can recognize the likeness because this place is bewitched.

Rarebird: (Very frightened) Oh JC, you think so?!

Paradigm: (He nods.) And it’s not just my face—time seems to pass in such a bizarre way.

Rarebird: Didn’t I warn you not to exchange your guaranteed brand-name watch for that device that moves just as easily forward as backward in time? But you didn’t listen to me, and you see? You don’t even know what time it is.

Paradigm: For God’s sake, Rarebird, it has nothing to do with the workings of this generic watch, which I happily wear on my wrist to make sure they don’t commercialize the image of my significance and as explicit proof of my solidarity with the Conglomerate’s most downtrodden followers. It has to do with something else.

Rarebird: Well, if it’s about black magic, we’ll have to purge this place from top to bottom with oodles of magic herbs and fragrances along with the sacred pure firewater and white powders to send death packing and to ensure that time and the watches come to some arrangement.

Paradigm: Rarebird—this has to do with another kind of bewitchment, the bewitchment of power! (Emphatically) I must go! (He begins to climb the rope ladder.) If I don’t return, Virileone can replace me.

Rarebird: (Desperate) Virileone is a transvestite, a transvestite! And she speaks Chinese.

Paradigm: She doesn’t speak Chinese; she communicates with the fan!

Rarebird: It’s all the same to the Conglomerate—Chinese, Vietnamese, or Japanese!

Paradigm: (He has stopped climbing for a moment.) So much the better. They won’t be able to accuse us of being xenophobes! And there’s ample proof that virility, in its broadest meaning, transcends every type of sexual tendency. The proof is in the pudding—just look at our General Staff.

Rarebird: (Drastically) The Conglomerate doesn’t understand any of this! Besides, even though Virileone isn’t Chinese, she eats with chopsticks.

Paradigm: That’s even better. No one has ever been so successful at feeding such vast hordes of people as the-ones-who-eat-with-chopsticks.

Rarebird: Well, I‘d just as soon wash my hands a thousand times a day than eat with chopsticks, and, for your information, the same goes for the majority of the Conglomerate. No matter how hungry you are, you can’t eat like the Chinese because you’re not Chinese.

Paradigm: I want Viriletwo to replace me.

Rarebird: Viriletwo! Ay, he’s gone mad again! Are you sure you haven’t gone off the wagon again, nipping from the bottle behind my back?

Paradigm: I repeat that I have never been so sober, thank God! I want Virilethree to take my place!

Rarebird: (Furious) Shit, JC, get down from there. You’re too old for that. I’m tired of repeating myself: you have to give up your obsession with climbing those ropes—you act like you’re a member of the underground! Stairs and elevators exist for a reason. At this point, a fracture would be a serious complication!

Paradigm: (He ignores her and continues climbing.) I don’t want to go through what the Hierarch had to! I don’t want to become corrupt, fall to pieces! I don’t want to rot in this haunted tower, sitting on this satanic piece of furniture! I abdicate!

Rarebird: What’d you say?

Paradigm: I renounce, Rarebird!

Rarebird: No, JC, you must be kidding! (Paradigm laughs. Now she’s violent.) I know you! If you’re laughing, you really mean it! (She starts grabbing food from the table and desperately stuffing it in her bag.) And you brought all of us with you this far only for that?! So you can renounce?! It’s so easy to tell you don’t come from the rabble! Do you have any idea—you, always looking for significance—what it means to get up every day wondering, “What am I going to eat?” To go to bed wondering, “What I am going to eat tomorrow and the day after tomorrow?”—the same thing, over and over, till the end of time, as they say? You’re clueless! Not you nor any of the Viriles understands any of this because you don’t come from the rabble, like me!

Paradigm stops and begins to descend the ladder. Rarebird, engrossed in grabbing food and stuffing it into her bag, doesn’t notice him.

Rarebird: Hunger is a serious thing—you have to live and breathe it. If you’re already tired of playing the hero of the film, get out, JC, get out! But when you lose your appetite again, remember all those folks who still don’t have any food on the table, and don’t even think about putting the hood back on. Go find a priest and confess that you’re not a Zorro, sweetheart. (Screams) Get out!

Paradigm: (He has finally descended the rope ladder and passionately hugs her from behind.) We have to try!

Rarebird: (With reciprocal passion.) We have to try! We can’t go on this way! On the one hand, a scandalous shortage of proteins; on the other, a global trend to consume less and less red meat. (Now she’s ecstatic.) Mmmm, red meat!

From this point on, as they talk, they exchange all kinds of caresses and exotic kisses with increasing passion. 

Rarebird: (Between moans) Mmmm, I’m really craving a steak as huge as my fed-up-ness!

Paradigm: (Between moans) If I ever again so much as hint at folding the tents, you have the right to shoot me. (He pulls out a pistol hidden under his shirt and gives it to her.) This will be the only time on my watch, the only time that a firearm can be used. Swear to me you’ll do it!

Rarebird: I’ll do it, my love. (She tenderly places the barrel of the gun against his temple.) I swear it!

Paradigm: You won’t let me down?

Rarebird: I won’t let you down! (She continues to kiss him passionately, holding the barrel of the gun against his temple the entire time. She’s very excited.) I can’t take it anymore! Let’s go to the Hierarch’s room, and may we burn in hell!

Paradigm: No, Rarebird, no! In the hierarchical bed chamber? I can’t! (He abruptly separates from her.) Upon this monument to time-honored coitus, upon this agreement to offer red meat to the heavy-hearted woman who gives up her virginity, upon this heartfelt homage to the shameless feudal lord’s right-to-the-first-night-with-the-virgin-bride, borne on the backs of ancestral starvation—I would never get an erection! Never!

Rarebird: (Drastically) Ok, then, right there! (She points to the table.) Come on! (She disappears under the tablecloth.) Hurry up!

Paradigm: (Very nervous, in a whisper) Rarebird!

Rarebird: (Without leaving her hiding place, loudly, between moans) I want red meat, red meat, red meat, red meat!

Paradigm: (Even louder, furious) Be quiet, Rarebird, that’s an order!

Rarebird: (Continues yelling under the table) Give me red meat, red meat!

Paradigm: I order you to come out from under there this very minute, or I’ll have no choice but to have you locked up in that mental institution till hell freezes over!

Rarebird: (Without stepping out of her hiding place, she responds in military fashion.) Yes, sir!

Pause as Paradigm nervously paces back and forth, worried someone will enter.

Paradigm: What’s keeping you, Rarebird? Come out from there or else! Hey, someone might come!

Rarebird: (Rarebird sticks her rear out from under the tablecloth and moves it to the beat as she sings.)

Gimme red meat,

forget the greens.

Ain’t a salad treat

that Rarebird needs.

Paradigm: (Very nervous.)  What are you doing? (The whole time he tries to stop her from lifting her dress to show her naked butt.) They can see you!

Rarebird: Gimme red meat,

   Not a veggie spree

  Carrots can’t treat

  what’s ailin’ me.

Paradigm: (Still nervous) Crazy woman, devil, sybarite—enough!

Voices approach. Paradigm hides with Rarebird under the table. They pull the table cloth down to cover themselves. Viriletwo and Virilethree enter, having a heated discussion. Sycophant follows but stops a short distance from them, listening intently to their debate.

Viriletwo: My answer was right!

Virilethree: So was mine. This is not a dictatorship!

Viriletwo: But not a democracy either!

Virilethree: Then what is it? We can’t keep this up. I say one thing, and you another, in every park, on every street corner. Don’t go blaming the street comedians down the road when the Conglomerate ridicules us. In some way, shape, or form, we have to give this type of system a label.

Viriletwo: Never a democracy!

Virilethree: Nor a dictatorship! (Pause. Virileone crosses the stage.) You have to realize we can’t make anything clear to the Conglomerate because we ourselves are very confused.

Viriletwo: You’re confused. I’m not confused!

Virilethree: Yes, you are, just as much as everyone else here. This isn’t one thing or the other. Why, even Paradigm looks in the mirror and doesn’t recognize himself! Besides, his speeches are very similar to the Hierarch’s, with only a few word changes.

Viriletwo: Let the man do his job and finish it. He must have his reasons for doing what he does. (Now aggressive, she points the lance at Virilethree.) Are you saying JC is crazy?

Virilethree: (Very calmly) No, Viriletwo. In any case, you’re the one who just said it.

Viriletwo: All speeches are made up of words, so if the words change, the speeches change, too. Paradigm doesn’t go around repeating what the Hierarch said. Our boss is no parrot! Did you hear me?!

Virilethree: Stop pointing that thing at me. I’m not poor little Sycophant! (She pulls a flask out of her pocket and takes a swig.) Control yourself!

Viriletwo: You’re still drinking when you know it’s prohibited!

Virilethree: Who prohibited it?

Viriletwo: Officially, no one, but Paradigm doesn’t want his people drinking alcohol, and you know that. Make better use of your time. Practice some self-restraint, and forget about looking for similarities between old and new speeches.

Virilethree: You’re not going to blackmail me. You heard me loud and clear! It’s obvious the speeches are alike!

Viriletwo: You know you could pay dearly for that statement?

Pause. Virileone again crosses the stage in silence.

Virilethree: (Laughing, ironic) Are you going to accuse me? You don’t have any witnesses. Virileone doesn’t understand the language; it’s your word against mine.

Viriletwo: But I’m your superior!

Virilethree: But I never gave a rat’s ass about your rank. I have as many personal military decorations for my battle performance as you. Or have you forgotten? If you accuse me, and I deny having said it, you’ll end up the suspicious one for going around thinking the unthinkable.

Viriletwo: All I know is that your position was, is, and will be called insubordination. I always knew you’d be problematic after our victory. You’re just like Virileone.

Virileone has returned and approaches Viriletwo from behind without her realizing it. Virileone orders them to stand at attention with the fan. They snap to. Virileone communicates with the fan.

Virilethree: Virileone says we should find Paradigm and straighten out whatever it is we need to straighten out.

Viriletwo: Yes, sir! (To Virilethree) Let’s see if you have what it takes to say to someone’s face what you said behind his back, bitch!

Virilethree: Scatterbrain!

Each one scatters in a different direction, except for Virileone, who pauses for a few instants to sniff around like a bloodhound. She finally decides to follow the others. Suddenly, Paradigm and Rarebird sneak out of their hiding place.  

Rare bird: (Whispering secretively the entire time) And now what are you going to do? Keep believing in the virility of your Viriles? Open your eyes, JC. Deep down, not one of them is virile in any way, not one of the three, especially not the first and the third, who in private probably speak our language! (Brief pause, assuring herself no one can hear) Just between you and me, even though I don’t like eating with chopsticks, I like the Chinese. What I don’t like is that girl who weirdly tries to pass for Chinese. And Viriletwo is another sly bitch who wants to gain your trust, so she can take direct control of the weapons and give you a clunk on the head! (She pauses briefly to make sure no one else can hear.) Forget about everything, JC—that your speech is a lot like you-know-whose, that the Conglomerate calls out Hierarch to you, how time goes by on the inside versus the outside—we’ll handle that later. Focus on whatever it takes to stay alive, and you’ll be able to take care of the rest. Take the Viriles out of the game! (In a normal tone.) Did you hear me? (Annoyed) Open your eyes once and for all, JC! Hold on to what you’ve got because, at the very least, I‘m on your side, and as long as that’s true, nobody up here on-high with us will dare to forget about the rabble. (She shoves her hand in her pocket.) Get tough—cause I’ve got the pistol!

Paradigm drops to his knees, imploring but paying no attention to her, while murmuring a calming prayer. Virilethree and Viriletwo return. Both stand in front of Paradigm, absorbed in their own thoughts, while Sycophant shakes the maracas, and Virileone observes them from a certain distance.

Rarebird: (Defensive, keeping her hand in her pocket) Get up!

Paradigm: (Opens his eyes and stands up.) OK?

Long silence.

 Virileone communicates something with the fan.

Virilethree: Virileone says we’re having difficulties completing our assigned tasks. We should straighten things out between us. It’s dangerous when you realize we’re losing time, and that’s why we’ve come to tell you—

Paradigm: I know, I know, I imagined as much. I’m sure the Conglomerate wants to know, with good reason, what to call our system of government after learning the moniker for my significance. Ok, then, we have to quickly baptize our system, our procedure, our way of working, or whatever you might call it—a new name that is neither democracy nor dictatorship, knowing perfectly well that the use of either will increase skepticism, given that, as we all know, both have come to denote a habitual failure to fulfill promises.

Sycophant: What a complex task we have before us, taking into consideration that, in spite of the fact that both words lack prestige, for the Conglomerate, everything that is not democracy continues to be dictatorship, and everything that is not dictatorship continues to be democracy! I dare to think, out loud, with the utmost respect, sincerity, and compliance!

Rarebird: (Helping herself to different foods on a tray and sitting on a step holding back her anger.) When you least expect it, there’s going to be a dreadful pandemonium here, when the time comes to untangle this terrible twister of tongues!

Paradigm: (He tries to downplay Rarebird’s call to action.) You’re right, Sycophant. But this time it won’t be the same. This time, the Conglomerate itself will name the government.

Pause. They all look at him, astonished.

Rarebird: (She eats with her hands and holds her mouth open, momentarily resigned.) In reality, what you’re proposing is no piece of cake.

Paradigm puts on his jacket; the captains imitate him. They sit at the table. They eat and drink while thinking. Another sign is lowered: “WORKERS’ LUNCH.”

Sycophant: (Takes his maracas from behind the Government Chair and shakes them as he sings)

 Don’t be surprised, don’t be surprised,

 the system has no name.

 Best to have no name.

 Illusion is the game (repeat)

Virilethree: And how is the Conglomerate going to agree to this? Lots of people have their own ideas, and not everyone wants the same thing.

The song is heard in the background as they steadily eat. 

Paradigm: You have a legitimate concern, Virilethree. (He motions for her to serve herself. She does and eats.) What should we do so that the Conglomerate agrees on a name for our system without suspecting that, as usual, a party has imposed the name on them, although we’re not actually a party either?

Sycophant: (Sings) Don’t be surprised, don’t be surprised,

the system has no name.

Cause without a name, without a name,

Utopia self-sustains, self-sustains.

Better than names

is the hunt for names,

to stay in the games

and to play name-games,

inventing games, hunting for names.

Paradigm: (Suddenly motions for Sycophant to stop singing. He obeys). Let’s see, let’s see! Yes, let’s go again! Da capo! (He motions again, and Sycophant obeys.)

Sycophant: (Sings.) Better than the names,

is the hunt for names,

inventing games, hunting for names.

Paradigm: (Motions to close the musical number. Sycophant stops singing.) Wonderful! You’ve captured the essence. If substance is what’s needed, we should give utmost importance to making up games to name the names. (Paradigm applauds, and everyone imitates him except Rarebird.) Once again we must turn to the theater! And come up with the most popular name using a survey in which every comedian proposes a name, and we submit them to the Conglomerate. We’ll select the one that receives the most enthusiastic applause. This will be an absolutely unprecedented and virginal act. The Conglomerate will support us because we’re offering them well-deserved participation. More orange juice, please! (Viriletwo serves him orange juice in a glass.)

Virilethree: That’s so original and, without question, democratic.

Viriletwo: Original yes, democratic no!

Paradigm: The path is simply less murky than the well-known ones where fraud runs rampant. (Decisive.)  Any more questions? (Silence. He gets up.) Let’s get to work, then! Return immediately to the plaza and work out a deal with the comedians.

Everyone gets up, prepared to complete the mission. They are about to leave.

Rarebird: I have something to say! (With bottled-up anger.) I come back to this point, and again I say that the first thing we should discuss is—(Miming, she brings her hand to her open mouth to indicate the act of putting food in it. Decisive) End of story!

Everyone takes a seat again. Virileone communicates with the fan.

Virilethree: Virileone says it’s necessary to send a different message. Otherwise, the people might misinterpret our next bread launching to mean that we, up here, believe that they, down there, think only about eating.

Sycophant: I ask permission to intervene in this now-mythological workers’ banquet. (Paradigm motions for him to speak.) With all due respect, I suggest we reflect on a very particular kind of craving—the craving for a flat road. The Conglomerate must spread out over an uneven lunar surface in search of food, forced to dodge all types of potholes filled with liquid substances of dubious origin, afraid of getting spattered or spattering their fellow man, all of which causes them to take to the road, if you will, in search of smooth surfaces, which they never find due to complex bureaucratic procedures—I’m not sure I’ve made myself clear.

Virilethree: Perfectly! Migration is also the end result of a craving for solid ground with a level surface. For many people, it nourishes the notion of certainty and the resulting illusion that one can construct one’s own destiny. (Brief pause.) Now, I believe there is an aspect we can’t overlook—the issue of the Blacks. (Pause.)

Paradigm: Excuse me, Virilethree, we have already overcome that issue! The real problem is fundamentalism that could lead us to a new global blunder.

Virilethree: The underlying conflict exists, below the surface, but latent, and when the volcano erupts, it will yet again make its presence known-

Paradigm: I don’t believe it.

Virileone communicates with the fan.

Virilethree: (Interprets) Before the defeat of the Plague, it was believed that the cause of malnutrition was the fundamental contradiction between the labor force and private property’s control over the means of production. It’s now clear, after many experiments, that the fundamental contradiction lies in the struggle between types of genitals and how they’re used, with no relation to lack of nourishment. Spend just one night in Central Park—

Virileone communicates with the fan.

Virilethree. (Interprets.) Hence, the strange sensation coming from out there is that the new image, transmitted to them from in here, is identical to the old one. It just doesn’t get to the heart of the matter.

Virileone communicates with the fan.

Virilethree: (Interprets) I propose that we ask Paradigm to go stand at the window, while we observe and photograph him, knowing that the media is untrustworthy. By doing so, we can see for ourselves if, in any way, his face resembles the Hierarch’s, and, if so, we should immediately organize a General Congress of Sexology.

Viriletwo: (Absolutely furious) This shameless bedlam has no limit! What we really should do is take pictures of the authentic faces of many people, whether they bat for one team or the other or both teams at once. Nowadays, with the streets as mean as they are, the last thing we need is officials who can’t tell a male from a female or spot someone who is completely indifferent to this her/his she-or-he-thing because no one carries a credible ID card—the photos and names never match up. What we’re striving for here is that everyone carry a legitimate document, so we can battle drug use, control the black market, and assure that proper food deliveries are made to the mouths of ethical people!!

Virilethree: Ethics change according to cravings.

Viriletwo: Ethics are always ethics! Of course you say that because you’d find it delightful if they decriminalized the bacchanal, the orgy, the group sex, the clusterfuck in the hay, the-dog-eat-dog world. You’re always holding an open bottle of booze in one hand and a rolled-up bill to snort coke in the other.

Virilethree: (With astonishing serenity) Fuck your mother, Viriletwo, if you ever had one.

Viriletwo: (Suddenly takes up her lance and aggressively stands up. Violent.) You better be ready!

Virilethree: (Standing, certain) I’ve been ready ever since I saw the likes of you!

They stand facing each other, combat-ready. Virileone tosses the sword that she carries at her waist to the unarmed Virilethree, who catches it. They clash, making skillful thrusts at one other.

Viriletwo: Ah!! Hot dogs are one thing, and pussy cats are another! A general way to contrast two very different things. Take that, Virilethree! It’s all the same! Take that and that! It’s immoral to eat alone! Ah!!!

Paradigm: (Steps between them) Stop, Virilethree! Viriletwo, control yourself! (They stop, panting, but maintain their aggressive stances.) Throw your weapons to the floor! (Pause.) I said to the floor! (They grudgingly obey.) Have you forgotten that we have enemies who are counting on us to weaken our own ranks with internal conflicts?! You are respectfully informed, Viriles, that from this moment on, this type of behavior, no matter who’s right or wrong, will be deemed high treason, and to that end, we will not hesitate to authorize the use of weapons!

Silence. No one moves.

Paradigm: (Trying to ease tensions.) More orange juice, please! (Virileone serves him orange juice in a glass. He takes a sip. Satisfied) No one can deny the infinite number of cravings; for example, the one for orange juice when you need to ease tensions. One would like to know which kind of craving they used to push aside Hierarch, threatening to topple him.

He laughs, but no one else does, and he abruptly stops.

Rarebird: (Very serious) Yes, JC, it must be true! It looks like people are so fed up, they have only one kind of craving left. (She’s about to leave but remembers something and stops. With notable affectation) Oh, I forgot, with the permission of those present, I must evacuate the premises! (Continues her exit.)

Paradigm: Where are you going? What’s the matter with you?

Rarebird: Nothing. I don’t feel good. The memory of all those other cravings must have made me sick. (Leaving) Again, forgive me. I must make a visit to the hierarchical toilet! (Exits.)

Uncomfortable silence.

Paradigm: (Breaking the ice) More orange juice, please! (Viriletwo serves him. He downs the juice in one gulp.) We’ve got to talk to the comedians—we can’t lose any time. As for the photo, I think it should be taken as soon as we’ve officially baptized our new system of government. Then I’ll go stand at the window again to see if we’ve resolved the matter. Let’s get to work!

The three Viriles stand at attention.

Viriles: (In unison) One day at a time!

Paradigm: (Gives them a goodbye salute) Happy twenty-four hours!

They leave immediately after removing and tossing their jackets. Paradigm and Sycophant stay behind. Sycophant picks up the jackets and hangs them on the rack.

Paradigm: (Surprised.) Why don’t you go with them, Sycophant? Your place is there—with the music, I suppose!

Sycophant: (Pause. Determined) I’m so disturbed! (Brief pause) I cannot deny that the reference you have just made during your fundamental meditation on cravings worries me. I attempt to discern which decisive longing dictates the Conglomerate’s behavior. My task is to speak, to speak with my song. What meaning should I give my compositions? What should I say? I wonder!

Paradigm: What do you think, Sycophant? Answer! (Transition.) Orange juice? (He serves juice in each glass.) My treat.

Sycophant: (Takes the glass Paradigm offers) It’s an honor!

Paradigm raises his glass. They toast.

The Two: (In unison) One day at a time!

Paradigm: Happy twenty-four hours! (They drink. Pause.) You know something, Sycophant? (In a cagey tone) Here, just between us, I infinitely envy those singers who can draw the huge crowds. For me, they’re the true chosen ones, who often achieve what the rest of us no longer can—hypnotize the audience. Surely you know the song that explains how they make maracas.

Sycophant: (Nods.) It goes like this. (Sings in a cagey tone.)

Now I’m going to teach you

how to make maracas.

You take a gourd,

make a little hole,

scoop out the pulp,

and let it dry.

Then you load the gourd

with these munitions,

and for good reasons

you close it up again.

Then shove a little stick

into the little hole,

and begin to play, and that’s it.

Paradigm and Sycophant: (In unison, as if secretly conspiring, they sing, very seriously)

Hey, how they resound now.

Look, such a heavy sound

Chiqui chas, chiqui chas,

Chiqui chas.

They stop singing.

Paradigm: Ah, Sycophant, that’s the purpose of art! That is, one of its essential purposes. The Conglomerate can learn rhythmically, as we see in this case, to appreciate the real effort it takes to ensure they enjoy the rhythm. The joy, I can’t deny, is in the movement of the hips, the voluptuousness, the pelvic thrusting. (He expressively moves his hips. Sycophant imitates him. They continue moving about during the entire scene.) But, then again, it reminds the dancer of her original pulsations and her source of pleasure. And where does it come from, Sycophant? From the effort of many anonymous hands that gathered infinite small gourds, opened infinite numbers of orifices, scooped out immeasurable amounts of pulpy seeds from the gourds, loaded them again with heaven-only-knows how many dried seeds, sealed them again with astonishing patience, found little sticks and more little sticks and painstakingly shoved them into thousands of millions of little holes. I’m not sure I answered your question –

Sycophant nods. In unison, without interrupting their movements: Chiqui chas, chiqui chas!

Viriletwo enters with an envelope in her hand, followed by Virilethree. They stop, surprised, as they take in the scene. Upon seeing them, Paradigm immediately stands at attention. Sycophant does the same.

Viriles: (In unison, standing at attention) One day at a time!

Paradigm: Happy twenty-four hours!

Viriletwo: (After a brief pause, she shows him the envelope.) Here are the survey results!

Paradigm: (Perplexed.) Already? So soon!? (Viriletwo nods the affirmative and hands him the envelope. He takes it.) Are you sure this conclusion wasn’t reached too hastily?

Virilethree: Well, the method applied was “the Exceptional Cyber Audition System Globe (Aut Generation),” which, as we know, is only valid in cases like this, so there shouldn’t be any errors.

Paradigm: Oh, the contrasts! These technologies are one thing, and another is a Conglomerate more and more undernourished. (Brief pause) At any rate, are you sure sufficient time was taken to determine the most vigorous applause?

Viriletwo: On the contrary! According to the experts, everything would have been done even sooner had we not suffered an electrical outage.

Paradigm: Ah, there were electrical outages! Here, we had no idea. Isn’t that right, Sycophant?

Sycophant: Well, the palace has its own generator.

Paradigm: That’s true, I forgot, but not to worry, there won’t be any differences between the Conglomerate and us. From now on, if it happens again, we’ll cut off the power in the palace. And did the outage last long?

Viriletwo: More or less. What happens is time passes more slowly in darkness due to the desperation one suffers waiting for the power to come back on. A second feels like a century—it’s common.

Paradigm: Oh, time, time, time, there’s nothing like passing time! (He takes the card out of the envelope and reads it.) Wal-den Pond (Corrects himself) No, wait! (He reads it again.) Wolfin Down. (Pause) Wolfin Down! This is the name the Conglomerate has chosen to baptize our type of government? Wolfin Down? What do you think?

Virilethree: It sounds quite vulgar to me!

Sycophant: (He takes out a dictionary from behind the chair, leafs through it, and right away finds what he’s looking for.) Here it is: “Wolfin down”: to wolf down, to eat. Universal Language! “Wolfing down” is an expression approved by the Global Language Academy!

Viriletwo: Yes, yes, yes, something similar to “stuffing your face,” “gluttony”—

Sycophant: Not precisely. (He puts away the dictionary.) Not precisely—

Paradigm: (He takes the suit jacket off the clothes rack and puts it on.) I don’t really believe—I find it hard to believe— that the relationship between the statesman—or one whom the epic campaigns have placed at the helm of the Conglomerate—I really don’t think—I can’t accept—that the relationship between the one whose job it is to sit in that chair (points to the Government Chair) and the Conglomerate can be reduced to a purely nutritive bond. (He looks over at the table.) Orange juice, please!

Viriletwo pours orange juice into his glass. Both she and Virilethree have taken a seat at the table, imitating Paradigm. A sign that reads “WORKERS’ LUNCH” is lowered from above. Sycophant takes out a microphone from behind the chair. He dances and sings to a soundtrack, like a salsa singer performing with his band.

Sycophant: (Sings.) Tell Catalina to buy a grater

            ‘cause my yucca’s gettin ripe.

Ay, my yucca‘s so ripe!

Givin her the very best yucca.

Tell Catalina, if she’s gonna buy…

Paradigm: I completely disagree with those philosophers of the Sunday “paella”, of the “traditional shredded beef and stewed black beans and rice dish,” of the “dirty rice with pork,” of the “patacón sandwich with any meat between double-fried plantains”—who comment on our task at hand: “If you give them food, they declare you God, and if you deprive them of it, they curse you as the devil himself.” No and no and no! We’re neither bosses for unsold-food fairs nor supermarket managers! We have other standards, other things to consider, too!           

Rarebird: (Returns and fills her tray with food.) But before anything else, the first thing you must have is food. (She sits down somewhere and eats with her hands.) That’s what those people who aren’t part of the Conglomerate don’t realize. (She speaks with her mouth full.) Those people who get bored eating beef and become vegetarian. I’ll never get tired of saying it: if you want to know what cholesterol is, first you have to try butter! Enough is enough already, too many cooks spoil the stew! 

Sycophant. (Sings.) Tell Catalina to buy a grater

            ‘cause my yucca’s gettin ripe.

Ay, my yucca‘s so ripe!

Catalina,  

it’s gettin so ripe…

Paradigm: Moving on to a matter of a different nature— (He abruptly stands up.) Where is Virileone?

He takes off his jacket. The captains do the same. Sycophant stops singing. Viriletwo provides a report, standing at attention.

Viriletwo: The last time I saw her, she was at the port. As you know, she’s always been in charge of the port. She said something to Virilethree in that language they share and then desperately ran off after a cadet. Viriletwo reporting!

Paradigm: What do you have to say for yourself, Virilethree? This is no time to disappear. The survey was only a fleeting success. We have to implement our program right away. Undoubtedly, the Conglomerate is upset.

Rarebird: Upset? No—fucking mad! I don’t have to stand at the window to know that. You don’t play games when it comes to food! Take a look out there!

Paradigm: (About to get up and head to the window but pauses) Finally, Virilethree, where is Virileone?

Virilethree: You don’t have to worry. She’s well protected. (Confidentially) She went with the thing.

Paradigm: With what thing?

Virilethree: With the water thing, the dive thing, the foam thing! She labels him one of these three things, according to the type of mission he is to carry out—you know, that marine guy Viriletwo has mentioned, the same one who serves as her secret bodyguard and who is going to help her take our leader’s photo, as planned, after the Conglomerate baptizes our new system of government.

Paradigm: What water thing, dive thing, foam thing? I smell something subversive coming from the waterfront! Doesn’t this seem very fishy to you? I hope I’m mistaken, but this stinks of a brokered fish, a substitute squid—I don’t know!

Viriletwo: Like I already said: it’s time to bring out the tanks!

Paradigm: No tanks, no planes!

Viriletwo (Falling to her knees before Paradigm, begging) At least the antiriot troops!

Paradigm: No, Viriletwo!

Viriletwo: Not even a little armored tank, one high-pressure hose, one single rifle with rubber bullets, three or four police officers on horses with rubber clubs!

Paradigm: No, and no, and no! We can’t delay calling a General Staff meeting! We have to find Virileone! I want her here! Now!

Virilethree: Yes, sir! (Abruptly leaves. Viriletwo is about to do the same when Paradigm detains her.)

Paradigm: Viriletwo!

Sycophant: (Realizes his presence is thwarting the conversation) With your permission. (He leaves.)

Rarebird remains on the stairs pretending to ignore what’s going on. Paradigm takes Viriletwo by the arm and leads her to the other end of the stage. Not yet satisfied, he speaks in her ear, to make sure Rarebird cannot hear.

Paradigm: (He moves away from her. Militarily) Understood?

Viriletwo: (Stands at attention) One day at a time!

Paradigm: Happy twenty-four hours!

Viriletwo leaves in a hurry, just as Virilethree did. Rarebird gathers various kinds of food and stuffs them in her bag.

Paradigm: (Surprised) What are you doing?!

Rarebird: Can’t you see? Scavenging!

Paradigm: I don’t believe you have to! In the palace, there’s an abundance of every kind of food. The central warehouse is full, which justifies the ridiculous taxes the Hierarch imposed on the Conglomerate—and now we can use this windfall to fulfill our obligations. We won’t misuse our provisions but expend the energy they assure to carry out our new program. (Suddenly furious) Stop going around hoarding supplies! You’re like an ant!

Rarebird: And you! A doomed cicada with a fever, repeating the same tune, over and over again! (She continues to collect food, stuffing it in her bag.) It’s better to be prepared, just in case, before we run out.

Paradigm: (Truly moved) I understand you. You have to do this in spite of yourself. It’s your second nature, your impulse. Scavenging is a famished person’s defense mechanism. But someday that will no longer be necessary. We’ll show them, many of them—we’ll make it possible—so people will no longer need to go about hoarding any food they come upon in plastic bags. (He notices Rarebird beginning to climb her rope ladder.) Where are you going?

Rarebird: To take food to my family. With so much babbling, you forget you have your own family. For good reason, this type of system is called “Wolfing Down”.

Paradigm: This is treason; this is treason, Rarebird! To care only about your own family at the expense of the rest of the Conglomerate? That’s treason!

Pause. Rarebird descends the rope ladder and drops the bag.

Rarebird: (Violent) Ok, call it what you want! Let’s see—what’s actually been accomplished? Nothing! First, finding a name for you, then finding a name for the government, but in real life, the Conglomerate is still doing what it’s always done, waiting for at least the price of avocados to drop!

Paradigm: It’s not so easy to bring prices down, Rarebird! In the same way that “all the glory of the world fits in a kernel of corn,” the entire secret of the economy can be concealed in an avocado.

 Rarebird: (She goes back to climbing the rope ladder, carrying the bag.) No, Paradigm, not sure about that! But in the time you take to figure out if that stench from the coast is fish or squid, I’m taking this grub to my poor folk. (Goes up the ladder)

Paradigm: Watch yourself, Rarebird!

Rarebird: (Stops) Who are you going to put in charge of tailing me? Sycophant? I hope that in my absence you won’t have to use a firearm for the first time. (She tosses him the pistol that was hidden in her bag. Paradigm catches it in midair. She continues climbing the ladder.)

Paradigm: Rarebird! (He tucks the pistol under his shirt.) Come down here! That’s an order! Rarebird!

Rarebird disappears at the top of the rope ladder without responding. Paradigm falls to his knees, murmuring the prayers that calm him. Sycophant has surreptitiously entered and observes him in silence.

Paradigm: (Standing, with sudden enthusiasm) You see, Sycophant, loneliness is the natural state for people like me who live for the happiness of the collective! (Takes the suit jacket off the clothes rack and puts it on.) With or without the General Staff, with or without Rarebird, we’ll march on! (Sycophant takes up the guitar, ready to sing, but strikes only one chord because Paradigm stops him.) Not this time, Sycophant, sit down! You’ve earned your place at this table.

Sycophant: (Moved.) I am at a loss for words – (At Paradigm’s signal, Sycophant takes the suit jacket off the clothes rack and puts it on. He gives a military salute.) One day at a time!

Paradigm: Happy twenty-four hours!

Sycophant sits down at the table. A sign is lowered: “Worker’s supper”.  Paradigm and Sycophant eat while they converse.

Paradigm: Maybe Rarebird is right! Perhaps, without meaning to, we’ve lost our fundamental significance here: the Conglomerate’s sustenance! (He drinks orange juice from his glass. Suddenly annoyed, he gets up and yells.) I’m sorry, Virileone, there’ll be no photograph. I won’t go up to the window! We’ll provide a tangible response that is far from any rabble-rousing imagery. Did you hear me?! (Pause. He sits back down, drinks orange juice, and calms down.) But what should that response be? Hand out ration cards to provide certain products for each family’s basic needs practically free? (Annoyed, he stands up again with the glass in his hand.) We already tried that! (He paces back and forth.) And as everyone knows, the ration cards—and all the ships with provisions donated from abroad, sent by our kind and constant friends—did not produce the predicted outcome. The extraordinary became commonplace. (He paces back and forth. Sycophant watches him, eating constantly.) No one has attempted to improve on that. The act of waiting for handouts has turned into a kind of profession! (Pause. He pours himself some juice and drinks. Now calm, he sits down again.) Ah, Sycophant, mercy itself creates this eternal dilemma. By saving the starved man’s life, we turned him into something worse than a beggar—a human being who knows no other way to resolve his most basic cravings than to claim the right to ration cards and delivery of his provisions at any cost. (He stands up.) Yet what would become of the world without mercy?! (He takes a deep breath. Suddenly alarmed.) That stench worries me! I’m afraid the clash is inevitable. I don’t want you here for it—it should be secret. (Forceful.) Go now! (Sycophant doesn’t know what to do. Paradigm yells.) Scram!

Sycophant rapidly exits the stage with his mouth full, taking all the food he can carry. For the first time, Paradigm says the calming prayer out loud.

Paradigm: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Virileone enters and approaches him from behind. She takes a suit jacket off the clothes rack, puts it on, and sits down to eat.

Paradigm: (Without turning around) Finally, you’re back, Virileone! (He takes a deep breath.) Your coastal scent gives you away. (He abruptly turns toward her.) Virileone, I’m going to charge you with desertion. This is not the time to go off joining marine expeditions. Your passion for seamen would be of no use to us, were it not for the many uprisings that begin at those docks you haunt. (Virileone continues to eat.) Anyway, what’s the point? You can’t understand me. When Virilethree returns, you can defend yourself with your fan. I hope your comrade doesn’t refuse, considering you two are bound by promiscuity.

Virileone: (Articulating perfectly, closing the fan) I don’t need an interpreter anymore.

Paradigm: (Perplexed) What are you saying? (He takes out the pistol and points it at her.) Don’t move! (Virileone eats.) I always suspected you. You pretended not to understand a word of our language. God only knows why. (He takes the sword she’s left on the table while holding her at gunpoint.) Stop swallowing already! (With the sword, he moves her plate away from her.) What were you trying to reveal with that photograph? (Virileone doesn’t respond. She moves to another plate and continues eating. Paradigm uses the sword to move it away from her.) That’s enough swallowing. Answer me now!

Virileone: I can’t! It’s almost impossible to do anything without eating. It took some doing to convince myself of that, but I finally woke up. Rarebird was right, after all. I’m very hungry! You can’t imagine how far I’ve come on foot and without eating a thing!

Paradigm: Yeah, I can imagine—from the ship’s hold or the deck, it’s all the same to you.

Virileone: (Truly hurt) No, JC, things aren’t the way you see them!

Paradigm: Oh, no?! And how are they?! (Still holding her at gunpoint.) Tell me!

Viriletwo unexpectedly enters and stops, holding the end of a rope.

Viriletwo: (Stands at attention.) One day at a time! (Surprised to see Paradigm brashly holding the gun to Virileone’s head) Did something happen?

Paradigm: What do you think?

Viriletwo: (Still taken aback) It’s that—!

Paradigm: Where’s Virilethree?

Viriletwo yanks her end of the rope, and Virilethree is pulled on stage. The other end is tied around her neck and hands. She stops at a distance.

Viriletwo: Here she is. The other conspirator is lying at the bottom of the sea. Unlike this one, when we pursued her, she resisted and was executed—without the use of firearms, as you ordered. As for the pederast cabin boy, I have to report that he escaped on a high-speed gunboat, but the search is under way.

Paradigm: (Strange) Who are you taking about?

Viriletwo: Who else would it be?

Virileone: (Very proud) About the thing and me! (To Viriletwo, who doesn’t appear to see or hear her) You always wanted to take my place. That’s why you didn’t even give me a chance to react. (Now soberly, to Paradigm) While waiting for the moment when you would appear at the window, and I would take your picture, I spent time in the best of ship cabins, receiving a male’s feminine offering on my masculine lips, having convinced my feminine and/or masculine self that she-he who kneels before a marine stands erect before the world. (She again speaks to Viriletwo) Then, to make a long story short, you arrived. Without saying a word, you stabbed me in the back with the knife, put a noose around my neck, tied a stone to the other end, and threw me into the sea—and assured that I wouldn’t float, you released your signature hyena-in-heat shrieking to the wind. (She laughs like a hyena then suddenly stops laughing.) How repulsive!

Paradigm: What do you have to say for yourself? Your mission was to apprehend her, not assassinate her. The charges against you are very serious.

Viriletwo: What charges?

Paradigm: The accusation your fugitive has just made.

Viriletwo: What fugitive?

Paradigm: The one who managed to escape your treachery, your premeditated stabbing. Can’t you see her?

Viriletwo: (She doesn’t see her. Very nervous) No, no, I can’t!

Virileone: (To Paradigm) Of course she can’t see me because she assassinated me! (To Viriletwo) Confess it, terrorist, because I didn’t show up here for nothing! (She gets close to her. Suddenly melancholic.) Sense me! It’s me! (Picks up some sword tips and moves them around Viriletwo, clanking them) Listen to my unwavering call! Breathe in my accusatory salt mist and this dead odor of marine sperm! Don’t you see I still have bleeding algae in my hair, you pervert?! Sense me! Sense me!

Viriletwo is completely unaware of everything Virileone does. Virilethree is in the same predicament. She is sitting on some random object, defeated, with her head down.

Virileone: (Deceived) This is impossible! This type of person has no tinge of remorse because she has no conscience. No assassination could break down her wall. No matter how hard I try, she can’t sense me. Only you can—the others can’t because they don’t feel guilt, zero remorse. Only you, Paradigm!

Paradigm: (Smiles) Are you saying you’re a ghost?! (Making fun of her) What’s your name? Banquo? Nice to meet you—I’m Macbeth! (He holds out his hand to her. Virileone extends hers. He lets hers go.) Your hand burns! What’s the trick?! (Irate) Where’s the microphone? Don’t deny that you’re wearing a wire. It’s the classic method. They’re trying to ruin my reputation, record my voice to embarrass me! (He yells.) Listen carefully, if you want to extract a confession from me, there’s just one thing: I never ordered the assassination of anyone!

Virileone: That’s a given. Actually, you’re not such a bad person, compared to others in your situation. You act very efficiently with flawless devotion; the tribunal will keep that in mind. You believe things are the way you see them, and there’s no convincing you otherwise, but all that will be deliberated before the tribunal when the time comes.

Paradigm: What tribunal? When?

Virileone: The moment that comes to us all, Paradigm. I forget you believe you’re infinite! That could be an attenuating factor at the trial.

Paradigm: (To Virilethree) What are you laughing at?

Virilethree: You’re talking to yourself, pointing the gun at your phantom enemies, trying to find secret microphones. (Takes pity on him.) Did you suddenly change, or were you always the same person, Paradigm? You seem more and more like the Hierarch every day!

Paradigm. I’m not talking to myself! You three are conspiring—my entire General Staff. But you won’t take me alive. Not in your wildest dreams! (He presses the gun barrel against his temple.) Goodbye. Rarebird, I die for our dream! We might not achieve it, but we’ll die trying! It was beautiful, incredibly beautiful! (He pulls the trigger several times, but the gun doesn’t go off. Annoyed) What’s going on?

Virileone: Nothing. Rarebird took the bullets with her, in her bag. It’s not loaded.

Paradigm: (He calls out to her with true love.) Rarebird! (He’s suddenly energetic.) This just proves how right our idea is! Rarebird’s message is transparent—she’s part of the Conglomerate, so she knows what they want. (He climbs the stairs.) Here I am! We’ll carry out our program with or without the Viriles! With or without the phantoms, here I am! (He goes to the window.)

Offstage, the chorus is heard singing the conga.

Chorus:  Outta my way,

 Blowin you away,

Cravin-n-shaken booty!

 Killin’ it—wow!

Sycophant quickly enters.

Sycophant: Horror, horror!

Paradigm: (He’s moves away from the window and rapidly descends the stairs.) What’s going on, Sycophant?! (He faces the window and yells.) I’m not the Hierarch? (The chorus stops. To Sycophant) What’s going on?

Sycophant: Better to see it with your own eyes. (He runs behind the Government Chair, pulls out a pair of binoculars, and gives it to Paradigm.) Here!

Paradigm quickly climbs back up the stairs and looks through the binoculars without getting too close to the window.

Paradigm: Shit, they’ve got her. They’ve got Rarebird! I’ve said this before—they’re the opposition! The spineless opposition that blends in with the Conglomerate, confusing them!

Viriletwo: We’ve got to give the order to the rescue unit, to the sniper squad!

Paradigm: Firearms, no. Zero violence!

Viriletwo: They could skin her alive!! Do you understand?

Paradigm: Well, let’s not overreact. They’ve got a craving, but they’re not cannibals!

Sycophant. No, not yet!

Paradigm: What do you mean by that? (To Viriletwo) Open the central warehouse! (Viriletwo is about to say something. He stops her.) We have no choice! Open the central warehouse right now!

Viriletwo: Yes, sir.

She abruptly leaves the stage. Paradigm sits in the Government Chair.

Paradigm: (Sighs) Rarebird! (Now desperate) No matter how challenging the setback, we will not abandon our idea! (To Virileone) Not even you!

Virileone: Don’t look at me. I might be dead, but I’m not death. Besides, I already told you things are not the way you see them, JC. Stop being so transcendental! Oh no, my dear child, not that—don’t give me that apocalyptic look, put on a pair of white Hindu pants, some other shoes or go barefoot, dye your hair— (Suddenly very serious) There’s Rarebird!

Rarebird enters barefoot, in tatters, almost naked, roughed-up. Breathing heavily, she stops a certain distance from Paradigm. They observe one another in silence for a few instants. Suddenly, they clasp each other in a vehement embrace, showering each other with kisses.

Rarebird: (Brusquely pushes him away) Don’t touch me! I don’t want you to touch me again! I don’t want anybody to touch me ever again! (She screams.) Don’t touch me!

Pause. Everyone observes her with astonishment. She gathers food from all around her, stuffs it in her bag, and takes it out again. She repeats this action during her whole monologue.

Rarebird: There were three young men, three young men, three young men, and I explained to them, the three young men, I told them, I told them, JC, I told them, “I’m not the First Lady! My name is Rarebird, and I can assure you that this time, there won’t be any First Lady!” I told them, but they wouldn’t listen to me. They kept yelling (covers her ears), “Crazy , crazy, crazy, crazy First Lady!” (Continues grabbing food, stuffing it in her bag, and taking it out again) I didn’t pull the knife on them, the one I always carry in my bag! I tried to make them understand, tried to reason with them, like you taught me, Paradigm. I didn’t pull the knife on them—I didn’t take it out! (Paradigm tries to get near her, but she doesn’t let him.) Don’t touch me!

(Suddenly surprisingly even-tempered) I’m not the same person. Neither are you, JC.  Neither are you, JC. Who knows if you were ever really you? (Spits, repulsed.) Paradigm! (Ashamed) Forgive me, my love, I’m upset! (Once again, even-tempered) You know, they raped me, and there were a lot of people around, and nobody did a thing. Instead, JC, many applauded and yelled, “Crazy First Lady, Crazy First Lady!” (Once again out of her mind) Nobody believes in speeches any more, no matter how new they are! Makes no difference if you change the names of things! (Again, she grabs food off the floor, stuffs it in her bag, and takes it out.) They were three young men, three young men, three—the Devil’s number, and I felt a hard whack here (taps the back of her neck). And they pushed me up against the garbage bins. (She covers her ears. Screams) “Crazy First Lady, Crazy First Lady!” They were three young men, JC, and nobody did a thing, nobody, nobody. But I didn’t pull the knife on them, the one I always carry in my bag, I didn’t pull it on them! (She climbs the stairs toward the window, repeating the same thing, as if in prayer.) Crazy First Lady, Crazy First Lady!

She stops at the window, whips the knife out of her bag and flips open the blade. She throws the bag to one side and becomes aggressively defiant. Pause. She lets the weapon drop, defeated.

Rarebird: You won’t have to open the doors of the warehouse cause food isn’t the problem either. Not even God knows what’s going on! Take care of yourself, JC! (She abruptly turns to the window and jumps out into the void.)

Pause.

Paradigm: (He lets out a bloodcurdling scream.) Ahhhh! Viriletwo!

Viriletwo quickly enters.

Viriletwo: Yes, sir!

Paradigm: Why aren’t you using the firearms?!

Viriletwo: You prohibited it!

Paradigm: (Deeply hurt) Rarebird!

Virilethree: Assassin! Let go of me, or I’ll show you what a woman is! Go ahead and make my day!

Pause. Paradigm moves closer to her and takes a bottle out of the bag at her side. Smiles ironically and places it on the table.

Paradigm: You acted quickly, Viriletwo! You didn’t even give her time to finish off this bottle! (Grabs a sword from the floor. To Viriletwo) Untie her!

Viriletwo obeys. Virilethree is freed and ready to fight. Paradigm throws the sword to her, so she can defend herself. Virilethree picks up a weapon at her feet and strikes a defensive pose.

Paradigm: (To Viriletwo, who tries to say something) I don’t need weapons! I’ll use my bare hands! (To Virilethree) Do you want to decapitate me and show my head to the Conglomerate to guarantee your safe conduct? Go ahead and try! (Drastic) Go on!

Pause. Virilethree and Paradigm assess one another in silence. Virilethree lifts the sword. She appears about to attack but lets the weapon fall to the ground and suddenly looks as if she’s about to run.

Paradigm: (Furious) Run, you traitor, escape!

Virilethree: (She stops near the exit.) I’m not escaping, Paradigm! I’m joining the Conglomerate to receive my ration of bombs, instead of food, like we promised them. (She exits.)

Paradigm: (Yells) Come back here, viper, satrap, harpy! (Virilethree doesn’t obey. To Viriletwo) What are you doing standing here? Everyone to your stations and wait for my orders to shoot. Alert the army! (Viriletwo does not move.) What are you waiting for?!

Viriletwo: (After a pause, she smiles.) I’m sorry, JC, but the emergent junta has decided, unanimously, that I should replace you since you’re not in a suitable mental state to continue (Unexpectedly, she draws the pistol from her waist, hidden under her clothes, and points it at him.) You’d better turn yourself in; otherwise, we won’t have any choice but to execute you. And if it causes any protests or disturbances, we’ll use firearms to clear the plaza, and we won’t lift the curfew until calm is restored. We’re waiting—make up your mind. Either you surrender, or we’ll come after you! We’ll give you a reasonable amount of time to think it over, and then we’ll call you over the loudspeakers. You should leave the palace with your hands in the air.

Paradigm: (Bewildered) What are you saying? What emergent junta?!

Virileone: The one she just formed with the other lunatics in the army, which is customary in these cases.

Brief pause. Paradigm picks up the bottle he had placed on the table.

Paradigm: (Angry) What are you looking at?

Virileone: Put down that bottle. Remember, you don’t want to—you don’t know how to—you can’t stop after the first drink! Don’t you realize your relapse would be another crime against humanity?

Paradigm: In any case, a crime against myself!

Virileone: Each man is, in and of himself, everyman!

Paradigm: (He drops the bottle onto the Government Chair.) I want to see Rarebird!

Virileone: That’s impossible.

Paradigm: How is it that can I see you?

Virileone: I didn’t kill myself—they assassinated me! She’s condemned; I’m not! They’re different outcomes!

Paradigm mouths the prayer in silence, which seems to calm him. He suddenly gets up, grabs the bottle, and takes a swig. From now to the end, he continues to drink.

Paradigm: (Howls, like a wounded animal) Rarebird!

Virileone: Don’t keep calling for her; don’t make her suffer. I already told you, she’s condemned. She can hear you, but she can’t respond.

Viriletwo’s voice is heard over the loudspeakers.

Viriletwo: (Off stage) Give yourself up, Hierarch! Give yourself up! Give yourself up!

The voice echoes.

Paradigm: (He covers his ears, yells) I’m not the Hierarch!  (He takes another swig and falls into the Government Chair.) I’m not the Hierarch!

Virileone: And what does that matter? Put down that bottle! You’re trying to commit suicide, and if you do, you’ll take the same road Rarebird did! Yes, JC, and you’ll regret it—you’ll regret that you didn’t keep her in your memories, undefeated, beautiful, thriving! Let her peacefully retrace her steps through her chastisement until she becomes a saint! (She attempts to take the bottle away from him.) Forsake this cup of sorrow!

Paradigm: (He suddenly stands up.) You won’t take me alive! (Opens his arms and sticks out his chest, defiant) Here I am—come and get me, Viriletwo!

Virileone: Ay, JC, let me repeat that things are not the way you see them!

Viriletwo enters wearing a military helmet and dark glasses. Absolutely insane, she crosses the stage, giving orders to an imaginary army.

Viriletwo: (Marching) Artillery over here. Infantry over there! Planes—low-flying aircraft! Missiles—ready! The navy—blocking the port! Carry on, Special Forces! Snipers, to your buildings! Where are the submarines? What’s the status of the warheads? On my orders, shoot, shoot!

She exits the stage, but she can be heard for several more instants. Outside, drumbeats resound.

Paradigm: (Stunned) What’s happening?! (He grabs the binoculars and rapidly climbs the stairs to the window and observes what’s going on outside. Perplexed) I can’t understand it. I can’t! The soldiers are hobnobbing with the Conglomerate.

Virileone suddenly begins to dance, moving all over the stage while talking.

Virileone: This is normal, JC, normal! No human being with any common sense wants war, and most of the soldiers, although you can’t tell, are human beings. That’s why they don’t shoot! So Viriletwo is upset!

Paradigm: Virilethree has climbed up onto one of the tanks. She’s lifting up her dress and moving her hips with utter abandon!

A chorus of trumpets joins the drums. The conga grows louder. Virileone gets up on the table, lifts her dress, and dances.

Paradigm: Who ordered this orgy? Surely it’s that young man who leads the band at ceremonies. We’ll have to make them understand that peace is good only with order. I’ll have to officially present myself to the Conglomerate as soon as possible.

Virileone: (Leaps off the table) Careful, JC! Just because they don’t want war, doesn’t mean they want you! (Leaving, she dances and sings to the rhythm of the music coming from outside.)

Outta my way,

Blowin you away,

Cravin-n-shaken booty!

Killin’ it—wow!

Paradigm: (Surprised) Wait! Where are you going?

Virileone: “The glow-worm shows the matin is near and ‘gins to pale his ineffectual fire.” JC, it’s dawn. I must go back! Don’t you hear the nightingale?

Paradigm: (Bothered) I don’t hear a thing, but if there was something to hear, it would be the lark! Only a few minutes ago, we entered the palace. (Checks his wristwatch.) It can’t be! How is it possible that twenty-four hours have gone by?

Virileone: Don’t even try to figure it out. Political time is not physical time. Don’t forget me! Goodbye, goodbye!

Once and for all, she exits, dancing.

Paradigm: (At the top of his voice, over the music) Eat and drink, drink and dance! The day is coming when we’ll run out of all reserves at the central warehouse. Then we’ll see how they react. Isn’t that right, Sycophant?

Sycophant remains hidden behind the Government Chair without answering. From this moment on, Paradigm’s voice becomes as hoarse as the Hierarch’s, and he acts like him. He’s role-playing without makeup before the audience.

There will be a direct correlation between the degree of present-day lunacy and the magnitude of tomorrow’s hunger. At that point, you’ll renew your support for me, and there’ll be no choice but to implement my concept of a plan. (He continues down the stairs.) We must determine the exact number of calories required to keep a human being alive. That’s easy. You multiply that amount of calories by the number of human beings who require them and come up with exact number of calories we’ll need to produce. We gather all the food and deposit it in the huge laboratory, where we’ll blend it all together to create the “nutritious substance.” What do you think, Sycophant? (He sits in the Government Chair). Rarebird Laboratories—so named for obvious reasons—will distribute, for free, said substance in capsule form, thereby avoiding the risk of contamination with injections. (Suddenly meditative) All right, but I’ll need scientists, conspirators, day-laborers, hard workers, foot-soldiers, toilers, peons of all types, whom we must pay, of course. This way, we could create a new caste, a new class, a species, a race, a breed—that’s right—a new breed that would rise above the Conglomerate. This class of capsule capitalists, or capsultalists, would be commander-in-chief of capsule creation. And, once again, we will see discontent and war, this time between the capsule czars and the Conglomerate, which will end up hating the word Rarebird plastered on capsules, bottles, neon signs, T-shirts, hats, and intimate wear.

(Swigging, now euphoric) The imagination! The popular imagination! The key thing is the actual fabrication of the capsule, not the capsule itself. Isn’t that right, Sycophant? Every day, something distinct has to happen that leads us toward another purpose and another purpose and yet another. Therein lies the test, Sycophant! We have succeeded in getting folks to step outside of their homes and to ruminate about pale hints of utopia, mirrored by the desolation of their individual refrigerators! There they are, united. True death exists when each day looks like the next. For now, it’s about the capsule, but later, it will be the flavor. Fortunately, for now, flavor is still a luxury. Here, we’ll have another avenue for research, and the contradiction will arise from the need to decide whether we ask god for our daily bread or our daily menu. And if god responds in favor of the daily menu, another space will open—the search for the right type of menu. (Guffaws deliriously) Listen to my call! We still have infinite capacity for daily indignations, and he who denies it is against life and deserves to be judged for who he is: an annihilator, a zealous subversive saboteur, a narrow-minded nihilist, a hacker of souls, who smears massive dreams, (with diabolic emphasis) and he should be swiftly called out on it. (The music is turned up.) This is my chair, my chair of yours, your chair of mine, everyone’s chair, my/your chair, my/her chair, our/my chair! (Crescendo) chair, chair, chair, chair, chair—!

Abrupt blackout. The conga plays on.

EPILOGUE

The stage lights go up. The Government Chair is empty. Sycophant sneaks out from his hiding place waving a white flag, but he senses that someone is approaching and hides again. The chorus joins the conga.

Chorus: Outta my way,

Blowin you away.

Cravin-n-shakin booty!

Killin’ it—wow!

Curtain slowly falls.