The Characters:


Francis Amable
Lazarus Fricker
Marguerite Feuille, a ghost
Claude
George Parko
Kleo
Two Shrouded Women
Morbide
Chinese Food Courier






Act 1

Curtain rises on the interior of a typical Montreal rooming house of the 1980s, whose main landing is located center-stage. Dark wooden claustrophobic walls and floors predominate; the walls are slightly askew, as if the building itself is off-center. The three tenants’ rooms are defined by partitions suggesting walls. The doors to each room are placed within the frames of each partition. The third room, where George Parko lives, is near the back and center of the stage. Located next to George’s door is a large old-fashioned stove that looks as if somebody carelessly heaved it there ages ago. There is a battered old armchair near the stove. Above and to the right of the stove, there are three long, warped shelves piled with various dishes, cleaning goods and torn boxes. Under these shelves, there is a sink and counter piled with dirty dishes, and an old refrigerator pushed next to the counter. There is a garbage can to the left of the stove, its lid perpetually sliding off; the utility closet and the communal bathroom further to the right. There is a battered kitchen table and two chairs towards the front of the stage. To the right of George’s door, indicated by a red-lit “exit” sign, is6 an open doorway leading to a staircase and the street-level main entrance, out of the audience’s view.

Lazarus Fricker’s room, located stage right, is the epitome of chaos. Its window is covered by a ratty torn curtain; the bed is piled with old clothes and twisting blankets. The floor is covered by more clothes, shoes and old newspapers. A large dresser shoved in one corner contains an overflowing ashtray, empty wine bottles, books, candy wrappers and unwashed dishes. There is a large poster of a New Wave group taped to the wall above the bed. This poster, like most of the other items in this room, looks as if it was rescued from an alley.

Francis’ room, stage left, is the polar opposite of his neighbour’s. Its furniture and floor are polished, the bed is neatly made, a gleaming maple rocker is perched in one corner near the window, which is framed by crisp blue curtains. There are two new pine shelves on the wall next to the dresser: one holds a miniature “altar” whose two votive candles are constantly burning or being replaced. A framed poster of the Sacred Heart is hung above the bed, next to a crucifix. There is a Bible on the night stand.

As the lights are brought up, all characters are frozen in their places: Francis in his rocking chair, Lazarus slouching on his bed. George and his girlfriend Kleo are hidden from the audience’s view in George’s room. Marguerite Feuille, the ghost of a former superintendent, is perched on the chair next to the stove, against which she is propping her feet. She appears to be in her mid-fifties, childlike yet wise, outspoken and blunt, sometimes poetic and dreamy. She is dressed in baggy jeans and a lumberjack shirt, and a scarf on her head keeps her hair pulled back from her eyes. She is staring at the rumpled newspaper in her lap while her right hand clutches a near-full bottle of booze.

Marguerite:
Tenants. Lazy tenants! [shifts to face the audience] Now there’s the story of my life! [sighs] You’d think by now they’d have learned to flush a toilet. [the newspaper slips from her lap as she pushes herself out of the armchair, but she keeps a tight grip on the bottle] But rooming house tenants are a very special breed. [wags her finger at the audience] No no, that’s not what I mean! You think all of them are low down losers? Okay, okay. So they are losers. Losers at work, losers at love, losers at life! This place is about as typical as they come.Kept me hopping, that’s for sure. [shakes her head and removes the cap from her omnipresent bottle] [Takes a swig and paces the landing.] Did you know that this is one of the last rooming houses on Esplanade Street? Yup! You wouldn’t believe all the regentrification going on around here. Soon this part of town’ll be too ritzy for the likes of us. [gestures around her] Rarely a dull day around here though! That Lazarus — talk about a janitor’s nightmare. My God! Once he moves out this place will lose half its stench. Then there’s Francis — a whole different kettle of fish. Yeah sure, the guy’s religious. Too religious. Makes me crazy when he flies off that missionary handle of his. Which is practically all the time. But the guy’s clean, so clean! Just look how he’s transformed that dustbin of a room he’s been stuck in for — how long has it been now, four years? Poor guy. He was here when it happened. You know, the night I was murdered. What? [she stops her pacing and faces the audience] Don’t tell me you didn’t know? But it’s true! I’m a ghost! Maintained this place for sixteen years before it happened. Nearly two years ago today! I even made the front page of LaPresse! [Runs back over to retrieve her newspaper] “Janitor killed in Esplanade Street Rooming House!” See? That’s me, Marguerite Feuille! [shakes her head] And it was an ugly scene — stabbed for Christ’s sake and — Shhh! Is that my favourite tenant?

[Francis Amable begins rocking as he stares at his window, his aunt’s handmade quilt folded over his legs. He is sixty-two years old, slight of build and white-haired, overwhelmed by loneliness and sorrow, yet perpetually restless, dissatisfied with his life.]

Marguerite:
[hurries over to Francis’ room and peers at his window] G’morning, Francis! [her voice softens as a more poetic persona emerges] Last night’s blizzard has fizzled to flurries and the wind’s died. [gestures to the room’s small window] The ice on the panes is mercilessly pinched by the cold. Francis is always seeing things in that window of his. Wonder what it is today?

Francis:
[coughs, eases himself out of the chair, the quilt sliding from his lap as he does so, and goes to press his palm against the icy pane] Ah ha, yes. I see them now! A scarecrow and a priest. Yes, yes. [mesmerized by what he sees, he claps his hands]

Marguerite:
[stalks across Francis’ room] Taber’wit! I hate the cold! I should’ve run away to Florida with that good-looking bear of a Guillaume while I was still alive.

Francis:
[marvelling] There are splinters around the scarecrow’s head, a straw halo burning in ecstasy. He is the once-devious sinner, now redeemed by his suffering.

Marguerite:
Have you ever seen such an incredible display of devotion? [wanders through Francis’ room, taking inventory] Not one, but two varnished pine shelves! It’s enough to make Brother Andre blush!

Francis:
[he scratches at his chin and coughs] But the priest is menacing, closing his fingers around the scarecrow’s neck. It’s too late for you, my son. Too late. [shakes his head]

Marguerite:
[her mood softening again] Now, now, Francis, take it easy! [pats him gently on the shoulder even though he is unaware of her presence] That priest might be far more forgiving than you think.

Francis:
[gets back up out of his rocking chair] Oh I’m sick and tired of the cold. Pull my gloves on, pull my gloves off, pull my scarf on...

Marguerite:
[suddenly exasperated] What the hell are you doing, talking to a frozen pane of glass for, anyway?

Francis:
If God would grant me any prayer right now, he would make this room an opium chamber, suffocate me in its sweet vapours.

Marguerite:
[turns to the audience] Is it any wonder he’s talking like this, after three mugs of instant coffee and a pan of greasy eggs? Phew! One thing about this place, it never loses the stench of stale bacon. [rushes to landing area as the door across the hall creaks open. Lazarus Fricker walks out and over to the stove, slumping and scratching his unkempt hair. He is a slender man in his early thirties who appears more haggard than he should, thanks to a life of heavy partying. His posture is sometimes lopsided and he is wearing his usual baggy, threadbare black slacks and an oversized, frayed white shirt whose back ends dangle over the slacks. He slops an aluminum saucepan of water onto a burner and checks the pilot light]

Lazarus:
Ancient claptrap! [kicks the stove] Damn this house.

Francis:
[wailing] Oh God, why won’t you take me? What did I do to deserve that devil?

Marguerite:
[briskly] Look on the bright side, Frankie! Your morning tasks are done. Stretched that bald blanket over the bed and scrubbed your sink twice. Go ahead, lean your tired body in that polished seat. [motions grandly to his rocking chair] You’ve earned it!

Francis:
[starts to shout] Saint Francis Xavier, my patron saint [he lifts a prayer card from the top of the dresser and kisses it],who converted tens of thousands of heathens throughout India and Ceylon—

Lazarus:
Then why don’t you move there and give us a break, for Christ’s sake!

Francis:
[continues to intone, in a deliberately irritating, slow and grating voice] Your name alone can purge this despair, steep me in the miraculous peace that comes from pure faith.

Marguerite:
[runs toward Lazarus in relief] Good morning Lazarus! And now, ladies and gentlemen, our day begins! [crowing and laughing, alternately mimicking a ringmaster, she waves her arms like a child about to embark on a forbidden, voyeuristic journey]

Lazarus:
Hallelu-yuck! [coughs] What a hell of a party last night. The ecstasy was low-grade, I couldn’t get laid and still I’ve got one hell of a hangover.

Francis:
[his melancholy moan shifts to a slightly more enthusiastic sigh] Ah those shuffling feet. Is he wearing those tired green slippers punctuated with cigarette burns? [peers through the doorway]

Lazarus:
[casts a disgusted look in the direction of Francis’ room] Oh Lordy, here comes the little saint. Why doesn’t he just lock himself inside that antiseptic jail of his? [yanks a mug from the shelf above the stove and scoops a spoonful of instant coffee from a jar into the mug]

Marguerite:
[gesturing to Lazarus] Notice the way his shirt dangles like a dirty flag over those unwashed jeans?

Francis:
[hunching in his doorway, arms protectively folded around his body] I wonder what he did with those ten dollar velvet slippers I gave him last Christmas?

Lazarus:
[in a deliberately raspy tone] I took them to the Salvation Army but they threw them back at me!

Francis:
You are a cold-hearted maniac.

Marguerite:
Now, Lazarus. You know that’s not true! Those slippers are tucked away in your bottom drawer. [she skips past him into his room, goes to his dresser drawer, opens it and pulls out the slippers] See?

Francis:
There he goes again, taking George’s cream. [walks toward Lazarus, takes a deep breath and announces with forced cordiality] Good morning Lazarus!

Lazarus:
[whirls around, carton of cream in his hand]
Maudit!

Francis:
[places hands together and bows his head] That is the voice of despair. I pray for you, my brother.

Lazarus:
Mine is but one of many million voices. [raises his pitch to a nasally whine] Mau-deeet!

Francis:
Why do you talk like that? It’s very unnatural, makes you sound...

Lazarus:
[abruptly] Faggy?

Francis:
Don’t put words like that in my mouth!

Lazarus:
You mean this voice? [raises his tone to a high shriek]

Francis:
[contemptuously] What a sick way to beg for attention.

Lazarus:
Go on, why don’t you say it? Fag fag fag! Big deal! I’ve been called a whole lot worse and so have you! Hee-hee-heeeeaaahhh!

Francis:
You don’t have to go around shrieking like a cheap tart.

Lazarus:
[points his spoon at Francis] I am definitely not cheap.

Marguerite:
Faggy fag fag! [shrugs] So what?
[peers in Lazarus’ mug and wrinkles her nose]

Francis:
God save your soul!

Lazarus:
[as he fills saucepan with water] Here we are in the last days of the twentieth century, and you’re spouting dark ages rhetoric like a silly little monk!

Marguerite:
[slapping her knee] Hee hee hee!

Francis:
I am not a monk! [wanders to the stove and stares at the saucepan]

Marguerite:
[in a singsong, mocking tone] That’s it, Francis, that’s it. Fix your eyes on the burner. Maybe you’ll wring some peace from its patient blue flame.

Francis:
[ignoring Marguerite, stumbles backward and quickly stares up at the ceiling] O Saint Francis Xavier, bathe me in that miraculous high you grant me once a year...

Marguerite:
[goading] Ah, Lazarus! Doesn’t the sound of his drivel make you want to rip the door from its hinges? [Lazarus picks up the saucepan and shakes it furiously over the flame as if to speed the boiling process while Marguerite circles him]

Lazarus:
Once a year, my ass! At the rate you polish that silly platoon of statuettes, you must be hauling in at least two epiphanies a day!
[walks back to his room and digs a cigarette from his dresser drawer, walks back to the stove and lights it impatiently]

Francis:
You have no idea how hard I pray.

Lazarus:
[grasping the sides of his face with his hands and gaping] Maudit.

Francis:
Just this once, can we commence this day on a decent note?
[wanders cautiously closer to Lazarus]
You know your sacrilege turns my stomach. Tell me my brother, what is it that possesses you to go around shouting such profanity?

Lazarus:
Now that’s the stupidest question I ever heard.

Francis:
Life is what we make it. Look at your room! No better than a pigsty. It is a reflection of your sordid mind, your refusal to open your heart and let Him in.

Lazarus:
Oh the last time I opened my heart!
[pats his chest melodramatically]

Marguerite:
Me too! Oh Guillaume, why couldn’t you have been more determined, more strong-minded.

Francis:
[faces the audience like a politician] I have scrubbed, sanded and varnished that floor. I have sewn every curtain myself. I have built seven shelves with my two hands. I wash my clothes and I fold each and every garment before putting it away. There is never a dish, never a relic out of place.

Lazarus:
[slaps his hands together] Kindly spare us the litany of Saint Francis. Especially when I’m hung over! But back to the subject at hand. [motions Francis to the chair next to the stove and he continues speaking in a breathless, sarcastic tone] My child, these obsessions of yours reveal a sordid psychological chaos. An attempt to hide — yes, yes, must be. But from what?

Francis:
[goes to his room, ignoring Lazarus] My bed is folded efficiently as a parcel. My aunt Julie’s hand-quilted coverlet with its pageant of red, white and mauve diamond patches.

Marguerite:
[taking inventory of his shelves] Three bottles of holy water, prayer cards, blue glass rosary beads... [bright spotlight on her as she suddenly appears to him]

Francis:
[in strange, calm tone] Good day, Marguerite.

Marguerite:
[hiccoughs in disbelief]
My God, can he hear me? O sweet redemption.

Francis:
Sometimes I can see you. But I always forget afterwards.

Marguerite:
Oh Francis!
[stares as he pulls a tiny bit of cloth and string from under a bottle on his dresser] What is that?

Francis:
That is a most sacred scapular, blessed by Father Labelle himself.

Marguerite:
Isn’t that the one you tried to give Lazarus?

Francis:
[puts down the scapular]
I prefer to forget the night I offered it to that unrepentant beast. Of course he flung it back in my face!

Marguerite:
[picks up the scapular and places it around her neck] But what’s it for? It’s been a while since I visited a shrine.

Francis:
It is a reminder of our holy pledge to make God the center of our everyday lives. Shame on you, Marguerite. You of all people should be in contact with Him. [turns to her] Have you met him?

Marguerite:
Oh, yes! Big white wind full of light came flashing through me. Told me I’d have to spend some time here first.

Francis:
Then this is your Purgatory!

Marguerite:
Guess you could call it that. But I tell you, you’ll love it here! They give you all the booze, all the hamburgers, all the ice cream you could crave!

Lazarus:
[shouting from the stove] Who is it you keep talking to day after day? It can’t be God—too many questions, not enough amen’s.

Francis:
He lets you drink?

Marguerite:
But of course! Now come on Francis, tell us about the night of your great redemption.

Francis:
If you promise not to laugh like that heathen.

Marguerite:
[gestures sarcastically]
Cross my heart!

Francis:
It was a Friday night, one of many wet foggy nights when I succumbed
to certain lower desires.

Lazarus:
Lower desires are my favourite kind!

Francis:
As I was saying... [eases back in the rocker] I overindulged that night, until my breathing became ruptured. I felt as if someone’s fingers were squeezing my throat.

Marguerite:
[clutches her throat] Augh! Sounds painfully familiar!

Francis:
I collapsed in a gutter. I was comatose! Then out of the forboding dark a mysterious Samaritan appeared and discovered my body.

Lazarus:
[goes over to rummage in his dresser drawers] I know, I know. White robe, angel halo, the usual get-up. [tosses a tie into the air].
Ah, I knew you’d skip over the juicy parts.

Francis:
I never saw her again.

Marguerite:
Neither have I. You really believe she’s an angel?

Francis:
[walks to the front of the stage] She is always in my dreams. During my two weeks in the hospital her light entered my brain. I knew it was God, giving me one last chance. “Repent,” the angel told me, “it’s so much simpler than you think.”

Marguerite:
[playing with the scapular around her neck]
How do you know that for sure?

Francis:
Two weeks later when I left that hospital I marched against the wind all the way to Saint Joseph’s. It felt like I walked five hundred miles! Anyone else would have caught pneumonia!

Lazarus:
When in doubt get down on all fours and start climbing that clapboard stairway to the stars!

Francis:
But I was wrapped in the grace of God. When I arrived there were six tourists ahead of me, dragging their slushy boots over those sacred wooden steps. I dropped to my knees and pushed my way through their filth, all the way to the top.

Lazarus:
[imitating a Texas sportscaster] Crawled up those slimy wet stairs like a genuine card-carrying martyr!

Marguerite:
Impressive! [belches] Here—need a sip?

Francis:
I do not touch that poison.

Marguerite:
Please, Frankie, I can see everything you do! You definitely need a drink.

Francis:
The slush and bruises on my knees heightened my victory. [gets down on his knees to act out the saga] Out of breath I dipped my hand in the oyster-shaped font and drenched my face with holy water. Some of the water trickled onto my tongue. “Lord!” I cried, “I have found you!”

Marguerite:
My God! [dries her eyes with sarcastic aplomb]

Francis:
I was one of the Chosen! I hurried to the front of the church, dropped to my knees before Christ’s altar and rejoiced as the tears drizzled from my eyes.

Marguerite:
Bravo, Francis, bravo! Let me be the first to raise my glass to your newfound superiority! Now get on out there and save some souls! [gulps from her bottle, bright light fades as she disappears from Francis’ sight]
There. I think he’s had enough of me for one day.

Lazarus:
I’ll stick to my own corrupted perspective, thanks!

Francis:
More sarcasm. [goes back to his rocker, where he sits and pinches the arms of his rocker to speed himself back and forth] I suppose you’re my cross to bear. When it comes to pure faith, respect is practically unheard-of.

Lazarus:
[lopes across the hall, toting his mug] Respect? Did somebody say respect? Oh Francis, respect yourself I always said!

Marguerite:
Some respect, eh Lazarus? My God, that dump of yours is darker and danker than a mine shaft. A turbulent hold for stagnating shirts and vermouth bottles, dirty needles, blood stains, stinking sheets and blankets. [shudders] Sometimes I feel thankful to be in this phantom state!

Francis:
A little cleanliness won’t kill you.

Lazarus:
Everything to you cher frère, is saturated with filth.

Francis:
[clapping his hands over his ears]
Our souls need constant fumigation!

Lazarus:
Fumigation? [flicks some cigarette ash onto the stove and marches up to Francis’ door] Let’s get one thing straight here. I crave turmoil. I worship turmoil. I’d sell my soul for a sixth of an ounce of turmoil. Yessirree, the last thing on my mind is fumigation!

Marguerite:
You make my head spin!

Francis:
When a sinner accepts Christ there is no turmoil. There are no questions. My body is a dwelling place for the Lord.

Lazarus:
You’re sure you never seriously considered taking up the priesthood?

Francis:
N-no, I— God has a deeper calling for me.

Lazarus:
I get all my deeper callings late at night!

Francis:
Back to the same filthy thoughts.

Marguerite:
The filthier the better!

Lazarus:
It sounds to me like you’re ready for a double vermouth!

Francis:
Listen to me, just this once? Like you I was polluted. I had no respect for my soul. I too was angry. I too kept cramming my body with every poison I could lay my hands on. Until one night.

Lazarus:
Oh please. [snorts]

Francis:
There I was—no, no, listen please Lazarus! [walks toward Lazarus]—there I was, lying in the gutter, denouncing the God I had been taught to fear as a child when an angel, a beautiful angel, picked me up, held me in her arms and whispered, “do not despair. God has a purpose for you!”

Lazarus:
[lets out an extended sigh of resignation and slams himself down in the chair next to the stove]
Tell us again about your beautiful angel.
[whisks his index finger through the pilot flame he used to light his cigarette]

Francis:
Her hair was long, her face paler than silver. She wore a robe of purest ivory
and it flowed—

Lazarus:
She, she, she! Come off it, Frankie! Don’t you mean that he was perfect,
that his hair was paler than fog?

Francis:
Stop confusing me!

Lazarus:
That boy who rescued you.

Francis:
Filth and corruption! What else can I expect from someone
who lets the devil control his tongue?

Lazarus:
Oh Francis, we can run from the mysteries of life. But Jesus knows our hearts, doesn’t he? [eyeing the saucepan, whose water is starting to boil, he tosses the end of his cigarette on the floor next to Francis]

Francis:
Dirt, dirt, dirty. Tomorrow I shall attack that floor with a stiff brush. I cleaned the floors yesterday afternoon — how could this have happened so soon?
The same old coffee stain! Look, it’s Sunday’s tomato sauce!
And what’s this, a cigarette butt?

Lazarus:
Yickety-yackety-yuck! Christ! You’re damn lucky I don’t dump my overflowing ashtray all over your precious altar.

Francis:
You will never be permitted in my room if you keep talking that way.

Lazarus:
Who the hell cares? A lifetime of cleaning couldn’t rescue this dump.

Marguerite:
Hey! This is my home you’re putting down. Have a little respect for the dead, eh?

Francis:
[wags his finger in Lazarus’ face] If you did your share, instead of wasting your life in those bars...

Lazarus:
[pounces on the boiling saucepan] I thought the damned water would never boil. Out of my way Saint Francis! Even the devil needs his sustenance.

Francis:
Keep away from George’s cream!

Lazarus:
Up yours, two-shoes! [slops hot water into his mug, stirs some cream into it, and sits down in the old armchair, cradling the mug]

Francis:
[scurries back to his room and slams himself down in the rocker. After ten seconds of furious rocking he stands up and walks to the window, which he tries to open.] My God, it’s jammed. [He scratches away some of the frost and squints through the pane]

Marguerite:

Francis:
[smooths his hair and rushes over to his battered dresser where he removes a silk kimono from its bottom drawer] I remember, I remember. . .

Marguerite:
Oh-oh! He’s pulling out the heavy ammunition!

Francis:
[dreamily] This fabric is permeated with the last days of my youth.

Marguerite:
Don’t do it Francis—

Francis:
My platinum-haired goddess whose glistening mouth was obscured by shadows ...

Marguerite:
My God, here come the delusions!

Francis:
No, no, not a goddess but an angel! A real angel, whose marble physique you’d find in a garden of heavenly sculptures. [he reaches nervously for a bottle in the top drawer of his dresser]

Marguerite:
That’s it, Francis. Time for your vitamins!

Francis:
[nervously takes some pills from a jar on the night stand, lifts the bottle to his mouth and gulps] It’s as vivid as the evening I opened that gold-papered box.

Marguerite:
Come off it, Francis, that’s ancient history. You’re practically a man of the cloth now. Put those deadly memories away!

Francis:
[he slips the kimono on, over his other clothing] See? There are no loose threads, no torn seams, only roses, lilacs, sunflowers...

Marguerite:
Gorgeous, simply gorgeous.

Francis:
Angels come in many miraculous forms. We can never be sure when one will enter our lives... [turns to stare at his window]   

Marguerite:
You’ve got to admit, piety like his is hard to find!

Francis:
When her mouth covered mine I was consumed as I have never been consumed. Her roses and marigolds washed through me like hungry flames...[Marguerite clasps her hands together in mock-bliss]

Lazarus:
Would you tone it down in there, you poor love-starved wretch? I’m trying to drink my coffee, for Christ’s sake.

Francis:
I was ascending until I was no longer human — until I had become one with the angels themselves. [breaks into hysterical tears]

Marguerite:
[makes herself comfortable on Francis’ bed] You know, sometimes in the middle of the night I can feel his prayers penetrating this room, backfiring against these walls.

Francis:
Oh Lord, I don’t ask much of you. If you won’t bring me back my angel, you can at least heal the mind of that demon across the hall...I refuse to stop until you answer me, Lord!

Marguerite:
Nosirreee...devotion like that doesn’t grow on trees! [breaks into gales of unexpected laughter]

Lazarus:
My body’s still ringing from last night’s disgustingly imperfect love bath,
thank you very much!

Francis:
You’re jealous! Just because I found perfect love.

Lazarus:
Yeah, right. Perfect love. I’m eaten apart with envy. Just think, instead of steamy summers down at the Old Port, I could’ve been howling away my lonely hours in this chamber of horrors.

Francis:
I no longer need wine or cheap one-night stands.

Marguerite:
The cheaper the better!

Lazarus:
Let it all out!

Francis:
Silence, you anti-Christ!

Voice of Claude the janitor:
Could you guys keep it down! George is trying to get some sleep.

Lazarus:
How much did that brute pay you off to give such a damn? [lowers his voice] Trying to sleep, my ass!

Francis:
Why must you be such a disrupter?

Marguerite:
[Marguerite tiptoes over to Francis’ window and peers out] Ever notice the way this house squats like a snowed-in satyr, waiting for the sun to breathe affection back into it...

Francis:
[turns to face the window, almost as if he can hear Marguerite]
Winter’s purpose is to provide us with a taste of hell.

Marguerite:
The temperature has plummeted far below zero. Too cold for the little girl to play in that yard where the snow is congealing under a clothesline full of sheets and underwear.

Francis:
Is my little Natalie stranded by the storm? Or is she trapped behind a classroom window somewhere?

Lazarus:
Oh not that again!If you feel guilty, why don’t you go over and play
with little Brat-alie, for Christ’s sake?

Francis:
God placed her here for a very special purpose.

Lazarus:
So when are you going over to take her to the zoo?

Francis:
It would be highly improper for me to talk to her. Besides, I’m not feeling well.

Lazarus:
Improper? Up yours! If you gave that much of a damn you’d bloody-well push yourself over there and take her to the zoo, for crap’s sake!

Francis:
She is constantly in my prayers.

Lazarus:
Fat lot of good that’s going to do. That’s the trouble with you prayer-freaks. All talk, nary a useful action.

Francis:
My God! There she is! With her mother!

Marguerite:
[peers harder through the pane] My God, he’s right!

Francis:
Her mother’s dragging little Natalie by the arm. There’s a big bundle on the curb. It looks like — no! — please God, no!

Marguerite:
Somebody didn’t pay their rent.

Lazarus:
Now who’s having a cow?

Francis:
My Natalie’s crying! No, ma chérie, you’ll be all right. Don’t take her away!
[starts pounding on the window]

Marguerite:
Looks like somebody’s skippin’ bail, all right!

Francis:
Don’t you pull her arm like that—

Marguerite:
Never interfere with an angry landlord!

Claude:
[appears in exit doorway, hauling bag of garbage; he is tall and well-built, with an affable, too-trusting expression]
Hey people, keep it down! What’s all the ruckus about anyway?

Francis:
It’s Natalie!

Marguerite:
Natalie’s moving, Mon Cher!

Claude:
[picking up bits of garbage from around the stove and throwing them into the large bag] You mean that little kid out back?

Lazarus:
Good riddance I say. If I have to listen to any more namby-pamby mooing,
I’ll commit hari-kari here and now!

Francis:
You’ll never understand. Claude! Stop them! Quick, before that taxi takes off!

Claude:
Take it easy, Francis! There’s nothing I can do about it. Too bad.  [shakes his head and disappears through the exit doorway, garbage in hand]

Lazarus:
Oh boo hoo hoo!

Francis:
Is there nothing sacred?
[Exhausted, he moves away from the window, straightens the blue curtains before he walks over to his bed, slips a hand under it and pulls out a bottle. He checks over his shoulder before he hurries the bottle to his lips.]

Lazarus:
[as he leans over the stove] You unholy pain in the ass. That little whelp was just another excuse to pump up your martyr complex.

Francis:
[quickly hides the bottle away] She was my last hope!

Lazarus:
You’re just like all the other Judases. If truth be told, you’d let that kid fall into the seventh circle of hell. Like everyone else in her life. [traipses back into his room and hunches on the edge of his bed, cradling his coffee]

Francis:
God placed her in my life for a very special purpose.

Marguerite:
You never even met the girl, Frankie.

Lazarus:
When did you ever share a lousy cup of soup with her? Talk with her?

Francis:
Prayer is far richer than mere food.

Lazarus:
By the looks of it, your prayers just got that kid and her mother booted out
on the street.

Francis:
God has a plan.

Marguerite:
Oh that he does indeed!

Lazarus:
The leopard never changes his spots, Franky-Wanky. [looks at his wristwatch] Oh well, I guess it’ll soon be time for another one of your insufferable pilgrimages. Did you really crawl all the way up to St. Joseph’s last week?

Francis:
Each and every step. [suddenly hopeful] You should try it sometime.

Marguerite:
[bottle in hand, gets up and addresses the audience]
Oh he does it all right! I can vouch for that. Hauls those poor skinny knees of his up each and every wooden stair.

Lazarus:
Maybe I’ll go one day, see for myself just how you pull it off. But I warn you,
my kneecaps can only handle a certain amount of brutality!

Francis:
Oh Lazarus, just once, won’t you try it with me? It’s not as hard as you think! Would you really consider accompanying me on my next pilgrimage?

Lazarus:
Oh what the hell. Sure, why not? Those padres could probably use a little
action in their lives.

Francis:
Keep a decent tongue in your head while you’re on God’s property.

Lazarus:
I thought the whole world was “God’s property!”

Marguerite:
[slumps in the armchair next to the stove]
I never really warmed up to holyrollers myself!

Francis:
You have to experience it. There’s nothing like it! I see myself.

[stage grows dark except for Francis in a spotlight; Lazarus and Marguerite freeze where they are]

Yes.

Very clearly. [up above their rooms, stage left, a cross appears, plain, bathed in violet light; a cemetery vista appears stage right, black and white. Francis drops to his knees.]

There I am, crossing the Notre Dame des Neiges cemetery. I am making a pilgrimage to the top of Mount Royal. My knees are crumbling. My lungs are exploding. The cold rain is cutting across my face. But I succeed. I succeed! I am kneeling to embrace the metallic foot of the cross. Our Lord appears.
[crawls to the cross]

Lazarus:
Frankie, I wish I had an eighth of your imagination! Metal crosses. Floating angels!

Francis:
[Cross turns from violet to bright yellow, then orange.]
He rises all around me in tongues of flame and restores my frozen body
with His warmth.

Lazarus:
Tongues of flame? Bring me my fan!

Francis:
I live to press my face into the waiting grace of my God.

Lazarus:
Wouldn’t you much rather press your face into a well-built, hot
young macho chest?

Francis:
I pray for the weak who invade my solace.
[the cross and cemetery fade to black]

Lazarus:
It’s no use, darling. Sooner or later you’ll have to open yourself completely,
give in to all desire, fall freely into your chosen sticky abyss.

Francis:
And if I did, my life would be a constant puddle of misery like yours.

Lazarus:
If you don’t— [kicks the stove] —you’ll dry up like the parchment you’re becoming and nobody will give a damn. Least of all God! Think about it, you’d actually be letting your creator down, depriving him of his entertainment.

Marguerite:
He’s right, Francis! Isn’t it time you stopped locking yourself away
in that churchy tomb?

Francis:
That hallway is foul. If we all pitch in together, think of the difference we can make. Why won’t you wash that scruffy hair once in a while? And that decrepit shirt—

Lazarus:
Rah-rah-rah!
[kicks the stove again as Claude comes through exit with garbage
and almost collides with Francis]

Marguerite:
Watch that stove!

Claude:
I wish you guys would take your arguments outside. George needs his sleep, y’know.

Lazarus:
Outside? In this deep freeze? Claude, I hope you’re joking.

Claude:
What am I gonna do? The guy’s never late with the rent.

Lazarus:
Big deal! [sketches the air with his cigarette]
I’ve been nearly two years in this pig trough. That’s far too long for
Lazarus-baby. It’s time to get the hell o-u-t.

Marguerite:
But where would you go? You’d only be trading one low-rent dive for another.

Lazarus:
I’ve always wondered what the west end would be like.

Claude:
East end, west end, what’s the difference?

Marguerite:
Come on, boy.You’ve worn out your welcome in every corner of this city. Look at you! Your thirty-three-year-old body looks twice its age. [Claude snickers uncomfortably] And that skin of yours. Mutilated by orgy after orgy of heroin, crack boys, cocaine—

Lazarus:
At this point I’d sell my soul for an ounce of obliteration!

Francis:
[whispering loudly] Please help him, Lord. He’s not a bad fellow, really. Please, please, please...

Marguerite:
Better pray harder, Francis!

Francis:
Such white, white skin!

Marguerite:
That’s it, Francis, covet that incredible body, imagine embracing something you’ll never ever have. [takes a swig from her bottle]

Francis:
I know you’ll answer me, Lord. I’m patient.

Marguerite:
And what a body! Pirate shirt! Fifty cent lizard skin belt! What taste!
[Claude bursts out laughing]

Lazarus:
What the hell are you laughing at? [Marguerite dances around Lazarus, waving her hands in his face]

Claude:
[containing himself with great difficulty]
Nothing. Just an old joke I remembered.

Francis:
I am always in contact with my God.

Lazarus:
To hell with your gods! [kicks the stove]

Marguerite:
Quit picking on my stove!

Lazarus:
Salvation like yours Francis my hypocrite, I can live without.

Francis:
Don’t you think it’s time you made your peace with God?

Lazarus:
Keep your prayers, I’ll stick to my vermouth!
[his fingers travel compulsively through his hair]

[Lights are dimmed everywhere except on George’s room, whose façade is pulled away so that the room and its residents become visible. The stove and other landing paraphernalia are shifted out of sight. Everywhere else is dimly backlight, with faint silhouettes. George and his girlfriend Kleo are together in bed, blankets and sheets half-covering them. They alternate between embraces and sighs. Lazarus and Francis are in their respective rooms, each one leaning, ears pressed against their walls, listening intently to the sighing and lovemaking. Second spotlight follows Marguerite, who scurries softly to a corner of George’s room and makes herself at home there, gesturing and taking occasional sips from her bottle.]

Marguerite:
Sometimes I think this is the best part of being a ghost! What a show
those two are putting on!

Lazarus:
Oogh-oogh-oogh [snickers as he momentarily pulls away from the wall]. Oh George, you Romeo, you’re turning all four of my cheeks red! Such finesse! And so-o-o punctual!

Francis:
[in hushed whisper as he presses the side of his head against the wall next to George’s room] How can they carry on like depraved animals?
Disgusting!

Lazarus:
[digs through his shirt and pants pockets] Frig it! Why is it I can never find a smoke when I really need one?

Marguerite:
[shouts over at Lazarus] There’s one on your dresser, you slob!

Lazarus:
What I wouldn’t do to see Frankie’s puss right now.

George:
[stops his attempts at lovemaking and sits up]
What the hell’s the matter with you? [rolls over onto his back].

Kleo:
Guess I’m still feeling upset.

George:
I told you. Barbara came here to pick up some of her stuff. That’s all.

Lazarus:
Lying pig!

Marguerite:
[gets up and races over to Lazarus] You should talk, Lazarus! The way you used to love them and leave them!

Kleo:
Real handy, isn’t it? The ex-girlfriend suddenly remembers she left some junk behind after six months. If I hadn’t come back  when I did, she’d have stayed here all night.

George:
There you go with the accusations again. Ah, I don’t stand a chance.

Kleo:
I heard you two shuffling around when I knocked on the door. As if you were getting dressed.

George:
I was just digging her suitcase out of the closet, okay? You saw her holding it when I opened the door, didn’t you?

Kleo:
I saw you putting it back in the closet! And she was lying on the bed!

Lazarus:
Give it to him, sister!

Francis:
God will wipe all sinners out of existence.

George:
You’re such a typical female, you know that? You’ve got to go starting a big argument just when everything’s going fine again.

Kleo:
Oh yeah? You tell me, [heaves herself up out of the bed and starts pacing the room] “I can’t live without you, Baby!” “We were meant to be together!” “There never was anying between Barbara and me!”

George:
[takes a puff and feigns innocence] I keep trying to tell you, it was nothing.

Kleo:
Okay George, forget it. [starts to get dressed] I promised to get these tax forms to Jamie by four.

George:
Don’t rush out like that. I’m more important than some two-bit clerk. What is he, some kind of immigrant, can’t figure out his own tax forms?

Kleo:
He needs some help and he paid me to do his taxes for him.
[starts digging in her knapsack]

George:
Taxes, schmaxes! [angrily puffs at his cigarette] That creep’s probably using this as an excuse to weasel you into the sack.

Marguerite:
That big fool’s been begging for it. Ever since he started seeing her...let’s see now, when was it? Ah yes, last summer. Time goes by so fast, even in my zone!

Kleo:
[sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to write] Jamie is under a lot of pressure. He called me a real life saver.

George:
What about me? I need you more than that wimp! He probably dishes the same spiel to anyone who’s sucker enough to listen.

Kleo:
I guess I’d be better off pumping my hard-earned pay cheques into your gambling career.

George:
For the last time, it’s not gambling. It’s investing. What the hell’s the matter with you? Why do you keep dredging up the same put-downs? As if you’re so perfect!

Kleo:
The stock market’s nothing but a corporate casino. If you weren’t wasting so much money there, maybe you could afford a decent place to live.

George:
[slumps back down on the bed] I knew you’d start up again.
You’ve got no faith in me. No faith at all.

Kleo:
Don’t tell me you’re sliding into one of your depressions again?

George:
Oh sure, sliding into— ! Like it’s some kind of amusement park ride.

Kleo:
That’s just what I need, another one of your guilty diatribes.

George:
Look at me! I’m twenty five years old. A glorified eight-dollar-an-hour security guard!

Marguerite:
Here he goes again! Where’d I put that hankie?

Kleo:
These jobs are only temporary. The economy will improve—

George:
The economy’s only part of the problem. What’ve I got to look forward to?
A lifetime of guarding someone else’s crap. A paid sitting duck.

Kleo:
So what do you want to do with your life?

George:
For a start I’d like to wake up tomorrow morning and find a pillow full of cash
under my head.

Lazarus:
Wouldn’t we all?

Kleo:
Get serious.

George:
I’m dead serious. If I could afford to choose I wouldn’t be sitting here in this dump mouthing about it. I’d be lying on some beach for the rest of my life, living off all the right investments.

Lazarus:
[applauding] Here, here!

Marguerite:
Me too!

Kleo:
Get real.

George:
On six hundred bucks a month?

Kleo:
You can do better than that.

George:
God, this has been one of the lousiest weeks of my life. It’s gotten  to the point where I’ll need clamps to keep my eyes open.

Kleo:
I just lost my administrational job at the bank and you don’t hear me complaining!

George:
They laid you off?

Kleo:
I didn’t want to bring it up. [rummages in her bag next to the bed until she finds a cigarette]

George:
Why not? You’re bringing everything else up. [collapses back on the bed]
Give me one of those, would you?

Kleo:
[hands him one] You’re supposed to be quitting.

George:
And I will. When you do. God. I didn’t think this week could get any worse. [urgently] You don’t happen to have any cash put away?

Kleo:
[incredulous] You already owe me two hundred dollars!

George:
I’ve got to repay a loan. Oh Christ, I’m ruined.

Marguerite:
Poor George! Never seems to get a break from this mindless kick in the face
we call life.

Kleo:
You’ll have to dig elsewhere. I’m flat. Besides, I hate to see you smoking...

George:
You should talk. It calms my nerves, okay? [finally finds a match and lights up]

Kleo:
It really only makes you feel worse.

Marguerite:
[coughing and waving her arms] Makes him feel worse? What about me? My God, how long has it been since I indulged in the pleasures of nicotine?

George:
I’ll make you a deal, okay? Find me ten thousand bucks and I’ll quit cold!

Marguerite:
Now there’s a sucker bet if I ever heard one!

Kleo:
How much did you lose this time?

George:
I don’t want to talk about it.

Kleo:
I hope you haven’t been spending any of my hard-earned money on those
so-called insider’s tips of yours.

George:
That’s all I ever hear now. Screw you and your hard-earned life!

Kleo:
Gladly. Just give me back my money.

George:
Rotten luck, that’s all. My connections—

Kleo:
Connections! And how much have those connections cost you?Oh George, everyone knows the only way to be “connected” is to be running the company controlling the stocks.

Marguerite:
Let’s see now. Counting last Tuesday’s bomb that comes to one thousand six hundred seventy bucks—and twenty eight cents! [turns to the audience]
You’d be surprised at the kind of information that’s available to us friendly spirits!

George:
[punches the mattress] You talk big when it comes to my crumby working life! But now that I’ve got a dream that might just make me some real dough...ahh, you’ve got no faith at all!

Kleo:
The stock market’s a dangerous waste of time and money. Before you know it, you’re hooked. Just like poker or the casino.

George:
You’re just as bad as my old man, you’d pat me on the back if I spent the rest of my life in some moronic factory, slaving for some greasy fat cat.

Kleo:
I am not your father, okay?

George:
Remember that one-week guard stint I had last month at Stellar Pharmaceuticals?

Kleo:
What about it?

Lazarus:
Tell us, Georgie!

George:
Yesterday I went in there, trying to collect for the fifth time. That bitch of a receptionist told me to be patient.

Kleo:
Is that all she said?

Marguerite:
Bet you anything that lady also turned down George’s advances!

George:
Then she asks me why I’m making such a big deal out of a lousy three hundred fifty bucks! I told her, “Maybe you can come over and help my landlord understand why I’m two weeks late with the rent?”

Marguerite:
My God! That boss of his sounds no better than Cabrelle.One of these nights I’ll haunt that buzzard so badly, he’ll jump out of that twentieth story window of his!

Kleo:
There must be some decent work out there.

George:
You won’t know the meaning of the word desperate until you’ve witnessed an ex-corporate executive lining up for unemployment. You see what I’m up against?

Marguerite:
You know, folks, George is just saying all this to keep Kleo’s mind off his gambling! Here, have a look. See this? [digs a pay stub out of a wastebasket in the corner of George’s room] Stellar paid him over two weeks ago. Oh George, you’re the master of distraction!

Kleo:
I’d better get going.

George:
Come here. What’s a few more minutes? Come on. Please? [puts his arm around her and sighs, snuffs out his cigarette in the ashtray next to the bed; Kleo reluctantly lies back with him, as the lights fade to sounds of shifting and creaking bedsprings]

Marguerite:
That’s my boy! Give her a big one for me!

Lights dim as the stage is shifted back to the original rooming house setting.

Francis:
Dirty! Dirty! [finally forgets himself, straightens up and shouts at the top of his lungs] In the name of God I beg you to stop degrading your bodies!

Marguerite:
Shhhhht, Francis! Pipe down. Life was never meant to be that holy.
Let the kids have their fun.

Lazarus:
Damn it! Now that loudmouthed, priestly parasite has gone and ruined my afternoon’s entertainment.

Kleo:
Oh my God! Do you think they heard us?

Marguerite:
Why can’t Francis learn to mind his own business?

George:
[pushes himself up off the bed and stomps around his room, screaming]
You nosy perverts! One of these days, I swear I’ll come and squeeze
the life out of both of you.

Lights back up, the original setting is back in place. Lazarus and Francis open their doors and stare expectantly at George’s door. Marguerite is back in her favourite armchair next to the stove.

Kleo:
George! Would you calm down!

George:
What makes them think they have the right to interfere with my life?
I can’t believe this! No! Kleo! Don’t go!

Kleo:
I had no idea you were this violent.

George:
Whose side are you on? You’d feel goddamned violent if you were stuck
next door to these fags.

Kleo:
And you talk like a bigot. I’m beginning to wonder if I really know you, George.

George:
A bigot? What? Oh my, I’m so sorry. What would you rather I called them,
a pair of pansies?Or maybe a couple of big fruit salads?

Lazarus:
[laughing] Saint Francis is your instigator, not me! I’m just sitting here minding my own business, George darling.

Francis:
Shame! Shame on you, defiling the temples of your souls.

Lazarus:
See what I mean!

George:
Don’t let those bastards dictate our lives. They’re only a pair of welfare bums
for Christ’s sake!

Lazarus:
Speak for yourself, Mister Two Weeks Late With the Rent!

Kleo:
[steps into the audience’s view, pulling on her hat and scarf, hoists a backpack over her shoulders and hurries the door shut behind her.] I’ll call you later!

Lazarus:
I’ll call you, Georgiekins! [makes kissing sounds]

Marguerite:
That’s it, you big juvenile, rub it in!

Kleo:
Why don’t you just leave him alone?

Lazarus:
Maybe if he kept that big bassoon of a mouth shut and treated us with respect,
we’d all be friends!

Francis:
Adulteress! [emerging from his doorway, pointing at her]
May God have mercy on your soul! Confess! Confess!

Kleo:
Why don’t you go to hell, you peeping tom! [head hunched into her coat collar, she hurries through the exit doorway and out of view; Francis stands outside his door, too stunned to speak]

Lazarus:
I’m in love! I’m in love! [shouts after Kleo] Come on back and we’ll share a vermouth! [Francis hurries back inside his room and shuts his door]

George:
[comes rushing out of his room, shirt and pants hurriedly pulled on, and begins bashing on Francis’ door as Lazarus makes a bolt for his room] It’s time I taught you a lesson, you soup kitchen junkies!

Lazarus:
[as he slams his door] Double your door-bolts, Frankie, this boy’s out for our blood! You really pushed him over the edge this time.

George:
[turning to Lazarus’ door] You’re next, two-bit hag. God I don’t know who’s worse, this religious freak or the frip across the hall.

Francis:
Why does everyone persecute me?

Marguerite:
Because it turns you on, Father Frankie!

George:
Open the door, fag! [rushes over to pound on Lazarus’ door]

Francis:
[shouting from behind his door] Please don’t hurt me. I am only concerned
about the state of your eternal soul.

George:
Go take a flying—ah, what’s the use? I’d probably catch AIDS just talking
to you lice.

Lazarus:
That’s right you homophobic reject, hit right below the place you know best.

George:
I’m going to see Cabrelle about this. He’ll kick both of you out.

Marguerite:
I wouldn’t count on that!

Lazarus:
Cabrelle? Ha! You make me laugh so hard I’ll pop my lizard belt!
Do you have any idea much arm-pulling it took to sucker us all in here?

Marguerite:
Ain’t that a fact!

George:
We’ll see what he says when I tell him about your screwing around
with his precious janitor-boy.

Marguerite:
And while you’re at it, tell him about my murder. What’s a ghost have to do
to get them to listen?

Lazarus:
Go right ahead. I hear Cabrelle’s into the brawny brainless night watchman type!

George:
You’re such a typical fag. Only got one thing on your mind and you never get enough of it, do you?

Lazarus:
Now ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black! You’ve bedded more pick-ups in the last two months than I have in a year!

George:
Come out here and say that to my face.

Lazarus:
Not a chance, Georgie-poo. And you can tell old Cabrelle to kiss my arse while you’re at it.

Francis:
[bellowing from behind his door] In God’s name, stop!

Marguerite:
Welcome to the loony bin!

George
[shoves the chair out of place just as Marguerite is getting up] To hell with the whole faggot lot of you. [stomps back to his room and slams the door]

Lazarus:
Bon Voyage!

Marguerite:
Why bother?  [shakes her head, turns and walks pensively back to the arm chair, moves it back in its place, sits down and turns to the audience] You see what I mean about rooming house life? We don’t have to go to hell. We’re already living in it! [picks up her old newspaper and stares at it as the lights fade]

End of Act 1

Act 2 >

Saint Francis of Esplanade
 © 2001 Sonja Skarstedt