Contents
Other Books by Michel Tremblay
The Driving Force
A Play by Michel Tremblay
Translated by Linda Gaboriau
for Wajdi Mouawad,
who suggested that I revisit the characters of Alex and Claude in Le Vrai Monde?
First Production Notes
L’impératif présent was first presented on October 17, 2003 at the Théâtre de Quat’Sous in Montreal with the following cast and crew:
ALEX: Jacques Godin
CLAUDE: Robert Lalonde
Director: André Brassard
Set design: Richard Lacroix
Costume design: Mérédith Caron
Lighting: Michel Beaulieu
Assistant Director: Isabelle Brodeur
Characters
ALEX, 77
CLAUDE, 55
ACT ONE
ALEX’s room in a home for Alzeimer’s patients.
ALEX is sitting in a wheelchair.
CLAUDE, his son, has just finished washing and dressing him and is patting his cheeks with eau de cologne.
ALEX will remain perfectly still, absent, during the entire act.
CLAUDE
You don’t know what this takes out of me, do you? The physical effort … and all the rest … Washing you. Powdering you. Putting on your diaper, your clean pyjamas. Shaving you. Patting your cheeks with cologne. Just to cover up how you’re going to smell in half an hour. So it won’t stink the minute we open the door. To create the illusion that you’re clean for a while.
He has finished grooming his father. He backs away from the chair and examines his work.
How long’s it going to take before you start deteriorating again? Your brain has practically stopped working, but your heart goes on pumping like nothing was wrong. You always had a thick head of hair, and a heavy beard. If I weren’t here to shave you … They don’t have the time around here, do they? I mean, they can’t doll you up like I do, they can’t devote the whole afternoon to you, they make it short and sweet, deal with the most pressing stuff, the most urgent, they’ve got other cases, worse cases, the bedridden ones who can’t be moved … They don’t have time to climb into the tub with you to give you more than a sponge bath … They’ll oil your body every night so you don’t get bedsores, but they won’t climb into the tub with you to give you a bath ...
He leans over his father.
When that happens to you, when they can’t move you anymore, when that time comes and you can’t get out of your bed, I promise I’ll go on shaving you. And patting your cheeks with cologne.
Silence.
It’s called dignity.
Silence.
What are you thinking about? You must be thinking about something? I don’t see how someone can stop thinking. Completely. Are you really not aware of anything? Not so long ago, you used to look at me with, I don’t know, let’s say a trace of intensity. You followed me around the room with your eyes. You didn’t know who I was, but I was there, you saw me, and your eyes followed me. Now when I walk by you, you don’t even blink. You look like an old, grouchy baby. Are you blind? Has your brain stopped sending messages to your eyes? Has it stopped telling your eyes that they should close once in a while, to lubricate them? When we put those drops in your eyes, can you feel them overflow and run down your cheeks? No, you can’t, right? We have to wipe them to prevent them from running into your mouth because they could be poisonous. There’s lead in eyedrops, and lead is dangerous. Think about it, when I was starting out, when I was a linotypist, I was the one who was facing lead poisoning. And now I’m putting lead in your eyes. I don’t know how many gallons it would take for your body to finally react … for your heart to stop, or explode … But that would mean you’d have to have one. And it’s too late for that, right? Today’s not the day you’re going to start having a heart … Actually, we can’t even say it’s too late. No. There was never a time for that. And even if you’d had a heart as big as the world, what would that change now? Right now, today, between the two of us? You’d still be in the same place. And so would I. I’d still come and do exactly the same things. We’d still be staring at each other, you in your diaper you’ve probably already started to dirty, and me, barely dry after our bath together. The only thing that would be different is our past. Our memories. But since you wouldn’t have any memories, because you’d be in the same state, it wouldn’t change a thing for you. Nothing would be different for you today, if you had been a devoted, loving father, so why weren’t you? It wouldn’t change a thing!
He moves away, goes to sit on the edge of his father’s bed.
This afternoon, on my way here, I had some errands to do, I had to buy myself a pair of shoes, and at one point, I walked by Ogilvy’s. It’s weird how things happen, sometimes … Without thinking twice, really, I swear I didn’t think about it, otherwise I would’ve felt stupid and I wouldn’t have done it, but really, without thinking, I walked into Ogilvy’s and headed straight for the perfume counter. Never saw so much perfume! The place smelled of wealthy women, like intermission at Place des Arts. Everything was shiny and chic, with glass and mirrors everywhere … They say our sense of smell triggers our memories best, so … I wanted to try even though I figured it was impossible … Anyway, I pounced on the first saleslady I saw, a pretty lady of a certain age, well-dressed, well-groomed, all neat and clean, with a big smile on her face because she probably figured she’d be sure to sell some expensive perfume to the middle-aged man who was heading toward her … for his pretty secretary, or his mistress, or maybe for his actual wife if he was as straightlaced as he looked … She didn’t recognize me. Guess she never goes to the theatre. I went right up to her and without thinking, I swear, I asked her, “Does Lotus by Yardley still exist?” Honestly … I didn’t even know if the Yardley company still existed! And you know what she said? “Even if it still existed, I doubt that we’d sell it here, sir. I think they used to sell it in drugstores.” Is that true? I know, I can remember clearly that we bought yours at the drugstore, but is it true they didn’t sell it anywhere else? One thing’s for sure, it was pretty cheap. Every year, Ma would give me seventy-five cents and say, “It’s your father’s birthday next week, go buy him his bottle of Lotus by Yardley.” Seventy-five cents plus tax. That’s what your birthday present cost us. And it wasn’t even me who paid for it. I’d ask them to gift-wrap it … always the same drugstore paper with the little blue and gold flowers on a white background … When I gave it to you, you’d