Synopsis
In a crumbling apartment, a destitute former artist reflects on her failed marriage, lost lovers, and fading dreams, as she pleads with an old friend for one last chance at connection and reinvention.
Character Description
In her early 50s, Else exudes a defiant charm that barely conceals her weariness. Her once-striking beauty is weathered but still luminous. Her gestures are bold and theatrical, but there’s a fragility in her quieter moments.
Setting
The monologue unfolds in a shabby, dimly lit apartment, cluttered with mismatched, scrapped furniture and inexplicable bits of hardware. A rickety round table serves as the centerpiece, holding a half-empty bottle of absinthe, two mismatched glasses, and a sugar spoon. The walls are peeling, revealing layers of faded wallpaper, and a single window with tattered curtains lets in a faint, grimy light. The room is sparsely furnished.
________________________________________
Else
I farted. Yes. That was the end of that marriage. I thought you’d laugh. The truth is you probably would have liked him. The first time Paul saw me, I was working in a theater in New York with a tableau vivant group. Living tableaus that recreate famous paintings. You’ve seen them, haven’t you? I was Eros, wrapped in a white cloth, one tit out, powdered with flour. I looked as dry and preserved as a relic, and probably as much like a man as a woman. I was appealing, of course, to some. I think our entire relationship started off with a misunderstanding: it was obvious to me that Paul desired me, but I didn’t realize until later that he desired me as Eros.
Have another absinthe, Karl. It’s better than breakfast.
(Pause. The actress invites a member of the audience up to sit in a chair and gives them a drink. She will address the person as Karl for the rest of the monologue.)
Paul took me in at once. I thought, why not? I was free. Indigent, but free. I’d managed to get to New York after Reynard abandoned me in the middle of that awful country.
(Pause. She fills her own glass and drinks it quickly.)
I was a little lost in New York alone. I’d followed Reynard to Kentucky, and he left me while I was out tending to apple trees in his orchard, pretending to be some kind of domestic creature. I know you warned me not to go looking for Reynard in America. But I needed more than your friendship. I know now that I didn’t need more, but I needed “and.” I needed your friendship and a man who wanted to have sex with women… And, well, Reynard was good at sex. At that time, I thought friendship was just the running-up stage to sex. And even if I had accepted our friendship for what it was—I wasn’t prepared to starve. Or to be a celibate. Not then. Don’t look so surprised. Or do. I guess I should take the look on your face as a compliment. Maybe I don’t look as dead as I feel. I feel a bit like an Eros trapped in resin again. Don’t worry, I won’t take my tits out.
(Pause.)
Look. We’ve barely put a dent in it.
(Indicating that she will top off his glass if he would like.)
Karl?... (Pause.)
I’m hoping the fact that you’re here now means you’ve forgiven me for leaving you. I’ve thought of you often since we parted in Berlin.
(Pause.)
Remember how we were together in Italy? How we performed as the well-to-do every night at the cafés. Absinthe and cigarettes. Not a care in the world. You would pay for my cigarettes, even when that meant you’d be skipping breakfast the next day. That was all right, wasn’t it? We both liked the little scenes sewn onto the fabric of our lives. Sometimes we need make-believe. We need an audience to bring us to life.
Paul never could be a playmate or an audience. Of course, I didn’t know that at first. The weird thing was that Paul didn’t mind if I left home alone in a toga and a soup can bra. Which I did. He didn’t care, as long as he wasn’t going to be seen with me, or as long as he didn’t have to look at me. Paul isn’t an artist of any sort. And the artwork that he likes is, well, dead. Like the paintings in the museum. Paul is a baron, after all. I thought you’d like that. Yes, I am a baroness. Living in this hovel. Feeding the mice that live in the cupboards. I’ve become a frayed cuff on the wrist of the bloodless aristocracy.
Yes. Actually, you and Paul have much in common. He reminded me of you. Except Paul has no sense of humor whatsoever. Do you know the American expression “down on his luck”? Paul was that. Disowned by his family for disgracing them. He was broke. He tried to wear fine clothes, though. Despite the frayed cuffs of his slightly yellowed shirts. Like yours. He tried to keep up appearances. Like you did.
There was a time at the beginning when I didn’t have to ask for money. I didn’t have to ask for anything. Or give anything, unfortunately. With the Baron, it was all about what I had to withhold in his presence. The wet parts of me. Everything that had distinction of life: sweat, blood, phlegm. I held it all in until I was putrid with desires. He tried. I have to say that. He tried. At first, I thought he just preferred very young women. That it was my slight build that interested him. I shaved my body at that time, even my head. Not to please him. No. I started doing that before I met him. And it didn’t please him. He despised my body, which had until that time only been celebrated. Or ignored. It had been touched, explored, contaminated. Not always—not even often—had it been satisfying for me, but it was interesting. Even having the clap had been interesting. For all those years of man-sickness, sex had kept my belly full. But I’d never had to ask. I won’t ask.
I take what I’m given and what I find, and I create its worth by the talent of my attention. I have an artist’s eye—more than that. I have an artist’s instinct to see potential in objects, and I can imbue them with energy. I am the artist and the art object. That’s why I’ve always been good at croquis modeling. Some women just stand there, with their shallow breathing, turning pale after a few minutes, and everything goes a bit slack. Not me. It’s not about stamina, but the ability to know a good pose, not by watching, but by feeling it from the inside. It’s about the flow of transitions, the consciousness of the painter’s gaze. The painter documents. The artist experiences. True art is as transient as sex—what’s left behind, sketches or lovers, are only artifacts of the act.
You get it, don’t you? Paul never did. If I wanted him to look at me, I had to play his kind of theater. And I did. Or I tried. Until that evening when we were standing in the salon side by side, watching the sunset. It was a very bourgeois moment: when I farted. I could tell you that I didn’t mean to. But the truth is, I couldn’t be bothered not to. Men had given me money because I had sex with them. But denying my own physical being for Paul’s sake was the first time I felt like a prostitute. I was done with it. So, yes, Karl, I farted my way out of the marriage. I don’t think he was surprised. He didn’t say a word but disappeared into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He was gone the next morning. He went to France to join the war. I heard that his death was bloody. Wet and twisted. Nothing like the kind of artworks he liked. That’s the saddest part: even in death, he couldn’t escape the bodily gore of life.
(She tops his glass up. Toasts.)
To Paul. Turns out he wasn’t part of the bloodless aristocracy, after all.
We’ve drained it. Good. I need to leave the cupboards bare. I’m leaving for Paris now that it’s safe. I’m going to open my own modeling company and hope the artists can pay. Karl, I know we haven’t talked in a long time. It’s taken me months to dare to contact you. I really have missed you. More than I’ve ever missed a lover. And I learned a lot from Paul. I know I’ve made him out to be a dandy, he loved me as best he could, and I realized that no matter how hard we try, we can’t change who we are, we can’t change other people into what we think they should be.
I asked you to come this morning because I’d want you to come with me. To Paris. This time, I won’t ask for more than you can give. I promise. Now I understand how you love me. Or did love me, maybe. I’d like to try again as—whatever we were—and I will leave you room for your “and.” I have a little inheritance, and I can buy your cigarettes. I can be the one to let you put your head here, where my heart is, when a lover hurts you. It’s my turn to be your friend. If you’ll have me. Meet me at the docks tonight, packed or ready to say goodbye. You won’t be able to miss me. I’ll be the woman wearing a wedding cake on her head.
Absinthe and Cigarettes © Ren Powell 2024
This monologue is a result of character work for a larger work in progress, loosely based on a historical figure.
Staged reading:
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I’ll be back next week with a new poem.
Warmly,
Ren
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Witty, funny and engaging, exactly what I needed this afternoon
Have you finished it yet? Intriguing.