Angels in America (16 page)

     
(Little pause)

     
You know what my greatest accomplishment was, Joe, in my life, what I am able to look back on and be proudest of? And I have helped make presidents and unmake them and mayors and more goddamn judges than anyone in NYC ever—AND several million dollars, tax-free—and what do you think means the most to me?

     
You ever hear of Ethel Rosenberg? Huh, Joe, huh?

JOE
: Well, yeah, I guess I . . . Yes.

ROY
: Yes. Yes. You have heard of Ethel Rosenberg. Yes. Maybe you even read about her in the history books.

     
If it wasn't for me, Joe, Ethel Rosenberg would be alive today, writing some personal-advice column for
Ms
. magazine. She isn't. Because during the trial, Joe, I was on the phone every day, talking with the judge—

JOE
: Roy—

ROY
: Every day, doing what I do best, talking on the telephone, making sure that timid Yid nebbish on the bench did his duty to America, to history. That sweet unprepossessing woman, two kids, boo-hoo-hoo, reminded us all of our little Jewish mamas—she came this close to getting life; I pleaded till I wept to put her in the chair. Me. I did that. I would have fucking pulled the switch if they'd have let me. Why? Because I fucking hate traitors. Because I fucking hate communists. Was it legal? Fuck legal. Am I a nice man? Fuck nice. They say terrible things about me in the
Nation
. Fuck the
Nation
. You
want to be Nice, or you want to be Effective? Make the law, or subject to it. Choose. Your wife chose. A week from today, she'll be back. SHE knows how to get what SHE wants. Maybe I ought to send
her
to Washington.

JOE
: I don't believe you.

ROY
: Gospel.

JOE
: You can't possibly mean what you're saying. Roy, you were the Assistant United States Attorney on the Rosenberg case, ex-parte communication with the judge during the trial would be . . . censurable, at least, probably conspiracy and . . . in a case that resulted in execution, it's . . .

ROY
: What?
(Challenging)
Murder?

(Pause.)

JOE
: You're not well is all.

ROY
: What do you mean, not well? Who's not well?

(Pause.)

JOE
: You said—

ROY
: No I didn't. I said what?

JOE
: Roy, you have cancer.

ROY
: No I don't.

(Pause.)

JOE
: You told me you were dying.

ROY
: What the fuck are you talking about, Joe? I never said that. I'm in perfect health. There's not a goddamn thing wrong with me.

     
(He smiles)

     
Shake?

(Joe hesitates. He holds out his hand to Roy. Roy pulls Joe into a close, strong clench.)

ROY
: It's OK that you hurt me because I love you, baby Joe. That's why I'm so rough on you.

(Roy releases Joe. Joe backs away a step or two.)

ROY
: Prodigal son. The world will wipe its dirty hands all over you.

JOE
: It already has, Roy.

ROY
: Now go.

(Roy shoves Joe, hard. Joe turns to leave. Roy stops him, turns him around. He smooths the lapels on Joe's coat, tenderly.)

ROY
: I'll always be here, waiting for you . . .

(Then with sudden violence, Roy grabs Joe's lapels and pulls him close, shaking him violently.)

ROY
: What did you want from me?! What was all this?! What do you want, treacherous ungrateful little—

(Joe grabs Roy by the front of his robe, and propels him across the length of the room, slamming him against a bookcase. Joe holds Roy at arm's length, the other arm ready to hit.)

ROY
(Laughing softly, daring Joe)
: Transgress a little, Joseph.

(Joe releases Roy.)

ROY
: There are so many laws; find one you can break.

(Joe hesitates, then turns and hurries out
.

     
Roy doubles over in great pain, which he's been hiding while Joe was in the room. As he sinks to the floor:)

ROY
: Ah, Christ . . .

     
Andy! Andy! Get in here! Andy!

(The door opens, but it isn't Andy. A small Jewish woman dressed modestly in a fifties hat and coat enters the room. The room darkens.)

ROY
: Who the fuck are you? The new nurse?

(The figure in the doorway says nothing. She stares at Roy. A pause. Roy forces himself to stand, then he crosses to her. He stares at her closely. Then he crosses back to a chair, and sits heavily.)

ROY
: Aw, fuck. Ethel.

ETHEL ROSENBERG
(Her manner is pleasant; her voice is ice-cold)
: You don't look good, Roy.

ROY
: Well, Ethel. I don't feel good.

ETHEL ROSENBERG
: But you lost a lot of weight. That suits you. You were heavy back then. Zaftig, mit hips.

ROY
: I haven't been that heavy since 1960. We were all heavier back then, before the body thing started. Now I look like a skeleton. They stare.

ETHEL ROSENBERG
: The shit's really hit the fan, huh, Roy?

(Roy nods.)

ETHEL ROSENBERG
: Well the fun's just started.

ROY
: What is this, Ethel, Halloween? You trying to scare me?

(Ethel says nothing.)

ROY
: Well you're wasting your time! I'm scarier than you any day of the week! So beat it, Ethel! BOOO! BETTER DEAD THAN RED! Somebody trying to shake me up? HAH HAH! From the throne of God in Heaven to the belly of Hell, you can all fuck yourselves and then go jump in the lake because I'M NOT AFRAID OF YOU OR DEATH OR HELL OR ANYTHING!

ETHEL ROSENBERG
: Be seeing you soon, Roy. Julius sends his regards.

ROY
: Yeah, well send this to Julius!

(He flips the bird in her direction, stands and moves toward her, intending to slam the door in her face. Halfway across the room he collapses, in terrible abdominal pain.)

ETHEL ROSENBERG
: You're a very sick man, Roy.

ROY
: Oh God . . . ANDY!

ETHEL ROSENBERG
: Hmmm. He doesn't hear you, I guess. We should call the ambulance.

     
(She goes to the phone)

     
Hah! Buttons! Such things they got now.

     
What do I dial, Roy?

(Pause. Roy looks at her, then:)

ROY
: 911.

ETHEL ROSENBERG
(Dials the phone)
: It sings!

     
(Imitating dial tones)
La la la . . .

     
Huh.

     
Yes, you should please send an ambulance to the home of Mr. Roy Cohn, the famous lawyer.

     
Beats me. A pain in his gut. Bad. A bad pain.

     
What's the address, Roy?

ROY
(A beat, then)
: 244 East 87th.

ETHEL ROSENBERG
: 244 East 87th Street. No apartment number, he's got the whole building.

     
My name?
(A beat)
Ethel Greenglass Rosenberg.

     
(Small smile)
Me? No I'm not related to Mr. Cohn. An old friend.

     
(She hangs up)

     
They said a minute.

ROY
: I have all the time in the world.

ETHEL ROSENBERG
: You're immortal.

ROY
: I'm immortal. Ethel.
(He wills himself to his feet)

     
I have
forced
my way into history. I ain't never gonna die.

ETHEL ROSENBERG
: History is about to crack wide open. Millennium approaches.

Scene 6

That night, Prior's bedroom. Prior, in bed, even more frightened than before. Prior 1 stands before him, wearing a weird hat and robes ornamented with strange signs over his coarse farmer's tunic. He carries a long palm-leaf bundle
.

PRIOR 1
: Tonight's the night! Aren't you excited? Tonight She arrives! Right through the roof! Ha-adam, ha-gadol . . .

PRIOR
2
(Appearing, similarly attired)
: Lumen! Phosphor! Fluor! Candle! An unending billowing of scarlet and—

(Prior flings off his covers. He's prepared.)

PRIOR
: Look. Garlic. A mirror. Holy Water.
(He squirts water at Prior 1 from a small plastic squirt bottle)
A crucifix. FUCK OFF! Get the fuck out of my room! GO!

PRIOR 1
(Leering a little; to Prior 2)
: Hard as a hickory knob, I'll bet.

PRIOR
2: We all tumesce when they approach. We wax full, like moons.

PRIOR
1
(A barked command)
: Dance.

PRIOR
: Dance?

PRIOR
1: Stand up, damnit, give us your hands, dance!

PRIOR
2: Listen . . .

(A lone oboe begins to play a little dance tune.)

PRIOR
2: Delightful sound. Care to dance?

PRIOR
: Please leave me alone, please just let me sleep.

PRIOR
2: Ah, he wants someone familiar. A partner who knows his steps.
(To Prior)
Close your eyes. Imagine . . .

PRIOR
: I don't—

PRIOR
2: Hush. Close your eyes.

(Prior does.)

PRIOR
2: Now open them.

(Prior does
.

     
Louis appears. He looks gorgeous. The dance tune transitions into a lovely instrumental version of “Moon River.”)

PRIOR
: Lou.

LOUIS
: Dance with me.

PRIOR
: I can't, my leg, it hurts at night.

     
Are you . . . a ghost, Lou?

LOUIS
: No. Just spectral. Lost to my self. Sitting all day on cold park benches. Wishing I could be with you. Dance with me, babe . . .

(Prior stands, gingerly putting weight on his bad leg. He's surprised there's no pain. He walks to Louis
.

     
They begin to dance. The music is beautiful.)

PRIOR 1
(To Prior 2)
: Hah. Now I see why he's got no children. He's a sodomite.

PRIOR
2: Oh be quiet, you medieval gnome, and let them dance.

PRIOR
1: I'm not interfering, I've done my bit. Hooray, hooray, the messenger's come, now I'm blowing off. I don't like it here.

(Prior 1 vanishes. Prior 2 watches Louis and Prior dance.)

PRIOR
2: The twentieth century. Oh dear, the world has gotten so terribly, terribly old.

(Prior 2 vanishes. Louis and Prior dance
.

     
Louis vanishes
.

     
Prior dances alone, his arms holding empty air, as if not realizing that Louis has gone
.

     
The lights return to normal
.

     
Then suddenly, the sound of the beating of enormous wings
.

     
Prior opens his eyes. The pain in his leg returns.)

Scene 7

Same night, continuous with
Scene 6
. Split scene: Prior alone in his apartment; Louis alone in the park
.

Again, the sound of beating wings
.

PRIOR
(Looking up in terror at the ceiling)
: Oh don't come in here don't come in—