ACT 1


AN OLD AND WELL-DRESSED MAN OF A GREAT AGE – JOE – SITS ON A CHAIR NEAR A CAFÉ TABLE READING A NEWSPAPER. IN HIS EXPENSIVE AND WELL-TAILORED SUIT AND HOMBURG HE LOOKS EVERY INCH THE DISTINGUISHED GENT

ON THE CAFÉ TABLE IS A SMALL AND NEARLY EMPTY GLASS OF RED WINE AND THE REMAINS OF AN UNLIT CANDLE IN A SHORT BOTTLE. NEARBY IS A STAND WITH SOME JACKETS AND HATS

ENTER THE WAITRESS - MARIE - WITH A TRAY, ON IT A BOTTLE OF RED WINE. JOE INSPECTS THE LABEL AND THEN SMILES. SHE TOPS UP HIS GLASS. HE SIPS FROM IT AND NODS APPROVINGLY


MARIE. Another fine day, Mr Pujol. Spring is in the air. It is a good omen. Did you hear the guns last night down at Toulon? And the sky – how it lit up! Nobody knows what it means. An air raid perhaps? The curfew makes it difficult to get facts.

The Major is keeping quiet. Poor soul, I almost feel sorry for him, barricaded in his room like that.

Yes, it is a beautiful day. Now watch some German soldier come along and spoil it all.


WE HEAR THE SOUND OF AN APPROACHING MOTORBIKE. THEY BOTH LEAN FORWARD AND LOOK OFFSTAGE. ENTER SCHMIDT. HE IS WEARING A TRENCHCOAT, GOGGLES AND HELMET, RIFLE SLUNG OVER ONE SHOULDER AND A DESPATCH WALLET OVER THE OTHER


SCHMIDT. Bonjour.

MARIE. Bonjour.

SCHMIDT. Is this Venté-sur-Var?

MARIE. Why?

SCHMIDT. The road signs are missing.

MARIE. It’s deliberate - to confuse the enemy.

SCHMIDT. I’m looking for the Hotel de Ville – Venté-sur-Var. I know that’s the River Var down there but what does “Venté” mean?

MARIE. Windswept.

SCHMIDT. Ah. I’ve a despatch for a Major Frankel.

MARIE. Up the stairs and first on the right.

SCHMIDT. Thanks.


EXIT SCHMIDT

MARIE. “Thanks”? Must be new.


SHE MAKES SURE SCHMIDT IS OUT OF SIGHT THEN SLIPS THE BOTTLE OF RED WINE INTO A POCKET ON THE LEFT SIDE OF HER APRON, BRINGING OUT ANOTHER BOTTLE FROM THE OTHER SIDE. JOE LOOKS AT THE LABEL, PULLS OUT THE CORK, SMELLS THE WINE AND GRIMACES


MARIE. Better safe than sorry.


WE HEAR THE SOUND OF BOOTS DESCENDING WOODEN STAIRS. ENTER FIRST THE MAJOR AND THEN SCHMIDT. THE MAJOR LOOKS NERVOUS AND PANICKY, WIPING HIS BROW WITH A HANKY AND FASTENING HIS UNIFORM AT THE SAME TIME


MAJOR. Thank God you came, Schmidt. I thought HQ had forgotten me.

SCHMIDT. Are the rumours true, sir?

MAJOR. That depends which rumours you’re talking about. Communications are a disaster – that’s the truth. High Command sticks its head in the sand and decides that what it doesn’t know it can’t tell us. And what we don’t know can’t hurt High Command if we’re captured. The rumour is: everybody’s looking for ways to wriggle out of the whole mess like rats leaving the ship. Is that how it is with you, Schmidt?

SCHMIDT. I’m no rat sir, but my body is very fond of my head.

MAJOR. I’m relieved to hear it. This despatch says I must wait here until further orders and inform the local population there is no truth in the rumours of an Allied invasion at Toulon.

SCHMIDT. May I get back to HQ now sir?

MAJOR. The despatch also says you’re to stay here with me.

SCHMIDT. May I - ?


THE MAJOR BURNS THE DESPATCH WITH A LIGHTER


MAJOR. Do you doubt your superior officer Schmidt?

SCHMIDT. No sir of course not, sir. But where are your soldiers, Herr Major?

MAJOR. Camouflaged. Now, tell me, what news on the Russian Front?

SCHMIDT. They say Russian troops are close enough to the Fuhrer’s Bunker to deliver Stalin’s love letters.

MAJOR. Hmm. I’m sure the Fuhrer is heartbroken. And the Americans and British?

SCHMIDT. The Ministry of Propaganda has reliable reports that Churchill has taken to drinking paraffin and President Roosevelt has been spotted stealing ladies’ underwear from clothes lines in Washington DC.

MAJOR. That’s no help! We need facts and figures – not gossip and tittle-tattle. How can we find solutions to equations if we don’t have facts and figures? We could be surrounded on all sides or we could have many avenues of escape. Without reliable information it’s hard to know. What’s the mood like at HQ?

SCHMIDT. Colonel Bluhm is trying to salvage what he can.

MAJOR. Ah yes, “Bouncy” Bluhm.

SCHMIDT. Sir?

MAJOR. Ex-pupil. Stupid boy - straight D’s for all subjects. His name bought him his title and he took his revenge by posting me here.

SCHMIDT. What do you think of the situation personally, sir?

MAJOR. “Personally”? There’s no room for “personally” in the Reich, you know that.

SCHMIDT. Perhaps you ought to tell that to Colonel Bluhm, sir?

MAJOR. Orders are orders. Ach, it’s so hot today and I’m thirsty. Fetch me a glass, Marie, there’s a dear. They say the French know about wine, Schmidt, but it’s a lie. We Germans invented wine and the French stole it from us. I’ll prove it. Watch. You, old man, give me that bottle.


JOE DOES NOT MOVE SO THE MAJOR SIMPLY TAKES IT. MARIE PRODUCES A GLASS FROM HER APRON. THE MAJOR TAKES THE GLASS, EYES IT SUSPICIOUSLY, CLEANS IT WITH HIS HANKY AND THEN POURS SOME WINE INTO IT. HE DRINKS


MARIE. Is it to your satisfaction, Herr Major?

MAJOR. Excellent. See Schmidt: always drink what the old folk drink and you can’t go wrong. Well, here and now seems as good a time as any to inform the populace of the news I suppose.

SCHMIDT. Should you not inform the Mayor, Herr Major?

MAJOR. I’d love to – if I could find him. Rumours are that he’s run off with the Doctor’s wife. There’s the Town Clerk of course but he’s a deaf as post. This place really is a madhouse. Anyway, I’ve no time for red tape – there’s a war on.

Old man, give me your chair. I wish to make an announcement. One can take certain liberties when one is a soldier, Schmidt.


JOE DOES NOT MOVE


MAJOR. Did you hear me? I said: “I want your chair.”

SCHMIDT. Perhaps he is hard of hearing, Herr Major?

MAJOR. I - am - Major Fran – kel! Kommandant - of - this - village. Do – you – under – stand?

JOE. Those who listen to only one bell, hear only one sound.

MAJOR. Bells? I can’t hear any bells. Can you hear any bells, Schmidt?

SCHMIDT. No sir.

MAJOR. We can’t hear any bells – the ropes have been removed, see, to stop traitors sending signals. Now explain your theory on bells. What do you know?

JOE. I know where the wind comes from.

MAJOR. Wind? What wind? Is he talking in code, Schmidt? Listen, old man: you’ll be hearing bells in a minute if you don’t - !

SCHMIDT. Herr Major?

MAJOR. What is it?

SCHMIDT. The Major hasn’t been in France long has he?

MAJOR. A month. One minute I’m teaching children and the next - I’m in this Godforsaken backwater. What’s your point?

SCHMIDT. One sure way to make the French angry is to disrespect their old folk. I’m sure, given the delicacy of our situation and the limited number of soldiers under your command that the Herr Major wouldn’t like to make them angry, not right now in any case.

MAJOR. No, no, you’re right, of course. What do you suggest we do to attract their attention?

SCHMIDT. Allow me, sir.


SCHMIDT CATCHES THE ATTENTION OF JOE AND MARIE AND PUTS HIS FINGERS TO HIS EARS, URGING THEM TO COPY. THEY COPY. SCHMIDT FIRES HIS RIFLE INTO THE AIR


SCHMIDT. Now you have their attention, Herr Major.

MAJOR. Good grief! For a minute there I thought - ! Right.

Citizens of Venté-sur-Var: do not be alarmed!

I have called your attention to inform you that there is no truth in the rumour that the Allied Armies have secured a bridgehead at Toulon. It is true an attack was attempted but was easily repulsed by the brave and courageous soldiers of the Wehrmacht.


THERE IS THE LOUD SOUND OF A FART


MAJOR. No doubt these rumours are the work of saboteurs, spies and enemies of the state that have infiltrated the towns and countryside. They – and their rumours -will soon be eliminated.

A strong force of well-equipped German troops is camped in the woods around the village and will enter and occupy the village if they have the slightest suspicion that these spies and saboteurs are at large and active within.


SCHMIDT (QUIETLY). Is that true sir?

MAJOR (TO SCHMIDT). Of course not, but how do you think I’ve kept myself alive the last few days.

So, my friends - do not panic. Germany has your best interests at heart.


WE HEAR THE SOUND OF ANOTHER LOUD FART


MAJOR. Schmidt, was that you?

SCHMIDT. No sir.

MAJOR. Who was it?

SCHMIDT. Don’t know, sir.


ANOTHER FART


MAJOR. Right! Who did that? Come on, own up. Who did that? Was it you? Or you? Wipe that grin off your face!


ANOTHER FART


MAJOR. I see. It’s going to be like that is it? Right! Well we’re all going to stand here all day unless the owner of that disgusting noise steps forward right now! I’m waiting.

SCHMIDT. Sir?

MAJOR. What is it?


SCHMIDT TAPS HIS WRISTWATCH


MAJOR. Yes. Yes you’re right. I quite forgot myself there. For a second I thought I was back in Heidelberg Elementary. Schmidt: I’m going upstairs to destroy some documents. I won’t be long. Find the perpetrator, Schmidt! Find the perpetrator!

SCHMIDT. What shall I do with them if I find them sir?

MAJOR. Why shoot them of course!

SCHMIDT. Execution seems a little harsh sir.

MAJOR. We’ll show these peasants we are not a nation to be trifled with.
EXIT THE MAJOR. SCHMIDT IS ALONE – AND VULNERABLE


SCHMIDT. “We”, sir?


SCHMIDT LOOKS NERVOUSLY AT MARIE AND JOE


SCHMIDT. Papers please.

MARIE. Are you suggesting it was me?

SCHMIDT. No, of course not, madamoiselle!

MARIE. Good.

SCHMIDT. Papers please, sir?

JOE. Are you suggesting it was me?

SCHMIDT. No! I just – I just want to do what I’ve been ordered! I don’t really want to shoot anyone, sir!


JOE GIVES HIM HIS IDENTITY PAPERS FROM AN EXPENSIVE WALLET


SCHMIDT. Thanks. Look, don’t worry about the Major - his bark’s worse than his bite. He lets little things get to him. A month ago he was teaching in a German school - then he gets his call-up papers. Reserves. A part-timer. The Fatherland is running out of soldiers see?

“Joseph Pujol. Marseille. Retired baker. Born . . . “

You’re 88 years old? That’s a grand age, sir. A grand age. I take my hat off to you. What sights you must have seen. My grandfather was 76 when he died. A youngster compared to you!

JOE. Are the rumours true, that the Allies have landed at Toulon?

SCHMIDT. I – I – I can’t talk to you, sir. Orders. You know how it is.

JOE. Marie - a glass of my vintage for the lad.

MARIE. Is it wise, Mr. Pujol? The Resistance shoot collaborators.

JOE. I remind this boy of his grandfather. I haven’t been paid a compliment like that for a long while.

MARIE. Is that a compliment sir?

JOE. It would’ve been an insult if I’d reminded him of his great grandfather.


MARIE PRODUCES THE GOOD BOTTLE FROM HER APRON AND A CLEAN GLASS AND POURS SCHMIDT SOME. SHE THEN REPLACES THE BOTTLE IN HER APRON

SCHMIDT. What’s the difference between the wine in that bottle and the wine in this bottle?

JOE. It’s very simple: the wine in this bottle is nectar and the wine in that bottle is piss. Long life!

SCHMIDT. Your health!


AT A BARELY-NOTICEABLE SIGN FROM JOE, MARIE EXITS


JOE. What’s your name?

SCHMIDT. Olaf Schmidt.

JOE. How old are you, Olaf?

SCHMIDT. 19 sir.

JOE. And where are you from?

SCHMIDT. Stuttgart.

JOE. I’ve never been to Germany. Belgium, but not Germany. Are you married?

SCHMIDT. I have a girl – Elizabeth.

JOE. My late wife was called Elizabeth.

SCHMIDT. I want this war over so I can go home and see her again.

JOE. Why don’t you surrender?

SCHMIDT. Have you ever been in the army?

JOE. Yes.

SCHMIDT. Then you must know that word’s rarely raised. And anyway, if I did surrender: to who? The Allied enemy is invisible and if I surrender to your side I might be handed over to the resistance and shot. No, it isn’t I who must surrender – it’s the Fuhrer. I just want this war over so I can get back to a normal life.

JOE. Each new day that I awake, I find to my surprise that life is anything but normal. But when we’re young we think it is out there somewhere waiting for us.

SCHMIDT. I don’t understand.

JOE. Of course you don’t. So tell me, what will you do with your normal life?

SCHMIDT. My father wants me to study medicine.

JOE. Very wise: there will be much demand for doctors in the new Europe.

SCHMIDT. But I want to do something else!

JOE. What?

SCHMIDT. You’ll laugh.

JOE. Perhaps.

SCHMIDT. I want to be in movies.

JOE. Movies?

SCHMIDT. It’s an American word. It means “moving pictures”.

JOE. Ah! The cinematograph?

SCHMIDT. Yes but not like Jimmy Cagney, Humphrey Bogart or Rudolf Valentino. I mean I do admire them of course - they are great and dashing figures - but my real heroes are Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton and Laurel and Hardy.

JOE. Charlie Chaplin? I think I’ve seen a picture of him somewhere. That little moustache really made me laugh. How foolish and stupid a man who wears such a moustache looks to the world, don’t you think? He’s a comedian is he not?

SCHMIDT. Yes.

JOE. And you want to be a comic?

SCHMIDT. Yes!

JOE. You want to make people laugh?

SCHMIDT. I love to make people laugh!

JOE. Why?

SCHMIDT. Why, because laughter is as needed as love or bread or water.

JOE. All three of which seem absent in these times.

SCHMIDT: Exactly! The comic entertainer is the modern alchemist – turning base metal into pure gold. But being a baker perhaps you wouldn’t know what it feels like to entertain people.

JOE. Do you know what it feels like to entertain people?

SCHMIDT. I’ll tell you a secret: I used to perform in my school playground for my friends. But my teacher said I was being un-German and I was punished.

JOE. What was your line?

SCHMIDT. Impersonations. Who’s this?


SCHMIDT STRUMS AN INVISIBLE UKELELE AND SINGS A FEW BARS OF “LEANING ON THE LAMP POST” BY GEORGE FORMBY. JOE STUDIES DEEPLY BUT THEN SHAKES HIS HEAD


SCHMIDT. Why, it’s the Englishman George Formby of course!

JOE. Ah! Is he in “movies” too?
SCHMIDT. Yes.

JOE. I’m more familiar with music hall, before the days of the moving picture. Tell me, this career you imagine for yourself, do you see yourself up there or do you see yourself trying to copy greatness?

SCHMIDT. I don’t understand, Mr Pujol.

JOE. There’s a difference. Tell me, have you ever shot anyone?

SCHMIDT. I tell you this in confidence Mr Pujol: that is only the third time I’ve fired a rifle. The other two times was in training at wooden targets. And even then I missed.

JOE. I see. You know Schmidt I do have some experience of show business. And I can tell you it is a hard life. Only the very dedicated or the very lucky make anything of themselves.

SCHMIDT. What did you do? Sing? Juggle?

JOE. My stage name was “Le Petomane”.

SCHMIDT. What is that, a singer? I’d take you for a juggler.

JOE. Oh I juggled, after a fashion. You’ve heard of The Moulin Rouge?

SCHMIDT. Who hasn’t?

JOE. I played it.

SCHMIDT. Really? When?

JOE. Oh, a long time ago now.

SCHMIDT. What was your act?

JOE. I was advertised as “the only artist who doesn’t pay any author’s royalties”. It was original - for its day.

SCHMIDT. What did you do?

JOE. Ah. I learnt in the early days never to blurt that out. I learnt to prepare my audience first, for on its own the word can inspire gasps of incredulity. It must be placed in the context of the time and place and only then can it be presented. Judgements must never be made too quickly and in my line of work it was easy for the uninformed to jump to the wrong conclusion.

SCHMIDT. Now I’m really intrigued.

JOE. I must beg your patience for if I’m to tell you about my act then I must also tell you the story around it and how it came about.

SCHMIDT. I’m all-ears.

JOE. But I thought you and the Major were leaving?

SCHMIDT. No. He’s been ordered to remain here with me until further orders from HQ.

JOE. I see. And is it true that more soldiers are camped in the woods?
SCHMIDT. He just tells people that to - !

JOE. We’re all born with certain gifts, Olaf. There are some of us who become aware of these gifts at an early age and use them to our best advantage and there are some of us who discover our gift in our autumn years and then there are - sadly - some of us who never cultivate our true talent and die full of regret. When did you discover yours?

SCHMIDT. When I was 10. I was scolded for impersonating our local priest.

JOE. 10? That’s good. I knew about my talent from an early age too, about 12 or 13 I must have been. But it wasn’t until 20 years later that I began to apply myself to mastering it, for talent alone is not enough – talent needs careful nurturing or it will disintegrate.

SCHMIDT. What exactly was your talent, Mr. Pujol?

JOE. Do you have imagination, Olaf?

SCHMIDT. I saw “The Wizard of Oz” ten times.

JOE. The artiste is the gardener and the audience is the garden. One cannot survive without the other. A good artist is the disciplined gardener and the best audience a wild garden. The gardener plants his seeds and sprinkles them with etiquette and protocol before stepping back to allow imagination harvest its magic. Imagination is a rare gift from God and not lightly claimed. So I ask you again: do you have imagination Olaf Schmidt?

SCHMIDT. Of course!

JOE. Good! Then summon up all your powers of imagination now, my friend as I take you on a long journey telescoped into a handful of time.


JOE STANDS AND TAKES OFF HIS JACKET AND SHIRT, HANGING THEM ON THE STAND, REVEALING UNDER HIS COAT AN OLD-FASHIONED SWIMSUIT


JOE. Pluck away these silver hairs of mine, iron out these wrinkles and inject some sap into these crooked limbs. Picture me throwing off the cloak of many years and leaping up.


JOE TAKES OFF HIS SHOES, TROUSERS AND SOCKS. HE FOLDS HIS TROUSERS NEATLY AND PUTS THEM ON THE GROUND


JOE. I forget the year, perhaps 1870? I was only a few years younger than you are now, with my family on a holiday near the sea.


THE SOUND OF WAVES CRASHING ON A BEACH IS PIERCED WITH THE CRIES OF SEAGULLS


JOE. I was fishing with a net close to the shore, wading out deeper and deeper . . .


JOE WADES INTO THE SEA, HUNTING FOR FISH WITH A NET. HE IS NOT HAVING MUCH LUCK SO HE TAKES A DEEP BREATH, GRIPS HIS NOSTRILS AND DUCKS BENEATH THE “SURFACE”. A FEW SECONDS LATER HE OPENS HIS EYES AND ADJUSTS TO THE SEAWATER. SUDDENLY HIS FACE SHOWS GREAT SHOCK. HE FREEZES AS A STRANGE FEELING COURSES THROUGH HIM. HE OPENS HIS MOUTH TO SCREAM BUT NOTHING COMES OUT – UNTIL HE BREAKS THE “SURFACE” OF THE WATER AND RUNS BACK TO THE “SHORE” COUGHING AND SPLUTTERING AND CLUTCHING HIS STOMACH.


JOE. Mother! Mo-ther!!


ENTER A DOCTOR. THE DOCTOR SITS DOWN ON A CHAIR. JOE – IN HIS SWIMMING SUIT – STANDS NEXT TO HIM


DOCTOR. Stop snivelling, boy! You’re not a baby. Now tell me exactly what happened.

JOE. I was in the sea, sir.

DOCTOR. Take a deep breath.

JOE. Yes sir, I did take a deep breath, to look under the water.

DOCTOR. No, I want you to take a deep breath.


JOE BREATHES IN


DOCTOR. Hold it in until I say “Release” and then let it out slowly.


THE DOCTOR FUMBLES FOR SOMETHING IN HIS BAG


DOCTOR. Could you still touch the sand or were you out of your depth?


JOE CANNOT ANSWER AND HOLD HIS BREATH AT THE SAME TIME


DOCTOR: I said: “Could you still touch the sand or were you out of your depth?”


JOE STILL CANNOT ANSWER


DOCTOR. Is there something wrong with your hearing as well?


JOE TRIES TO MUMBLE HIS PREDICAMENT. THE DOCTOR PRODUCES A STETHOSCOPE


DOCTOR. Release! Release! Stupid boy! Could you still touch the sand or were you out of your depth?

JOE. I could feel the sand sir, for I was chasing a fish with my net.

DOCTOR. Fish? What sort of fish?

JOE. Pardon sir?

DOCTOR. What sort of fish were you chasing? A mackerel? Lift up your arms.

JOE. I – I don’t know, sir. It was about so long.

DOCTOR. Hmm. Sounds like a sardine. Lift your right leg and touch the tip of your nose with the forefinger of your left hand. Then what happened?


THE DOCTOR FIRST LISTENS TO JOE’S HEART AND THEN PLACES THE STETHOSCOPE ON DIFFERENT PARTS OF HIS BODY


DOCTOR. And then what happened?

JOE. Well, sir, it’s rather embarrassing.

DOCTOR. Now look, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about when dealing with the workings of the human body. The human body’s the most complex machine in the universe. We mustn’t be ashamed of it. We must call things by their correct scientific title and not invent childish names or metaphors. These are the 1860’s, a time of social revolution, a time of forward thinking, not the 1760’s. Now, tell me, in mature words, what happened when you held your breath and stuck your head under the water?

JOE. I felt a strange feeling of icy cold invading me inside, sir. I ran to the shore and fell down and – and – and - !

DOCTOR. And?

JOE. Water ran out of me, sir.

DOCTOR. Ran out of you? Are you sure?

JOE. Quite sure, sir.

DOCTOR. I see. Where exactly did it run out of you?


JOE WHISPERS INTO THE DOCTOR’S EAR


DOCTOR. You’re certain it wasn’t your little tap telling you the reservoir was full, hmm?

JOE. No sir.

DOCTOR. Or your watering can, sprinkling the sweet peas?

JOE. No sir. It was definitely my - !


JOE WHISPERS IN THE DOCTOR’S EAR AGAIN


DOCTOR. There’s no need to be vulgar.

JOE. But you said we ought to call things by their proper name, sir.
DOCTOR. Indeed we should - but not all the time. One “arsehole” a day is enough for me. Too many “arsehole” ‘s in too short a space of time would confuse and bewilder anybody. Now, has there been anything out of the ordinary going on in your toilet area recently?

JOE. No sir.

DOCTOR. Hmm. Most perplexing. Go behind the screen, drop your trousers and bend over.


JOE DOES WHAT HE IS ASKED. THE DOCTOR EXAMINES HIM


DOCTOR. Now I’m going to ask you a straight and direct question and I want you to give me a straight and direct answer, man-to-man, got it?

JOE. Yes, sir.

DOCTOR. Do - you - like - girls?

JOE. Girls, sir?

DOCTOR. Girls. Ladies. Humans of the female variety.

JOE. I’m not quite sure what you mean, sir. I’m courting a butcher’s daughter just now, sir, by name of Elizabeth.

DOCTOR. A butcher’s daughter? That’s good, that’s good. I could do with a nice piece of lamb for dinner. Can you arrange it?

JOE. Perhaps I can, sir.

DOCTOR. Do you bathe?

JOE. Yes sir. Once a week, with my brothers, in a tin bath on the scullery floor, sir.

DOCTOR. And this never happens then?

JOE. No sir. What do you think my ailment could be?

DOCTOR. I don’t know. I’ve never heard of such a thing. But my advice is: don’t go swimming. Paddling - but not swimming. Or if you do go swimming don’t hold your breath and then go underwater. In fact, don’t do either of those things – or you’ll drown. Ha! Ha! I could have been a comedian you know? I had promise. But my father insisted I study medicine. Pay’s more regular. I’m going to give you these salts. Take them with cold water three times a day for the next week. They’ll irrigate your channel most thoroughly.

JOE. No sir. Thank you, sir. How much do I owe you, sir?

DOCTOR. Don’t forget to drop that joint off at my surgery before Sunday. A nice leg-of-lamb do you hear?


THE DOCTOR EXITS. ELIZABETH ENTERS. SHE PICKS UP JOE’S TROUSERS AND A JACKET FROM THE STAND AND THEN HOLDS UP A TOWEL. JOE WALKS INTO IT, DRYING HIMSELF


ELIZABETH. And what happened after the robber punched you in the stomach, Joe?
JOE. I wanted to cry out but that would have made the swine think I was beaten. So I straightened up to my full height and swung him a left square to the jaw. He spun around, dazed, moaning: “You’re too tough for me!” before turning tail and running.

ELIZABETH. And what happened to the old lady?

JOE. She thanked me for being her hero and offered to reimburse me with a small reward but of course being a gentleman I refused.

ELIZABETH. Oh Joseph, you’re so brave! Now I know why you had to visit the doctor! Your mother said it was because seawater flooded in through your back passage.

JOE. What? How ridiculous!

ELIZABETH. That’s what I thought. Joe?

JOE. Yes darling?

ELIZABETH. Why do you need a leg of lamb?

JOE. It is not for me, darling. It is for the old lady I rescued.

ELIZABETH. You’re such a hero.


JOE FARTS


ELIZABETH. What was that?

JOE. What?

ELIZABETH. It was like the squeaking of leather.

JOE. It must have been these new shoes of mine.

ELIZABETH. What will we do with our lives, Joseph?

JOE. I’m to be apprenticed to a baker here in Marseille. It’s wise to be in a profession where one can eat what one produces. That way, we can never go hungry.

ELIZABETH. Then I’ll learn how to keep books and accounts and we’ll open a shop.

JOE. Yes and then we can walk through the town on our Sunday promenade with pride.
`
ELIZABETH. They’ll say: “Look! There goes Mr and Mrs Pujol – the Bakers!”

JOE. But first I must do my military service.


SHE BEGINS TO PASS HIM HIS CLOTHES. IT IS A MILITARY UNIFORM. HE PUTS IT ON BEHIND THE TOWEL.


ELIZABETH. I will write to you twice a week.
JOE. I will write to you every day!

ELIZABETH. I’ll write to you twice a day!

JOE. And I’ll write to you every hour!

ELIZABETH. And when we’re not writing to each other or reading one another’s letters we’ll think only of each other all the times between!

JOE. Then, when we have some money in the bank and I’ve left the army, we can marry and have thirteen children.


JOE FARTS


ELIZABETH. There it is again!

JOE. What?

ELIZABETH. That noise. It sounded like an old tree bending in the wind.

JOE. Well it is a bit breezy today, my darling. And that old oak in the garden is past its best. Let’s talk about us. How do you feel about having thirteen children?

ELIZABETH. It seems a lot. Why do you want so many?

JOE. A Baker’s Dozen seems a respectable number.

ELIZABETH. But how will we feed and clothe them? Big families are expensive.

JOE. I don’t know. But we can’t live our lives afraid of tomorrow. We must cross these bridges when we arrive at them is what my father always says.

ELIZABETH. I do love you, Joseph.

JOE. I love you too.


JOE FARTS


ELIZABETH. Is there something you’re not telling me?


JOE FARTS


JOE. Er - !


HE FARTS AGAIN


ELIZABETH. Joseph?

JOE. I’m – I’m – I’m - learning to play the trombone for the Army band.
HE MAKES A TROMBONE NOISE WITH HIS MOUTH. TRUMPET BLARE, DRUM BEAT AND THE WHISTLE OF A STEAM ENGINE. ELIZABETH PULLS THE TOWEL AWAY. JOE IS IN HIS ARMY UNIFORM


JOE. Write to me often!

ELIZABETH. I promise! Be careful!

JOE. Fear not, I’m not afraid!


SHE WAVES HER HANDKERCHIEF AT HIM AS THEY SEPARATE. CUE IN THE ROAR OF DISTANT CANNONS AND THE WHISTLING OF A FALLING SHELL. TAKING A RIFLE FROM THE COAT STAND, JOSEPH THEN FALLS FLAT ON HIS BELLY. THE SHELL EXPLODES. ENTER AN OFFICER WITH A RED FLAG


OFFICER. Here you, are you hit?

JOE. No sir! I don’t think so sir! Just some pebbles sir!

OFFICER. On it’s own a small pebble is nothing but travelling at six hundred miles an hour it can be lethal.


JOE FARTS


JOE. Yes sir, so can that.

OFFICER. Keep your head down and your farts in!

JOE. Sorry sir, I think it was the Cook’s stew.

OFFICER. Advance!


HANGING FROM THE COAT STAND IS ANOTHER UNIFORM, HELMET AND RIFLE. PITALUGUE PUTS THESE ON. ENTER PITALUGUE


OFFICER. Halt! Who goes there, friend or foe?

PITALUGUE. Give the password!

OFFICER. I asked first!

PITALUGUE. You asked if I was a friend or a foe.

OFFICER. True. Well, which one is it?

PITALUGUE. That depends.

OFFICER. On what?

PITALUGUE. Whose side you’re on. If we’re on the same side – you’re a customer. If you’re on the other side – you’re a creditor.

JOE. But we’re wearing the same uniform.

PITALUGUE. Yes, confusing isn’t it? What’s the password then?


JOE FARTS


PITALUGUE. No, that’s not it.

OFFICER. The wind blows from the west.

PITALUGUE. Correct. Pass, friend.

OFFICER. Thanks, comrade. Don’t forget: this may only be an exercise but we treat it as real warfare. Your objective is that farmhouse on the hill. Good luck.


EXIT OFFICER


PITALUGUE. He’s off back to the beer tent I bet. Smoke?

JOE. No.

PITALUGUE. What’s your name?

JOE. Pujol.

PITALUGUE. Pitalugue. Do you know what’s going on, Pujol?

JOE. No. You?

PITALUGUE. Not really. Crazy isn’t it?


JOE FARTS


JOE. I’m sorry. It was the stew.

PITALUGUE. Don’t apologise. Happens to us all. Interested in some exotic postcards?


PITALUGUE SHOWS JOE SOME SAUCY POSTCARDS


PITALUGUE. Fresh from Paris these. I can let you have them for a song.

JOE. Paris? Have you been to Paris?

PITALUGUE. Many times.

JOE. What’s it like?
PITALUGUE. Crazy. All the women are like these. I can fix you up with one if you want – for a fee. They’ll all want to lie with you if you come from the south.

JOE. Why?

PITALUGUE. They’ve heard that men from the south are hung like Spanish donkeys.

JOE. I mustn’t think such thoughts. I’m engaged to be married to my fiancé Elizabeth.

PITALUGUE. Ah, is she pretty?

JOE. I love her.

PITALUGUE. I respect love. It’s a noble virtue and often a profitable proposition. So what’s your trade, hot air?

JOE. Baker.

PITALUGUE. You’ll never go hungry with a trade like that.

JOE. What’s yours?

PITALUGUE. Management is my speciality but when out of the Army I’ll be scraping a living as a coachman.

JOE. I’m going to open a bakery when I get out.

PITALUGUE. There’s no money in shops. You’re stuck in one place see? You need a speciality. Hit and run. You got any skills? Play an instrument by any chance?


JOE FARTS


JOE. No but I’m learning to play the trombone. You?

PITALUGUE. One: an eye.

JOE. You’ve only one eye?

PITALUGUE. Three: two for watching where I’m going and one for spotting a good thing. What are we supposed to do now?

JOE. We’re supposed to take that farmhouse on the hill.

PITALUGUE. What with, harsh language?

JOE. We should attack from this side, with the sun behind us. You take the left flank, I’ll take the right.

PITALUGUE. And we’ll send your farts up the middle.

JOE. You’re not taking this very seriously.

PITALUGUE. Why should I?

JOE. Don’t you like the army?
PITALUGUE. Does it show?

JOE. Well I’m going to advance.

PITALUGUE. Good for you! Off you go then! I’m right behind you. Well, not too close obviously.


JOE ADVANCES. PITALUGUE PRETENDS TO ADVANCE BUT STAYS WHERE HE IS, SETTLING DOWN TO LOOK AT HIS POSTCARDS. BATTLEFIELD SFX. PITALUGUE HAS GONE AND THE FARMER IS LAID ON THE GROUND WITH A JUG OF WINE SINGING TO HIMSELF. JOE ENTERS


JOE. I claim this farmhouse for the First Regiment of Valence and you are now a prisoner-of-war!

FARMER. Is that you bloody nitwits playing at war games again? I wish somebody would tell me. How can I make a living with you lot trampling all over my crops?

JOE. Are you alone? Do you have a wife?

FARMER. Wife? This is my wife, my friend! She doesn’t talk back, doesn’t complain and though she may dish out a few of her own, she never gets a headache.


JOE FARTS


JOE. Pardon me, sir.

FARMER. And she doesn’t fart in bed. Anyway, I don’t need lectures from a boy.

JOE. It’s true I am young, sir. But I come from a long line of independent thinkers - my father was a mason, a sculptor and then a baker.

FARMER. Is that so? So what truths can you decipher from what you see, O Wise and Mighty Solomon?

JOE. At a guess I’d say you drink to hide some great hurt done to you in the past.

FARMER. Well spotted, my boy – you have a keen eye. Yes, the Past: Paris - The Moulin Rouge - my name in lights!

JOE. The Moulin Rouge, sir?

FARMER. If only things had gone according to plan I could have retired by now to a villa on the Cote d’Azur. Oysters! Champagne! Beautiful women! I came so close. So close! I should have servants and fine wines, resurrect my act once or twice a year to headline in some European city, make enough to live like a king in exile and gamble and lose a fortune at the casinos of Monte Carlo without batting an eyelid but instead – I’m here!

JOE. What was your act?


A LARGE DOG BARKS NEARBY

JOE. Do you have a dog?

FARMER. I’ve two dogs – one big and fierce, the other small and timid.


A SMALLER DOG YAPS NEARBY


FARMER. Don’t worry – they are good friends.


BOTH LARGE AND SMALL DOGS BARK TOGETHER


FARMER. But we shouldn’t stand in the open air too long.

JOE. Why not?

FARMER. The ducks.

JOE. The ducks?

FARMER. Fearless. They like to swoop down and unload sticky white parcels on the heads of strangers. Heed my warning: if you hear a duck – duck!


A DUCK QUACKS NEARBY. JOE DUCKS


FARMER. Yes, dangerous place a farm.

JOE. Why do you say that?

FARMER. Goliath.

JOE. Goliath?

FARMER. My one eyed bull. Thinks he’s a fox. Always sneaking around looking for trouble. Particularly dislikes uniforms. Once caught a soldier just like you over there by the barn door. Pinned him to it, left him hanging like a stuck butterfly. Messy. But don’t worry – I’ve trimmed his horns.


A COW MOOS LOUDLY. JOE GRABS HIS RIFLE AND SWINGS AROUND. AN OWL HOOTS


FARMER. He must have had a restless night.


WE HEAR A COCK’S CROW. JOE LOOKS INCREASINGLY AGITATED


FARMER. Him too.


A PIG OINKS, A TOAD CROAKS AND A CAT MIAOWS

FARMER. Sounds like the local politicians are voting themselves a wage rise.


THE FARMER LAUGHS AT JOE’S CONFUSION


FARMER. I’ve still got it! Ventriloquism, boy! I threw my voice! Had you fooled there eh? I was “Le Voix!” Have you heard of “Le Voix”?

JOE. No.

FARMER. Perhaps your mother and father remember the name? I toured the provinces once! I once headlined at the Town Hall in Annonay. Have you ever been to Annonay?

JOE. It’s a small town south of Lyon, is it not?

FARMER. And birthplace of the famous Montgolfier Brothers – the original hot air balloonists.


JOE FARTS


FARMER. I’d have thought you would have been a big fan of theirs.

JOE. I’m sorry, sir. The name of “Le Voix” isn’t familiar to me.

FARMER. They loved me in Annonay. Adored me. You missed an exceptional talent. Exceptional. What is your talent, boy?

JOE. Talent? I’ve never thought of myself as having any sort of talent, sir.

FARMER. Nonsense! Everyone has some special talent. Problem is most of us take a safe job because we think regular money in small amounts will make us happy. But some lucky few of us are foolish enough to forward our talent as our primary source of income though we gamble our sanities on large amounts of money at irregular intervals and it doesn’t matter how many people sit down to a game of Poker – only one can win.


JOE FARTS


JOE. Sorry. Army stew.

FARMER. Don’t apologise. If you can’t fart in a farm yard . . .

JOE. I’m both amazed and perplexed in equal proportions, sir. I was convinced at one point that we were surrounded! But why, if you possess such a gift, are you struggling here on this farm?

FARMER. The gift never goes - it’s only the man that breaks.

JOE. I don’t understand.

FARMER. No, because you’re young. Do not be blind to the black-cloaked men with daggers standing in the shadows, boy.

JOE. Black-cloaked men sir?
FARMER. Lawyers. Their knives are quills of ink and with them they stab a man with sharp words until he bleeds out all of his spirit. I was on the verge of greatness, immortality and fame. Then an impersonator also calling himself “Le Voix” came along backed by a rival producer. I challenged him of course, took him to court claiming he was cashing in on my name. But the judge said I didn’t have a name and that was my problem. No name – no fame. I lost everything. One week: supping from a golden cup, the next: on the street without a pot to piss in.

So I scrape some money together and buy myself this place. But the bastard I bought it off never told me it was in the middle of a practise range used by the army!

JOE. I’m sorry to hear of your misfortune, sir.

FARMER. So you take some advice from me: get yourself a good, solid job. And if you do ever discover your gift - make sure it only sparkles at private parties to entertain family and friends. I spy a moral glint in your eye. You’re going to give me your advice.

JOE. My advice sir, for what advice from one so young is worth, is: drink in moderation is a wonderful thing. But drink abused will most surely poison your talent.


WE HEAR THE SOUND OF A WOLF HOWLING NEARBY


FARMER. Wouldn’t you drink if you had wolves as neighbours?

JOE. Pardon me, sir that was no wolf. Now you must excuse me, for I’ve mislaid my colleague somewhere en route.


EXIT JOE


FARMER. You do have a talent there, boy. Let’s hope you spot it soon.


A SHELL EXPLODES NEARBY. EXIT FARMER. ENTER PITALUGUE AND JOE FROM DIFFERENT SIDES, BUMPING INTO EACH OTHER


PITALUGUE. How’d you get on?

JOE. Where were you?

PITALUGUE. A shell fell on me. I’m dead. Did you reach the objective?

JOE. I met the farmer.

PITALUGUE. Did you take him as your prisoner?

JOE. No need – he already is one.

PITALUGE. Sod this for a game of soldiers. Let’s get back to camp. Here, what did you say you were going to do with yourself when you get out?


PITALUGUE EXITS
JOE. Bake!


ENTER ELIZABETH WEARING A BAKING APRON AND CARRYING A BOWL OF DOUGH AND ANOTHER BAKING APRON THAT JOE PUTS ON. SHE HERSELF KNEADS THE DOUGH.

JOE AND ELIZABETH LINK ARMS AND DANCE. SHE THROWS A LUMP OF DOUGH TO HIM AND HE PLACES IT ON THE TRAY. THEY DANCE AGAIN. SHE THROWS ANOTHER LUMP AND HE PLACES THAT ON THE TRAY. THEY DO THIS TWICE MORE. HE AND ELIZABETH DANCE AGAIN. FOUR FRESHLY BAKED LOAVES APPEAR

HE TOSSES THE FIRST ONE TO ELIZABETH. SHE CATCHES IT GENTLY AND BEGINS TO CRADLE IT LIKE IT IS A BABY. JOE TOSSES HER ANOTHER LOAF AND SHE MANAGES TO CATCH THAT AND CRADLE IT ON HER OTHER ARM. JOE IS ABOUT TO THROW THE THIRD LOAF WHEN HE REALISES SHE WILL NOT BE ABLE TO CATCH IT. JUST THEN A BASKET APPEARS. JOE TAKES THIS ACROSS TO ELIZABETH AND ELIZABETH PUTS HER TWO “BABIES” IN THE BASKET. JOE THEN TOSSES HER THE THIRD AND FOURTH LOAVES AND SHE WRAPS THEM UP IN THE BASKET-CRADLE. JOE RETURNS THE EMPTY TRAY AND GOES TO LIFT UP THE BASKET. IT IS HEAVY. HE AND ELIZABETH TRY TO DANCE AGAIN BUT THEY ARE SOON TIRED. TO RECOVER, THEY SIT AT THE TABLE AND EACH PULL UP CHAIRS. JOE PUTS THE BASKET DOWN NEXT TO THE TABLE


JOE. Did we have a good day, my dear?

ELIZABETH. No better than any other.

JOE. But I baked extra loaves.

ELIZABETH. Yesterday when we were asked for more loaves: we didn’t have enough. Today we bake extra - but nobody wants to buy them. Our children can’t wear loaves on their feet, Joe. We need real money. Proper money. Did you think any more about asking your father for a loan?

JOE. For shame I cannot. He was generous enough to lend us the money to open our shop. It’s up to us to make it work.

ELIZABETH. Having four children is a full-time job. We don’t make enough to employ an assistant. Oh Joe, we need a miracle!


THERE IS A KNOCK


JOE. Enter!


ENTER PITALUGUE WITH A KITBAG OVER HIS SHOULDER.


PITALUGUE. Is this the home of Joe Pujol – The Baker?

JOE. Pitalugue! I don’t believe it! What a surprise! It must be four or five years!!

PITALUGUE. Hello, Joe. I was passing. Can you spare a crust?

JOE. One? I can spare a dozen! Cherie, this is my old army comrade – Pitalugue!
ELIZABETH. I have enough mouths to feed, Joseph.

JOE. Come and join us at the table, my friend.

PITALUGUE. I don’t want to inconvenience you.

JOE. It’s no inconvenience, is it dear?

ELIZABETH. I’ve never turned a guest away, Mr Pitalugue.

JOE. You are kind, Mrs. Pujol. You are Mr and Mrs I take it?

JOE. Of course we are and have a growing family to prove it.

PITALUGUE. When Joe and I were in the army he told me about your beauty and charm Mrs Pujol but I thought he was exaggerating – until now.

ELIZABETH. Mr Pitalugue: you’re obviously used to living by your wits.


PITALUGE JOINS THEM AT THE TABLE


PITALUGUE. How’s civilian life treating you, Joe?

JOE. Too much work, not enough pleasure.

PITALUGUE. Or should that be the other way around? I count four.

ELIZABETH. Yes – and you make five.

JOE. Are you hungry? What would you like?

PITALUGUE. What do you have?

ELIZABETH. We have a little pheasant left over.

PITALUGUE. You can afford pheasant?

JOE. Courtesy of the, er, ahem, local gentry. I take it you’ve been travelling. Where did you go? What did you see?

PITALUGUE. I saw the sea, the English Channel. I went to London.

JOE. London! Did you see the Queen of England?

PITALUGUE. No, but I saw her subjects. Never have I seen such poverty, destitution and vagrancy. Great wealth and great poverty side by side make strange bedfellows.

JOE. What are they like, the English?

PITALUGUE. Crazy. Their government, their Church, aristocracy, law-makers – all preach morality, modest living, sobriety, duty. Then when the night comes they spend their fortunes in brothels, inns and houses of ill repute. They have Freak Shows too.

ELIZABETH. What is that?

PITALUGUE. The English love to think they’re special, a cut above the rest. So they gather together all the deformed and unfortunate people from the corners of their Empire. The Tallest Man, the Smallest Woman, the Fattest Boy and the Thinnest Girl. Siamese Twins, Women with Beards, men that look like Elephants. Do they care for them, give them charity or make their miserable existences easier? No. They put them in cages in circuses and charge the public to gawp and poke fun and mock. I tell you: on the one hand it is shameful.

JOE. And on the other hand?

PITALUGUE. Very lucrative. Fortunes are made. The public demands novelty. It’s greedy for sensation.

JOE. What are you doing for a living these days?

PITALUGUE. Whatever I can. But look - you are a shop-owner now. Soon you will be petit bourgeouis!

JOE. All is not as it seems, my friend. My family grows but my business does not.

PITALUGUE. I always told you there was no money in shops.

JOE. So I’ve been doing a little singing in some local music halls and playing trombone. It’s nothing special. It makes a few coppers. My wife and I are working on a new routine just now. Perhaps you would like to be our experimental audience?

PITALUGUE. Me? I have some knowledge of these things but I’m no expert. I’m a simple man. I know what makes me sad and I know what brings me joy - the No-man’s Land between these two is what I call “philosophy”.


JOE AND ELIZABETH PERFORM A MIME. SHE APPEARS TO BE RICH AND HE APPEARS TO BE POOR. THE RICH GIRL HARDLY NOTICES THE POOR MAN. HE IS A STREET-SWEEPER AND SHE A LADY OF SOCIETY. HE DREAMS ABOUT MEETING HER. SHE DREAMS ABOUT MEETING HIM. THEIR SOCIAL CLASS FORBIDS IT. HIS AMBITION IS TO HAVE HER NOTICE HIM. HER AMBITION IS TO BE ALLOWED TO BE ALONE WITH HIM

HE TRANSFORMS HIS SWEEPING BRUSH INTO A TROMBONE AND PLAYS A FORLORN TUNE. THE LADY HEARS HIS TUNE AND FALLS IN LOVE WITH HIM. THEY ARE JOINED BY MUSIC AND FINALLY MEET. THEY DANCE AND HE SHOWS HER TO A SEAT WHERE THEY HOLD HANDS AND LOOK LONGINGLY INTO EACH OTHER’S EYES. PITALUGUE PUTS ON A BIG HAT AND BEARD, JUMPS UP AND BRINGS OUT A SCROLL FROM HIS POCKET. WITH A FIERCE FACE, HE UNROLLS A LIST OF UNPAID BILLS. HE POINTS AT NUMBERS ON THE SCROLL AND THEN LOOKS IMPATIENTLY AT HIS POCKET WATCH

JOE TURNS OUT HIS POCKETS BUT THEY ARE EMPTY. HE GESTURES TO THE LADY TO SEE IF SHE CAN FIND SOMETHING. SHE PULLS OUT – ANOTHER LOAF OF BREAD!

JOE OFFERS THE LOAF TO PITALUGUE AS PAYMENT. PITALUGUE TAKES THE LOAF AND THEN DEMANDS ANOTHER. ELIZABETH HANDS HIM ONE OF THE LOAVES FROM HER BASKET. PITALUGUE DEMANDS ANOTHER. THIS CONTINUES UNTIL THERE ARE NO LOAVES LEFT BUT STILL HE DEMANDS MORE. JOE AND ELIZABETH PLEAD FOR MERCY


JOE. It’s not finished yet. But what do you think? First impressions?

PITALUGUE. It’s got potential.

JOE. You mean you don’t like it?

PITALUGUE. I mean I’ve seen many similar shows in fleapits in Paris and London. It’s good - for what it is - but it doesn’t stand out. And it’s sad. If you want to make people happy – make them laugh. I’d rather pay to be made to laugh for an hour than to cry.

JOE. But I don’t know how to make people laugh.

PITALUGUE. Shame.

ELIZABETH. We must pray for a miracle, Joseph.

JOE. Perhaps we will.

ELIZABETH. What?

JOE. Pray for a miracle! What’s tomorrow?

PITALUGUE. Sunday.

JOE. I thought so. Pitalugue, you’ll stay with us tonight as our guest and tomorrow we’ll all attend Mass.

PITALUGUE. Your hospitality and bread I can happily accept but I’m not the religious sort, Joseph.

JOE. Neither are we. But in these times we all must go through the motions. Anyway you don’t have to take part: the preacher is a crackpot.

ELIZABETH. Joseph!

JOE. It’s true!

PITALUGUE. As you wish, my friend. I would not reject your hospitality.

JOE. Elizabeth, what’s for dinner?

ELIZABETH. Stew!


ENTER THE PREACHER. HE IS IN A PULPIT ADDRESSING HIS CONGREGATION. PITALUGUE, ELIZABETH AND JOE FACE THE AUDIENCE SIDE-BY-SIDE. PITALUGUE CRADLES A “BABY”, JOE CRADLES ANOTHER AND ELIZABETH CRADLES TWO


PREACHER. Beware the sins of the flesh, my children, for that way iniquity and loose morality resides.


ELIZABETH AND JOE PEEK AT EACH OTHER AND AT THEIR FOUR BABIES


PREACHER. And where resides iniquity, the Devil – wandering in the wilderness, hunting for easy prey - will always come knocking on the door of loose morality.


ELIZABETH PEEKS OVER AT PITALUGUE WHO IN TURN SHIFTS UNCOMFORTABLY IN HIS SEAT


PREACHER. “Thou shalt not steal” sayeth the Lord. Break this holy commandment and you will surely burn for all eternity in the fires of Satan.

Now, some local landlords and farmers have had cause to complain about theft from their fields and farms in the form of poaching. I sympathise and understand times are hard but stealing will win only the wrath of God. Our landlords and farmers are all hardworking men who suffer terrible hardships and deprivations so their workers can have food on their tables.


THERE IS THE SOUND OF A FART. JOE REGISTERS NO EMOTION. ELIZABETH KICKS HIS LEG SURREPTIOUSLY. PITALUGUE DOES NOT REALISE IT IS JOE WHO FARTED AND LOOKS ELSEWHERE FOR THE SOURCE


PREACHER. Let us not forget how hard our magistrates, schoolmasters, doctors, government representatives and members of the clergy work on your behalf. Let us not forget how much they suffer the exhaustion of wise judgement for little reward in order to improve the spiritual and moral welfare of you - the backbone of this great country.


THERE IS THE SOUND OF ANOTHER FART. ELIZABETH KICKS JOE AGAIN. PITALUGUE LOOKS DOWN AT THE BABY AND SNIFFS


PREACHER. We will now sing “The Lord is my Shepherd”.


THE CHANT OF HALF-HEARTED CHURCH SINGING FILTERS THROUGH FROM THE BACKGROUND


JOE. What do you learn from all this, Pitalugue?

PITALUGUE. If I’m good I go to Heaven?

JOE. No, our preacher!

PITALUGUE. I don’t follow.

JOE. How not to entertain an audience perhaps?

PITALUGUE. I suppose.


THERE IS THE SOUND OF ANOTHER FART


PITALUGUE. Those organ pipes need cleaning out.


JOE GIGGLES. ELIZABETH KICKS HIM


JOE. Look at their faces! Some go red, some smirk, some grin and one or two laugh out loud. It is truly magical! My very own captive audience!

PITALUGUE. You mean, that’s you that’s - !

JOE. It’s just like school, my friend! The more serious the teacher tried to make himself the funnier it was when he failed! Thus far I’ve deduced that half the trick is to show no emotion.

PITALUGUE. You can fart at random?

JOE. Since I was a child.

PITALUGUE. There’s no pong?

JOE. No.

PITALUGUE. You mean all those farts you did in the army weren’t accidents?

JOE. Most of them were. I haven’t got full control.

PITALUGUE. But if you had full control, could you fart at will?

JOE. I suppose so. But why would I want to fart at will?


PITALUGUE THINKS, JUMPS TO HIS FEET AND STRETCHES OUT HIS ARMS TO HEAVEN


PITALUGUE. HALLELUJAH! IT’S A MIRACLE! PRAISE BE TO GOD!

PREACHER. The Lord works in mysterious ways – bless you, my son!


PITALUGUE GRABS JOE AND DANCES AROUND THE ROOM AND THE PREACHER BEAMS AND SMILES AND THE CHORUS OF “HALLELUJAH!” BUILDS TO A CLIMAX



END OF ACT I.


















ACT II



THE BAKERY. PITALUGUE, JOE AND ELIZABETH HAVE JUST RETURNED FROM CHURCH


ELIZABETH. No, no, no, no, no!

JOE. But why not?

ELIZABETH. No husband of mine is going to bring shame on this family by publicly doing what should be reserved for the lavatory! Imagine the shame of it! Imagine your children when they go to school and their classmates mock them with their farting father!

JOE. Then we’ll make enough money to send them to a private school where the profession of a man doesn’t count half so much as his wealth! Money doesn’t smell!

ELIZABETH. My mother warned me when we married, Joseph Pujol, that men had dirty habits. But some habits were meant to be secrets between a man and a woman and not put on display for the world to make a mockery of.

JOE. There are secrets between us I’d never tell another living soul, my darling! But what would it matter if people paid to come and laugh at such things for an hour or two?

ELIZABETH. Who will pay? For shame, who would be foolish enough to pay hard-earned money to watch a grown man sound like a dirty, disgusting, filthy farmyard pig and for doing something that we scold our children for doing? Who? Show me them!

JOE. It’s not for us to judge others! We offer this as an entertainment. People must make up their own minds!

ELIZABETH. We live in a civilized society, Joseph Pujol. We’re civilized people. We walk on two legs, not four!

JOE. Civilized? “Thou shalt not steal” sayeth the Lord!” Oh really? And don’t the banks and landlords and tax collectors steal from us? A room full of 100 of your civilized people at one penny each is 100 pennies! Marie, the world is full of money – all we have to do is work out a way to channel some in our direction!

Pitalugue - talk to her. Make her see.

PITALUGUE. Let us stay calm. Dignity is the key here. Dignity. Mrs Pujol, we’re not talking of Joe getting up onstage and sticking out his backside for the common herd to gawp at, farting like something less than human. No. If this thing is to be done well then it must be done correctly. It must be planned like a military exercise.

There are many risks. Our strategy therefore is one of risk elimination. As I see it, there are seven steps.

First: we must find ourselves a private venue to hire, one where we cannot be compared to any other act, where we cannot be publicly whipped if our act is not to the public taste and one where we can control our income.

Second: we must cultivate the image and find our star a good, clean and polished piece of eveningwear.
Third: our star must be presented in a manner that compliments his costume and puts him in a flattering light.

Fourth: he must have professional musical accompaniment and a rehearsed, planned and well-executed repertoire.

Fifth: in keeping with the need for dignity: he must perform as a human performs - on two legs not four!

Sixth: with the love and support of a good wife and an astute manager behind him a man – I’m told – can do anything.

So look back to your wedding day and recount again those vows you took. Then look at your growing family and reconsider.

ELIZABETH. We don’t need to be reminded of our wedding vows, thank you, Mr. Pitalugue. When you’ve walked down the aisle yourself then perhaps you may mention such things under my roof. Until then I beg you to restrain your wilder opinions.

PITALUGUE. I’ve no wish to come between you and your husband, Mrs. Pujol. I hope you will forgive my impertinence.

ELIZABETH. I would venture “impertinence” your middle name, Mr. Pitalugue. To you alone it’s perhaps a form of charm born out of the necessity to survive the hard road of life on which you choose to walk. Please – do not let us divert you from your destiny.

PITALUGUE. Joseph – it appears I’ve been rash and quite out of my wits to dream up such a thing. I don’t know what came over me. I’ll take up my pack and continue on my travels.

JOE. But where will you go? What will you do?

PITALUGUE. Survive, Joe.

JOE. But when will we see you again?

PITALUGUE. There’s only one place I would want to see you, Joe: The Moulin Rouge.

JOE. That long?

ELIZABETH. You mentioned seven things, Mr. Pitalugue. You have given us six. What was the seventh?

PITALUGUE. In the business of entertainment, my dear, there is one element that is un-quantifiable: luck. Enormous and unbounded luck!


EXIT PITALUGUE


JOE. He was only trying to help.

ELIZABETH. Has he gone? Good. Watch the baby. I’m going to look in the wardrobe for your old wedding suit. It’s been gathering dust for some years now. Let us hope you can still fit into it.

JOE. My old wedding suit? But why? Are we going to a wedding?
THE NOISE OF A THEATRE PACKED WITH PEOPLE FILTERS IN. A SPOTLIGHT SHINES. JOE TAKES A BLACK COAT FROM THE STAND AND PUTS IT ON. ELIZABETH PRODUCES A NEWSPAPER AND READS.


JOE. Sounds like another full house, my darling!

ELIZABETH. They loved you in Toulon, Marseille, Toulouse, Nimes, Bezier and Cette and tonight they’ll love you here in Bordeaux.

JOE. What about Clermont-Ferrand?

ELIZABETH. You’re in the newspaper. Listen:


JOE DOES TEN PRESS-UPS


ELIZABETH. “Le Petomane gave his performance at Clermont-Ferrand in one of those temporary booths erected in the Jaude Square for the principal annual fairs. He presented himself almost entirely in black . . . “ Hmm.

JOE. What is it?

ELIZABETH. A touch of colour might be nice, dear, for variation. Perhaps we ought to get you a red jacket?


JOE SKIPS


ELIZABETH. “At the beginning of the show, facing the audience, he explained that he had the power of breathing in the air by the anus, just as we normally breathe in by the mouth.” Hmm.

JOE. What?

ELIZABETH. Something amusing to open with might be less formal, lighter.

JOE. I’ll think on it.


JOE DOES BREATHING EXERCISES


ELIZABETH. “Then turning his back on the public, he announced the kind of noise he was going to make. I remember having heard the mason’s round fart, the timid little fart of the young girl, etcetera.” Perhaps you ought not to turn your back on your public? It’s not polite.

JOE. Face them?

ELIZABETH. Why not?

JOE. I’ve thought of it. In that little back room in Marseille and in Toulon. With a deadpan expression and a slight look of surprise I could have them in stitches.

ELIZABETH. Don’t forget the anal contractions, Joe.
JOE. Ah!


JOE CONDUCTS TEN ANAL CONTRACTIONS


ELIZABETH. “The séance ended with an attempt to run through the gamut of sounds. In reality he produced only four notes, the do, ra, mi, so of the octave.” Hmm.

JOE. Yes, dear?

ELIZABETH. An instrument might make a better tone. A tin whistle perhaps?

JOE. Go on.

ELIZABETH. “The whole town is talking about it, even in the salons. A lady of high society known for her sharpness of wit was heard to observe that Le Petomane came in with the rain and out with the wind. People laughed, prices have not been put up and one can be assured that he has a great future. It was a good evening.”


JOE PUTS ON WHITE GLOVES


JOE. Do you think we’re ready for Paris?

ELIZABETH. Ready or not, you must try. Be bold and strike straight and true, Joe Pujol!

JOE. I wish Pitalugue were here to see us. We owe him much.

ELIZABETH. I have a feeling we’ve not seen the last of him.

JOE. Do you still hate him?

ELIZABETH. I never hated him. I was afraid of him.

JOE. Afraid of him?

ELIZABETH. Afraid he was on the hunt for easy pickings and he saw them in you and I. Afraid of the unknown. Afraid that it would be us who became the laughing stocks if it backfired and he sneaked away with whatever reputation he had intact. There. Let me look at you. Are you not nervous, going out in front of two hundred strangers?

JOE. Only the ill prepared need be nervous, darling. I learnt that in the army.


THE CHATTER OF THE AUDIENCE DIES DOWN


ELIZABETH. You’re on, Joe!


SHE KISSES HIM ON THE CHEEK AFTER STRAIGHTENING HIS BOWTIE


ELIZABETH. Make it your best, Joe! For after tonight we’ll conquer Paris and after Paris – France and after France - Europe!
JOE. One more kiss for luck!

ELIZABETH. Here, careful with your kisses Joe Pujol or number six will be not far away!

JOE. Number six? But we’ve only four and . . . Ma cherie! What wonderful news!


EXIT JOE. ELIZABETH PEEKS AT HIM. BACKSTAGE IS NOW THE STAGE OF THE THEATRE


JOE (OFF): Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the honour to present a session of Petomanie. The word “Petomanie” means “someone who can break wind at will” – but don’t let your nose worry you: my parents ruined themselves scenting my rectum.”


LAUGHTER AND APPLAUSE GREET THIS REMARK. MUSIC BUILDS, DROWNING JOE’S REPERTOIRE BUT NOT THE LAUGHTER AND APPLAUSE. RED LIGHTS SPELLING OUT “MOULIN ROUGE” RISE FROM BEHIND. THE VOLUME OF THE MUSIC FADES AWAY. CHEERS, APPLAUSE, SHOUTS OF “ENCORE! BRAVO!” FILTER IN. ENTER JOE. ELIZABETH HANDS HIM A TOWEL TO WIPE AWAY HIS SWEAT


JOE. How many encores is that?

ELIZABETH. Seven!


JOE EXITS FOR ONE FINAL BOW AND QUICKLY ENTERS AGAIN. ENTER TWO JOURNALISTS. BOTH WEAR TALL HATS AND BIG BUSHY BEARDS AND CARRY NOTEPADS AND PENCILS.


ELIZABETH. Joseph, these gentlemen are from Paris newspapers.

JOURNO 1. Mr Pujol, congratulations on your marvellous performance! It’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen in Paris.

JOE. Thank you very much.

JOURNO 1. May I ask a few questions for my newspaper?

JOE. By all means.

JOURNO 1. How old are you now and how old were you when you realised you had this special talent?

JOE. I was about 13 or 14 but I didn’t know it was a talent until I was somewhat older. I’m now 35 years of age. You could say my talent has been a long while fermenting.

JOURNO 2. Mr Pujol, I represent the foreign press. Do you have any special dietary needs? Vegetables? Beer? Sprouts?

JOE. No. Two daily evacuations are all that is needed. One first thing in the morning
and another just before the show.

JOURNO 1. Is it true you can imbibe up to a litre of water through your back cavity?

JOE. No - two litres is nearer the truth.
JOURNO 1. Is it true that last week you broke previous box office records by taking 20,000 francs in a single day?

JOE. You must speak with the Manager Mr Oller about that.

JOURNO 2. Is it also true that you underwent an examination by Doctor Marcel Baudoin here in Paris and that a report appeared in “The Medical Weekly” confirming that you are – I quote – “a pioneer” in this field?

JOE. I believe that word was mentioned, yes.

JOURNO 1. Is it true then that your show has outstripped receipts by other popular music hall attractions such as Sarah Bernhardt, Lucien Guitry, Rejane, Yves Guilbert and Vincent Scotto?

JOE. Quality and quantity is not the same thing, gentlemen. These people you have mentioned each have a special talent. We all have a special talent. But the Parisian public is greedy for novelty. The question is: how long will the novelty of my act last before tastes change and how long will Sarah Bernhardt be remembered for the enduring quality of her stage acting? And now, I would like to rest.

JOURNO 1. Thank you, Mr Pujol.


EXIT JOURNO 1


JOURNO 2. One more question, Mr Pujol?

JOE. Yes?

JOURNO 2. Is it true that you do in fact owe your phenomenal success to the inspiration of your old friend Mr Pitalugue and that you have in fact donated 99% of your earnings to him?

JOE. What? Who said that?

ELIZABETH. It’s true my husband owes much to Mr Pitalugue but 99% of our takings is most certainly not true!

JOE. Where did you get that information, sir?

JOURNO 2. Why, from Mr Pitalugue himself.

JOE. Mr Pitalugue is here in Paris?

JOURNO 2. Mr Pitalugue is here - in person!


JOURNO 2 REMOVES HIS BEARD AND HAT. IT IS PITALUGUE!


JOE. Pitalugue! My old friend!

PITALUGUE. I was out there tonight! It was packed to the rafters! They were carrying women out on stretchers! You were magnificent!

ELIZABETH. Mr Pitalugue, I owe you an apology.
PITALUGUE. Nonsense, my dear! The timing was wrong. I would’ve said and done exactly the same thing if I’d have been married to him!

JOE. But where’ve you been this last year?

PITALUGUE. I’ve just returned from Africa.

JOE. Africa?

PITALUGUE. Tunisia, Algiers, Cairo. I’ve a cousin works on the roulette tables. I tell you, you ought to travel more, do some tours. Seeing the world broadens one’s horizons, opens up new possibilities. What about you? I’ve been following your career in the newspapers. Are they paying you well? Looking after you?

JOE. We’ve got a turreted mini-chateau in Saint Maur Des Fosses!

ELIZABETH. With servants no less! Joe’s bought a cabriolet and a beautiful mare and we’ve named it Aida!

JOE. And I’ve just signed a five-year contract!

PITALUGUE. A five-year contract? Are you mad?

ELIZABETH. Why? What’s wrong with it? He is guaranteed a hefty standard salary for at least five years.

PITALUGUE. Joe, only the naive or the foolish sign contracts for five years! The management will milk you dry. How many shows a day are you doing?

JOE. Two. With two days off out of each week.

PITALUGUE. After six months they’ll have you on three shows a day and one day off and no increase in your wages. I guarantee it. You’re a hit, Joe! You’re a bankable commodity. Do you know you are talked about as far away as North Africa?

JOE. North Africa?

PITALUGUE. And Belgium and Spain!

ELIZABETH. But Joe is already being paid handsomely.

PITALUGUE. And you can bet that Mr Oller the Manager is making twice as much as he’s paying you and Mr Zidler the Director four times that! Oh my friends, my friends! Servants! The city has got its talons into you. You lived for years without servants – why use them now? It’ll turn you bad I guarantee it. Already it’s made you a slave-driving master and mistress!

ELIZABETH. Not at all! We treat them as friends. We’ve not forgotten from where we came. Without us they would be on the streets. There are no airs or graces in our home.

PITALUGUE. I’m pleased to hear it. So would you be looking for a coachman? I’ve got references.

ELIZABETH. It’s not a coachman we need, Mr Pitalugue.

PITALUGUE. Ah.

ELIZABETH. I think your talents would be wasted there. As you can see, I’m in the family way again and I need to spend more time with our children. I think it’d be much better if you were Joe’s Manager, don’t you Joe?

PITALUGUE. Are you certain?

ELIZABETH. Joe? What do you think?

JOE. I love you.

PITALUGUE. Then it’s a deal!


THEY SHAKE HANDS WARMLY


PITALUGUE. First thing we do is negotiate my percentage so I can claim ten per cent commission as my fee and then I can buy myself a decent suit of clothes. I can’t get you the best tables at the best restaurants in Paris dressed like this. Then we need to get you some time off and organise some tours.

JOE. But won’t Mr Oller object?

PITALUGUE. Only if we push too hard or ask too much. Little bits of give and take here and there won’t hurt anyone. Compromise is the key to successful management.

Now, I think I can get some dates in Belgium and there’s a Spaniard in town looking for some new acts for his venue in Madrid. Have you thought about some private sessions, Joe?

JOE. Private sessions?

PITALUGUE. Yes. Men-only affairs. Behind closed doors. A nice little side line. Do you still do that squirting water out of your backside trick you did for us once in our army days? We could polish that up a bit. What about some commercial deals?

JOE. Commercial deals?

PITALUGUE. Promoting products in newspapers for example.

ELIZABETH. You should do something about ticket prices too. They are very high. Mr Oller is very rich. It is not fair for the less well-off.

PITALUGUE. “Rich” is one thing. “Fair” is another. “Rich” and “fair” I’m not too sure about but I’ll do my best.

ELIZABETH. Joe? Joe!


ELIZABETH STAGGERS

PITALUGUE BECOMES THE DOCTOR AS JOE STANDS ANXIOUSLY BY. ELIZABETH GIVES BIRTH TO ANOTHER LOAF. SHE AND JOE CRADLE THE NEW ARRIVAL. THE THREE OF THEM POSE FOR A GROUP PORTRAIT. ELIZABETH CRADLES THE “BABY”. JOE AND PITALUGUE WAVE FAREWELL TO HER AND GRAB THEIR SUITCASES. THEY MIME TRAVELLING AND PERFORMING IN MADRID, CAIRO, ALGIERS AND BELGIUM. PITALUGUE COUNTS OUT GREAT WADS OF NOTES AS THEY EARN THEIR WAGES. HE HAPPILY SHARES THE MONEY WITH JOE. AFTER EACH TRANSACTION THEY SHAKE HANDS
ELIZABETH SHOWS US SHE IS EXPECTING ANOTHER BABY. PITALUGUE AND JOE HELP HER DELIVER BABY SIX. EXHAUSTED BY THE EXPERIENCE, JOE TRIES TO COOL HER BY WAFTING A HANDKERCHIEF IN HER FACE. PITALUGUE SEEMS EXHAUSTED TOO SO JOE WAFTS HIS HANKY AT HIM ALSO. AS JOE WAITS FOR THEM BOTH TO RECOVER, HE SUDDENLY FREEZES. A SCENT APPEARS TO HAVE CAUGHT HIS NOSE!

A GINGER BREAD SELLER ENTERS. HE HAS A TRAY AROUND HIS WAIST SUSPENDED BY A STRING AROUND HIS NECK. THE TRAY IS LADEN WITH GINGERBREAD MEN. JOE BUYS A GINGERBREAD MAN FROM HIM AND EATS IT. HE THEN COMPLIMENTS THE SELLER. THE SELLER RECOGNISES JOE AS “LE PETOMANE”. JOE APPEARS MODEST AND TRIES TO PLAY IT DOWN. THE SELLER ENCOURAGES JOE TO PERFORM A SMALL SECTION OF HIS REPERTOIRE. JOE IS GRADUALLY PERSUADED

ENTER TWO LAWYERS/SPIES WHO WORK FOR MR OLLER – MANAGER OF THE MOULIN ROUGE

JOE ASSUMES HIS POSITION. THE SELLER APPLAUDS VIGOROUSLY. JOE TAKES A SHY BOW AS THE SPIES SCRIBBLE DOWN SMALL NOTES FURIOUSLY. ONE OF THEM THEN PRESENTS HIS NOTES TO JOE WHO READS THEM. JOE LOOKS AGHAST – IT IS A COURT SUMMONS. PITALUGUE TAKES THE SUMMONS FROM JOE AND READS IT. ELIZABETH CRADLES THE NEW BABY


PITALUGUE. But you weren’t actually doing a part of your repertoire in order to encourage the people to buy from the vendor, were you? You weren’t performing to advertise something?

JOE. His gingerbread smelled wonderful. I asked him about the ingredients. Of course, being bakers we started to talk about spices. Then he recognised me. So I asked him if he’d ever seen the show and he said he hadn’t and not many people he knew had because the prices were too high. So he asked if I could give him a quick demonstration.

PITALUGUE. And you did.

JOE. It was only a short one. It just happened that Mr Oller had two spies in the audience. So Oller called me in to his office and accused me of breaking the contract.

PITALUGUE. Did you argue?

JOE. A little.

PITALUGUE. Or a lot?

JOE. He was rude.

PITALUGUE. What did he say?

JOE. He laughed and said my ass belonged to him.

PITALUGUE. And you said?

JOE. I told him that my ass – as he called it - was my own property and I could not always guarantee that I could control what came out of it.

PITALUGUE. And he said?

JOE. He told me I ought to consider as much what came out of my anus as came out of my mouth.

PITALUGUE. To which you replied?

JOE. The only thing that came out of my mouth was the truth and the truth was that his ticket prices were exorbitant and I could see very little difference between what came out his anus and what came out his mouth.

PITALUGUE. I bet he liked that. So what do you want to do?

JOE. Open up our own theatre.

PITALUGUE. Are you mad?

JOE. Why not? I’ve been thinking about it.

PITALUGUE. We’ll need to pull our socks up if we are going to be players, Joe.

JOE. I already have a name – The Pompadour! We cut out the middleman, open the show to a wider audience and set ticket prices that everyone can afford. I want to make everyone laugh – not just the rich and privileged.

PITALUGUE. Your contract is set to run another three years.

JOE. I can’t go on one day longer.

PITALUGUE. They’ll sue.

JOE. We’ll fight!

PITALUGUE. On what grounds?

JOE. Farting for physical relief and farting for entertainment are two completely different things. The greatest minds in the world couldn’t prove otherwise.

PITALUGUE. When will you leave?

JOE. Tonight is my last show.

PITALUGUE. Did you know there’s a forfeit clause in your contract? If you break it and the judge finds against you, you must pay Oller 3000F.

JOE. We could pay 30,000F and still not feel it.

PITALUGUE. Never was I so extravagant in my life to consider losing one penny of hard-earned money. Never. This world is a jungle. I’ve seen only a small part of it. But what I saw made me shiver. If a man cannot work in this world he is as good as dead. You’ve seen the beggars. This is no Utopia where money is given away to those who cannot work, Joe. If there ever is such a place it’s in our dreams.

I’ve never lied to you, Joe. I love you like a brother and like a brother I’m here to guide and to give advice. I want you to be certain. You have a wife and a family whereas I have little to lose. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth” – that’s what my mother always said to me.

JOE. We have enough money to furnish and rent a nice little place I’ve seen down the road. With a little advertising we can be putting on an identical show in two nights time. You may need to get onstage and do some performing yourself if we are to save on staff.

PITALUGUE. As long as I don’t have to talk or sing.

JOE. Are you with us?

PITALUGUE. The artist always calls the shots.

JOE. Thanks, my friend. We don’t deserve you.

PITALUGUE. I’ll get a lawyer.


EXIT PITALUGUE. ENTER A LAWYER. JOE AND ELIZABETH - CRADLING ANOTHER BABY - SIT DOWN NEXT TO THE LAWYER WHO REMAINS STANDING


LAWYER. Your honour, the court knows my client cannot claim any illness for having left the Moulin Rouge’s employ as only two days later he was onstage at his own Pompadour Theatre with an almost identical performance. But we are not here to offer excuses. We are here to fight for what we believe is right.

My client signed a contract that bound him to two performances per day for five days each week. For two years he performed diligently and punctually, entertaining upwards of 100,000 people.

My client had, prior to this event, asked for more freedom to conduct his own commercial transactions but the Moulin Rouge had threatened him with court action if he tried.

We contend, your Honour, that it was the restrictive pressure of the Moulin Rouge that forced my client into taking this drastic action and that my client should not be bound to pay the 3000 francs forfeit as stipulated in the contract because the contract was an unreasonable one in the first place.

JOE. Bravo!

LAWYER. I am doing my best Mr Pujol but it does not bode well. The presiding judge – Mr Toutés - and the Court Clerk have both seen your show and, I have it on good authority, found it most amusing.

PUJOL. Then we are home and dry!

LAWYER. Not necessarily. I also have it on more scurrilous – but nonetheless believable - authority that both Mr Toutés and the Clerk of the Court are offered - and frequently take - certain – hospitality expenses shall we say, from Mr Oller for various other “performances”, if you get my meaning.

JOE. I do not get your meaning.

LAWYER. In front of your wife . . .

ELIZABETH. I live with a man who farts for a living. We have no secrets.

LAWYER. I am thinking along the lines of the famous Can-Can dancers?

ELIZABETH. But half of these judges are married men with children!

LAWYER. Which is why half of the brothel-keepers in Paris have never been prosecuted. Alas, the law is not a mechanical machine devoid of emotion or favouritism, Mrs Pujol. The law is written by human beings. Thus: the law is riddled with flaws, imperfections, contradictions and hypocrisies and is eminently corruptible.

ELIZABETH. Whatever the outcome - thank you for your help, sir. Finding a lawyer was not easy. When most of them discovered what Joe did they shut their doors in our faces. You have brought us some dignity.

LAWYER. I took this case not simply because it was a case of disputed contractual obligations, Mrs Pujol but because this and many other cases all across Europe at this time are part of a vanguard of events that are attacking the stale and stagnant society in which we live. A new century is approaching and we must slap its cheeks severely if it is to survive its birth.

Mr Toutés should be ready to deliver his verdict now.

VOICE OFF. In the case of The Moulin Rouge of Le Place Blanche versus Joseph Pujol the court finds in favour of the Moulin Rouge and Mr Pujol must pay the 3000F fine. Mr Toutes would also like to add that – if it is any consolation - he particularly enjoyed Mr Pujol’s “mother-in-law” fart.

JOE. Please thank Mr Toutes. I believe the whole of Paris has found great pleasure in my “mother-in-law”.

LAWYER. If ever you need me again - call by anytime.


EXIT THE LAWYER. ENTER PITALUGUE. JOE AND ELIZABETH TAKE OFF THEIR COATS


PITALUGUE. I’m sorry, Joe. I’ve been reading about it in the newspaper. This idiot journalist calls you a “devil”. They write such lies. They are envious of your success.

ELIZABETH. Don’t take it to heart, Joe. I still love you.


A BABY CRIES. EXIT ELIZABETH


PITALUGUE. Look on it as a lesson learned. You got your fingers burnt this time but with the new show we’ll get a bigger slice of the pie.

JOE. “Beware of the black-cloaked men”. Somebody once told me that, back in our army days. You were right – Pitalugue – this business is a jungle. Its teeth chew the spirit out of me. Never, ever again will I deal with lawyers or go anywhere near a courtroom. And if I ever break my word may God strike me down dead!

PITALUGUE. Wait a minute! What’s this? “La Femme Petomane!” An impersonator, Joe!

JOE. What? Let me see that.

PITALUGUE. An impersonator trying to cash in on your name!

JOE. “La Femme Petomane - Angele Thiebeau – now appearing at the Moulin Rouge”! But she cannot. “Le Petomane” is mine. I invented it.

PITALUGUE. The wind has just changed direction, Joe.

JOE. “No name, no fame!” I have the name and I have the fame! Pitalugue - get that lawyer!

PITALUGUE. What are you going to do, Joe?

JOE. I’m going to sue - for counterfeit and fraudulent imitation!


EXIT PITALUGUE. ENTER JOE’S LAWYER AND ANGELE THIEBEAU


VOICE OFF. In the case of Joseph Pujol - also know as “Le Petomane” - versus Angele Thiebeau - also known as “La Femme Petomane” - and The Moulin Rouge of Le Place Blanche, Paris. To be heard before the 9th Court of the Correctional Tribunal of the Seine, presided over by Mr Richard. The Court may be seated.

LAWYER. Mr President, I would like to begin my opening speech with a quote by the famous sixteenth century author Beroalde de Verville in his book “The Way of Succeeding”.

“The Lord of Lierne, a French gentleman on his travel in Italy, took to bed a courtesan by the name of Imperia in Rome.


JOE AND ANGELE CROSS THE SPACE BETWEEN THEM AND JOIN HANDS AND, FOLLOWING A FORMAL CURTSEY, BEGIN A CHOREOGRAPHED DANCE TO THE ACCOMPANIMENT OF GENTLE MUSIC THAT ENACTS IN MIME THE LAWYER’S STORY


LAWYER. As chaste courtesans well know their business, Imperia had procured some small rubber atomisers, such as those used for spraying perfumes that had been filled with scented air through the skill of perfumers. Having a supply of these and holding the gentleman in her arms, the good Imperia allowed herself to be loved. To add an edge to the fondling and to draw her lover more closer the lady took one of the atomisers in her hand and squeezed it, thus making the audible sound similar to that of passing wind. On hearing this, the gentleman withdrew his head from the bed to give himself some air.

ANGELE AS IMPERIA. It’s not what you think - you must smell it before being afraid.

LAWYER. Thus persuaded he received an agreeable odour quite contrary to what he had expected and which he savoured with pleasure. This having been repeated a number of times, he enquired of the lady if such winds proceeded from her by cause of diet considering that they smelt so good and given the fact that similar winds emanating from the lower portions of French ladies were stinking and abominable?

To this she replied with a little frisky philosophy to the effect that Italian ladies, due to the nature of the country, the aromatic food and to the use of odorous articles, thus produced their quintessence in the lower regions.

JOE AS LORD OF LIERNE. In truth, our own ladies pass wind in a quite different way.

LAWYER. Well, it so happened that after some musketry and on account of with holding her wind for too long, Imperia passed wind naturally, substantially and at length. The Frenchman diligently stuck his nose under the sheets in order, he thought, to apprehend the good odour that he wished to savour to the full.

But he was deceived; he received through his nose a stench of barnyard proportions.

JOE AS LORD OF LIERNE. Oh my dear lady! What have you done?

ANGELE AS IMPERIA. But My Lord, I was but paying you a compliment to remind you of the ladies of your own country!


JOE SUDDENLY PULLS UP ANGELE THIEBEAU’S SKIRTS, REVEALING – A PAIR OF BELLOWS STRAPPED BETWEEN HER THIGHS!


LAWYER. Pity Miss Thiebeau, ladies and gentlemen, as the hapless victim of a greedy and vengeful Moulin Rouge eager to cash in on the fame of the original and naturally gifted Le Petomane - Mr Joseph Pujol.

JOE. What do you think? What are our chances?

LAWYER. It’s in the bag.

JOE. Your Honour, I wish to make a statement: I want to withdraw my claim.

LAWYER. But Mr Pujol, we have her against the ropes. We’re going to win.

JOE. The point has been proved. Her shame and that of the Moulin Rouge is complete, the forgery exposed. I am vindicated. That is enough for me.

LAWYER. You are indeed a gentleman, Mr. Pujol. It has been a pleasure to represent you. Here’s my bill.


EXIT THE LAWYER. EXIT ANGELE THIEBEAU. ENTER PITALUGUE


PITALUGUE. I still say we should have finished her off, Joe. And then we could have gone for the Moulin Rouge itself! Taken them to the cleaners!

JOE. Mercy is a rare quality in these times.

PITALUGUE. And what mercy did they show you?

JOE. That wasn’t mercy – that was a broken contract.

PITALUGUE. There’s no room in this world for mercy. Mercy doesn’t pay the bills.

JOE. If to show no mercy is to be uncivilized then what can we be if we hand it out generously?

PITALUGUE. The world will not remember you for your mercy, Joe.

JOE. Oh I know what they’ll remember me for. Do you think I am deaf and blind to the sniggers and whispers? I cannot paint, I cannot compose music, I cannot play an instrument proficiently, I cannot sing. Nature made a freak of me and gave me the gift of a talking, breathing backside. If another “Le Petomane” never walks the stage for a thousand years, when people whisper that name there will always be furtive whispers and sniggers. Do they think I’d get up onstage in front of thousands of strangers and go through what I go through every night if I didn’t have a wife and six children who would be paupers if I didn’t?


ELIZABETH ENTERS


Well, so be it. Nature has rolled me these dice and I’ll ride my wager on it as long as I can.

ELIZABETH. That’s seven, Joe.

JOE. Seven? Oh my darling!

PITALUGUE. Oh my God - not again?

JOE. Glasses! Wine! A double celebration: victory in court and another addition to the family Pujol!


ELIZABETH PUTS A BOTTLE OF RED ON A TRAY AND BECOMES MARIE THE WAITRESS. PITALUGUE CHANGES INTO THE UNIFORM OF SCHMIDT AND JOE – THROUGH THE FOLLOWING SPEECH – VERBALLY AND PHYSICALLY TURNS THE CLOCK FORWARD FORTY YEARS TO 1945


JOE. Ten was the final total.

Some of the elder children followed me onto the stage – for a short while – with a special mime act called “The Little Fairy Marzillia”. Pitalugue performed too though he didn’t speak – or sing. We played all the way up to 1914. ”Le Petomane” was always the star attraction of course. All those years a steady trickle came to The Pompadour.

Do you know they even named a brand of fertilizer and the street where I was born in Marseille after my family name? A brand of fertilizer! Caesar gets the world but all Pujol gets is dung. If war hadn’t come I could have gone on to do a world tour!

But war did come, as did middle age. Four of my sons were sent to the Front. One survived unscathed, another was invalided, a third was injured and the fourth became a prisoner-of-war. It was too much for one man to bear. I retired in 1918.

The world had become a more serious and less frivolous place. It found my act out of step. How could we laugh so innocently when all our innocence had been slaughtered on Flanders’ fields?

Soon after I shaved off my moustache for every time I looked in a mirror I saw “Le Petomane” - not Joseph Pujol.

We returned to Toulon and I went back to my old trade, opening up a biscuit factory with my earnings and buying a lovely villa with a beautiful big garden where I could watch my grandchildren and great grandchildren play. Alas, my dear wife passed away in 1930.

Did you know The Faculty of Medicine have offered me 25,000F if I donate my body to medical research? My sons won’t accept of course but a good father always wants to do his best for his children. What matter if I am dead? When we’re dead, we’re dead. Who’ll remember us? I should consider myself lucky – most of us will probably have less than a one-word epitaph.
SCHMIDT. What happened to Mr Pitalugue?

JOE. We wound down The Pompadour in 1918. He had made himself a tidy sum investing and then I heard he went to the United States of America, made a small fortune but then lost it all in The Great Crash of ’29. He sent me a postcard soon after. It said: “Easy come, easy go – your friend – Pitalugue”. I never heard from him again.

SCHMIDT. How sad.

JOE. Not at all, it was how he looked at life. We could all take a sobering lesson from that in these turbulent days.

SCHMIDT. I’m honoured to have met you, sir. But there is one thing I regret:
I wish I could’ve seen your show. Oh you’ve described some wonderful things and I’ve witnessed such visions as you shared with me. But what must it have been like? Being in the actual Moulin Rouge at the turn of the century, watching the great “Le Petomane” at work?

JOE. Ah! The memories always breathe new life into me!


JOE TURNS HIS SUIT JACKET INSIDE OUT. IT IS RED. HE TAKES WHITE GLOVES OUT OF THE POCKETS


JOE. Picture a theatre house if you can. It’s packed to bursting with Parisian nightlife. The King of the Belgians and his mistress – travelling incognito of course - are in the Royal Box. The hubbub, laughter and chatter of a thousand people fills the air like the cries of a dense flock of birds, all waiting for the performer about which they have heard much but experienced little! In the orchestra pit the compact collection of musicians tune their instruments, adding to the cacophony.

Suddenly the gaslights go down in the main house, a gentle, ebbing silence invades the auditoria. There is some tension in the air, some excitement, punctuated by the odd, uncontrolled giggle or a deep barking laugh.

The conductor in the pit taps his baton on his lectern. The musicians stop tuning and – at a sign from their leader – they burst into a well-rehearsed opening tune. Eight bars later, the thick red velvet curtains onstage gently ruffle and the Master of Ceremonies steps out.


JOE LIGHTS THE CANDLE IN THE BOTTLE AND PLACES IT ON THE CHAIR


SCHMIDT. Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight and tonight only, for a one-off exclusive performance never before seen on the stage for over thirty years, could you please put your hands together and give a warm welcome to the one, the only - Joseph Pujol - otherwise known as - “Le Petomane” !


APPLAUSE


JOE. Thank you, thank you, thank you my lords, ladies and gentlemen.

You know, I come from Marseille. Of course I know that this expression is famous all over France, for to say somebody comes from Marseille is like to say they have a tendency to exaggerate.

But ladies and gentlemen, Le Petomane does not exaggerate.

For instance: I was walking down the street the other day when I passed a dressmakers’ shop and happened to glance in the door as the shop assistant was in the act of tearing a fine piece of calico (FART), muslin (FART) and cotton (FART).

It was, as I recall, a cloudy day. I’d just espied my mother-in-law (FART). There’d been a shower and a little thunder (FART). But then she disappeared and the sun came out.

I then bumped into some friends of mine out for their daily promenade. The first of my friends was a young lady who’d just recently been a bride, marrying my best friend. I’d secretly asked my best friend how his new bride had responded to his amorous advances on their wedding night (FART) and then how she had responded the morning after (FART).

You see, ladies and gentlemen? Every word the gospel truth!

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and now I’d like to perform for you a little number to which I myself composed the lyrics and Mr Chiron – a professional Parisian composer - wrote the music. The title of the piece is “Chanticleer”.

Ahem! I’d just like to find the correct key.


HE PRODUCES A TIN WHISTLE FROM HIS POCKET. A LENGTH OF RUBBER TUBING RUNS FROM THE MOUTH-PIECE OF THE WHISTLE, INTO HIS POCKET. HE PLAYS A NUMBER OF NOTES – USING AIR FROM HIS BACKSIDE, SETTING THE KEY OF THE OPENING BARS OF THE SONG TO ONE OF THE NOTES ON THE WHISTLE


JOE. (SPOKEN SONG) “Old cock of the village - my name’s Chanticleer
My plumage is tattered-my voice very clear

Now tonight, my dear public, I’d like to present
Some friends from the barnyard - each one an event:

I’d like to start up-with an eight day-old pup (FART)

Now dogs of all kinds I can do by the score.
We next hear the watchdog - his tail caught in the door (FART).

Patau, his old father, wants to help him be freed
But alas and alack, why, he’s still on the lead (FART).

The all-seeing blackbird is out of his cage,
mocking and laughing them all into rage (FART).

The blackbird declares that there’s clearly a plot
To kill Chanticleer - and the owl laughs a lot (FART).

They chatter and chortle, discuss and surmise
Awaiting the Cock who makes the sun rise (FART).

Next comes the duck who is stretching his wings.
His quack makes you laugh but just wait till he sings! (FART).

Here come the bees with a hum and a swish,
Waiting their turn to get into the dish (FARTS).

Now a hen laying eggs makes a terrible racket.
From the sounds that we hear, it’s not one - it’s a packet! (FART).

Chanticleer in his turn and to prove his devotion,
warbles away to calm down his emotion (FART).

Tomcat in his basket wakes up when it’s night
And makes love to his lady until it is light (FART).

Down by the pond at the side of the road
Sits the raucous-voiced, ugly, repellent old toad (FART).

In a neighbouring thicket a nightingale sings
Though we hear him much less as autumn takes wings (FART).

In December it’s cold and down comes the snow
Covering the ground like a tomb in one go (FART).

The poor and the needy, does anyone care?
Have all lost their homes and are out in the air (FART).

But Christmas Eve comes! Alas for the beasts!
Cruel farmers will slaughter them all for their feasts! (FART).

That well-fattened pig, his sad end is nigh
Destiny calls - he’ll be part of a pie (FART).

Dear Public, if now that I’ve given you cause,
reward Chanticleer with your welcome applause.

If you come back tomorrow I’ll always be proud
To keep you amused with my song small and loud.


JOE ATTEMPTS TO BLOW OUT THE CANDLE BUT CANNOT


JOE. As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, I’m having some difficulty extinguishing this candle on account of my being somewhat breathless. However, with some assistance I think this can be accomplished and we can safely bring about the end of my performance.

I’ll count to three. You may then join in on the unspoken four with a signal from myself, like so (RASPBERRY) we may all respond in unison, as my own manner of reproduction is somewhat unique and has taken some years to perfect.

Are we ready? Let’s have a practice run. One-two-three and . . . !


HE BLOWS A RASPBERRY AND HAS ONE DRY RUN WHERE THE AUDIENCE JOINS IN


JOE. Now for the big one: are we ready? One and a two and three and a - !


JOE, WITH THE HELP OF THE AUDIENCE FINALLY BLOWS OUT THE CANDLE
SCHMIDT. Bravo, Mr Pujol, bravo!


THROUGH THE FOLLOWING SPEECH JOE DRESSES AGAIN IN THE SUIT HE WORE AT THE START


JOE. You know, Schmidt, when you can make people laugh and smile and forget their troubles and when they surrender completely to the release of laughter, when you – in brief – give them the exact opposite of what they think they ought to have - then you are truly a master of the human spirit. A salutary reminder for Herr Hitler.


JOE SEATS HIMSELF AT THE TABLE ONCE AGAIN


JOE. Marie, another glass for my friend!

SCHMIDT. Your life story makes me hungry for the stage, Mr Pujol. I wish I didn’t have to wear this uniform and carry this rifle.

JOE. Perhaps that can be arranged.

SCHMIDT. What do you mean?

JOE. Do you have imagination Olaf Schmidt?


MARIE POURS SCHMIDT A GLASS OF RED. WE HEAR THE CRACK OF A RIFLE SHOT, FOLLOWED BY THE CRY OF THE MAJOR AND BREAKING GLASS.


SCHMIDT. What was that?

JOE. I didn’t hear anything. Did you hear anything, Marie?

MARIE. No sir.


ENTER THE MAJOR CLUTCHING A BRIEFCASE TO HIS CHEST AND CARRYING A PISTOL


MAJOR. Schmidt! Don’t fraternise! Grab your rifle! Let’s get out of here!

SCHMIDT. Herr Major, what has happened?

MAJOR. I was on the radio to HQ! Toulon has fallen! The Allies are pushing north – straight at us! Then a bullet flies through the window and straight into the radio! Missed me by centimetres! It’s unusable! There’s no way of knowing where the enemy is! We could be surrounded. We’ve got to get out while we still can!


WE HEAR THE SOUND OF DISTANT SHELLS AND THEN A BURST OF MACHINEGUN FIRE


MAJOR. What was that? Were they ours?

JOE. Imagination, imagination!

MAJOR. What? What’s he saying? It’s that coded language again I bet!

SCHMIDT. It sounded like Sherman’s sir. Tanks. And Thompson Sub Machine Guns of American make, wouldn’t you say, Mr Pujol?

JOE. A modern soldier would be the better judge of that.


THE SOUNDS OF EXPLOSIONS, RIFLE FIRE AND A DIVE BOMBER


MAJOR. Are you sure? Which direction are they coming from, Schmidt?

SCHMIDT. Sounds to me like the north, sir.

MAJOR. The north? Are you certain?

SCHMIDT. What do you think, Mr Pujol?

JOE. With the echo of these hills it is hard to pinpoint.

MASJOR. That means we’re surrounded! Schmidt: there’s no escape! What shall we do? Fight it out to the last man? Sacrifice ourselves for the Fatherland?

SCHMIDT. Surrender sir.

MAJOR. Surrender?

SCHMIDT. To Mr Pujol, sir. He’s a respected elder of this village. He will be merciful sir, I know it.

MAJOR. But I snatched his bottle from him. Perhaps he is still angry with me?

SCHMIDT. Mr Pujol understands the quality of mercy, Major.

MAJOR. I only obeyed orders, Mr Pujol! If you had ever served in the Germany Army you would know what refusal to do that means. All I want to do is get back to my school and teach. We surrender to you, Mr Pujol.


THE MAJOR AND SCHMIDT OFFER THEIR PISTOL AND RIFLE TO JOE


SCHMIDT. Marie – would you be so kind as to find a safe place to put these gentlemen’s firearms?

MARIE. But of course Mr Pujol.

SCHMIDT. That old well around the back of the stables might be a good idea.

MARIE. Yes Mr Pujol.

JOE. I’ll take the Major and Private Schmidt up to my house. They can stay with me there until we can hand them safely over to the correct authority.


EXIT MARIE WITH THE PISTOL AND RIFLE. THE MAJOR AND SCHMIDT PUT THEIR HANDS ON THEIR HEADS. JOE STARTS TO LAUGH


MAJOR. Why’s he laughing, Schmidt? I’m afraid when people laugh at such critical moments! Ask him!

SCHMIDT. The Major wants to know why you are laughing.

MAJOR. Tell him: I may be on my last legs but I’ve still got it. I am still “Le Petoman”.


WE HEAR THE WHISTLE OF A “SHELL”. THE MAJOR DUCKS BUT SCHMIDT – REALISING - DOESN’T. THE MAJOR IS PERPLEXED. SCHMIDT STARTS TO LAUGH.


MAJOR. Why are you laughing? What is so funny? Why are you laughing? Why?


AS JOE AND SCHMIDT CONTINUE TO LAUGH, THE LIGHTS FADE. END.