Chapter 1
(The stage is empty except for the floor. There is no scenery. The light is harsh, overhead, wintry. Anton lies on the proscenium, pressed to the floor like an oil slick. It is not a rest, it is an anatomical collapse. His right ear is flattened against the floor. His wide eyes do not look at anyone's face; they look at ankles, soles, the hem of trousers.)
(The ambient sound is not music, it is the muffled roar of the city and the rhythm of footsteps on the cobblestones. Doña Clara, the Civil Servant, and El Golfo enter simultaneously from opposite sides. They cross the space. The rhythm is frenetic but choreographed, a dance of indifference.)
THE OFFICIAL
(Looking at her wrist, without stopping, almost tripping over Anton's legs)
Eight twelve. The coffee's burning hot. Eight twelve. If the light takes three more seconds, I'll miss my connection. The mortgage won't wait for the light.
DOÑA CLARA
(She pauses for a microsecond, clutches the bag to her chest. A venomous, prayerful voice)
Holy Virgin. Look at that. No shame, no roof over your head. It smells of sour wine and cat urine. Don't look, Clara, or you'll catch misfortune. Keep your eyes straight ahead, as God intended.
THE GULF
(He passes Anton's head, the tip of his boot grazing it. He ducks down, theatrically, grotesquely)
Hey! Are you dead, doll?
(Laughs at the audience, breaking the fourth wall, seeking complicity in disgust)
It looks like a sack of rotten potatoes. Music, maestro!
(ANTON doesn't blink. His breathing is slow, almost imperceptible. His right hand, on the icy asphalt, begins to move. His long, dirty fingers arch. His pinky touches a crack. His thumb taps a cigarette butt. He's playing a silent chord on the stone.)
THE OFFICIAL
(He spins around, disoriented for a moment)
Eight and thirteen. Where did I put the briefcase? Ah, here. It weighs a ton.
(Looks at Anton)
Get out of the way. You're blocking the flow. The city has a flow. You're a clog.
DOÑA CLARA
(Crossing himself with mechanical speed)
It's the punishment. A dissolute life. She must have had a mother. Poor mother. What a dark mourning that woman must have endured.
(To Anton, whispering with disgust)
Move closer to the wall, man of God, you're staining the bottoms of our coats.
THE GULF
(He spits near Anton's hand. The spit lands millimeters from his index finger. Anton doesn't pull his hand away; his finger jumps over the obstacle as if it were a black key)
He's not moving. He's on the journey. On the great journey. Hey, pianist... Play something cheerful. Play the funeral march.
(Tense silence. The three freeze for a moment around Anton, forming a triangle of judgment. From the ground, Anton sees a forest of legs. Polished shoes, torn shoes, counterfeit sneakers. He turns his neck slightly. Audible crack in his neck.)
ANTON
(Hoarse, rusty voice, without looking at them. He speaks to Doña Clara's shoe)
C sharp minor.
DOÑA CLARA
(Taking a step back)
It has spoken! The lump has spoken!
THE OFFICIAL
Eight fourteen. I'm late. I'm going to get fired. Howard's going to fire me if I show up smelling like a homeless person.
ANTON
(His fingers drum frantically on the cobblestones. Prestissimo. His eyes remain fixed on his shoes)
The heel of her left shoe... Ma'am... sounds like C sharp. It's hollow. It's going to break.
(Turns eyes towards the Official)
And you're dragging your right foot. Syncopation. An ugly rhythm. Very ugly. Soulless.
THE GULF
(Gives him a gentle kick in the ribs)
We've got a philosopher on our hands.
ANTON
(Close your eyes. Keep touching the ground)
People don't walk. People bang. Everything is percussion. And they're out of tune. Everyone's out of tune.
(Anton curls up again, returning to the fetal position, rejecting interaction, becoming stone once more. The three passersby glance at each other, a momentary connection of shared discomfort before the inertia of the city swallows them up again.)
