(cover photograph direction: Dagim Abebe)
Characters
Father Amadou – early forties, Black African
Father Stephen – early forties, Caucasian American
Mrs. Dalton – early fifties, Caucasian American
Mr. Dalton – early fifties, Caucasian American
The Specter / Yacine – early thirties, Black African
The Archbishop / Voice at the beginning of the play – mid-fifties, African-American
Settings
The stage has two distinct areas. On stage right sits a confession booth with the fourth wall cut away so that its occupants face the audience. The penitent sits on stage right of the booth’s dividing wall and the priest sits on stage left of it. Father Amadou’s room resides stage left. In the middle of the room is a small round table with two chairs. There is a kitchen counter stage left of the table with a combination stove and refrigerator nestled in it. There is a small cupboard above the counter. The room has a “door” stage left that can be physically represented by an offstage knock.
In the darkness before the lights fade up.
VOICE
Amadou, please remember. Our role is to listen, not to explore or have a conversation. Not to entertain. Listen to your parishioners when they confess. Their voices. Just listen.
Lights up. A confession booth. Father Amadou is seated on the stage left side of the booth, Mrs. Dalton on the right. It is “mid-confession” and Mrs. Dalton is going a mile a minute.
MRS. DALTON
. . . I had to confront her! The bitch. She’s ruined my life. Just because of a little thing I said to her.
AMADOU
(Shaking his head.) Very sad.
MRS. DALTON
Isn’t it, Father? I mean, what am I going to do?
AMADOU
I mean it is sad to speak of your mother that way.
MRS. DALTON
What way?
AMADOU
I’m just wondering whether . . . no, never mind. Let me hear some more.
MRS. DALTON
. . . so I told her never to contact me again. Never. Ever. No phone calls, no visits.
AMADOU
Pigeon?
MRS. DALTON
Excuse me?
AMADOU
Pigeon. A very old form of communication. You write a teeny-weeny message on a strip of paper, put it into a little ring on the pigeon’s leg, and you have the pigeon fly to the post office. You have heard of this?
MRS. DALTON
No.
AMADOU
It is very common in my country even today, but we don’t like to talk about it. We like to say that Senegal is very modern. Unfortunately, the pigeons usually get lost. Like people.
MRS. DALTON
Well . . . but simply for her to dissolve my trust fund in that manner. Father, don’t you agree that’s a sin, too?
AMADOU
Actually, we don’t use carrier pigeons in Senegal. It’s only the people who get lost.
MRS. DALTON
Father Amadou, are we still in confession?
AMADOU
Oh. Absolutely! Please. Continue.
MRS. DALTON
(A little frantic.) As I was saying, I depend on my mother’s trust fund. And it’s not an irrevocable trust. It can’t be dissolved. It’s revocable. Do you know what that means?
AMADOU
Something . . . unhappy?
MRS. DALTON
It means she can do any damn thing . . . oh, I’m sorry . . . she can do anything she wants to close the trust, stop the money . . . oh, God. All because I said one little thing to her.
AMADOU
It’s a funny name for money . . . a trust.
MRS. DALTON
I suppose.
AMADOU
Of the many things you can call money, I would think . . . hmmm . . . trust. (Gleefully.) Money and trust. (He titters.)
MRS. DALTON
Father, are you laughing?
AMADOU
Oh. No, no, no, no! This is a very serious matter of sin.
MRS. DALTON
Yes, my mother’s sin.
AMADOU
Well . . . is she sitting there with you?
MRS. DALTON
No, of course not.
AMADOU
She would have to be sitting there. She would have to confess her sin. And I know there’s very little room in the booth. She would have to sit on your lap. You are sure she is not sitting on your lap?
MRS. DALTON
No, she is . . . I shouldn’t talk about this.
AMADOU
Please go ahead. It will never go beyond here.
MRS. DALTON
All right. She is . . . very, very large.
AMADOU
Hmmm?
MRS. DALTON
More than three hundred pounds.
AMADOU
Ah.
MRS. DALTON
She would never be able to sit on my lap.
AMADOU
She would be a celebrity in my country. But . . . may I ask? Do you understand that the only sins you can confess are yours, not your mother’s?
MRS. DALTON
I suppose. But what about her dissolving the trust?
AMADOU
What did you say to her?
MRS. DALTON
What? When?
AMADOU
You said “it was a little thing” that started all this . . . mistrust.
MRS. DALTON
Oh. It was really nothing.
AMADOU
Nothing? Ah. A tiny match. To light the fire.
MRS. DALTON
Father . . .
AMADOU
What was that tiny match?
MRS. DALTON
I’m not sure . . .
AMADOU
(Gently.) What was it?
MRS. DALTON
(Reluctantly.) We were discussing . . . her future. How she would like . . . how we should conduct her funeral. All part of her estate plan. I said to her that she should have her funeral mass here, at St. Michael’s.
AMADOU
I would agree. And . . .
MRS. DALTON
She said she would never allow you to conduct mass for her body.
AMADOU
Oh.
MRS. DALTON
“That foreigner,” she said.
AMADOU
Hmm. Maybe more than just a foreigner. (Titters.) Maybe someone very, very scary.
MRS. DALTON
I told her she was a racist. She didn’t like that.
AMADOU
Why a racist?
MRS. DALTON
Well, I know what she meant by foreigner.
AMADOU
Do you?
MRS. DALTON
I think so.
AMADOU
What then?
MRS. DALTON
What then?
AMADOU
Perhaps . . . perhaps she just doesn’t like Senegalese people? Our accents? The way we dance? We dance very strangely.
MRS. DALTON
Black.
AMADOU
Hmmm?
MRS. DALTON
You’re black.
AMADOU
Are you sure?
MRS. DALTON
Sure you’re black?
AMADOU
Oh, I’m sure. Are you sure? Is your mother sure?
MRS. DALTON
Well, yes, she knows you’re black.
AMADOU
I wonder if that would bother her when she’s laying in her coffin?
MRS. DALTON
I simply don’t know. But I’m sure she’s prejudiced.
AMADOU
Should it bother you?
MRS. DALTON
Should it bother . . . I mean . . . well, of course. A mother who’s a racist. It’s a poor reflection on our family, on . . . the community.
AMADOU
Is racism the sin? Or is calling your mama a racist the sin?
MRS. DALTON
I suppose . . . the sin is on me. But I did this for you, Father. I called out her racism.
AMADOU
Two sins don’t make a blessed sandwich.
MRS. DALTON
Excuse me?
AMADOU
It’s difficult. Very, very difficult. You take some delicious bread, but then you put a slice of bad meat on it. Tastes terrible. So you want to fix that sandwich. Look around for something else to add. What do you find? Old cheese. You slap that on there. Still awful. Two sinful slices.
MRS. DALTON
Oh.
AMADOU
Mayonnaise.
MRS. DALTON
I’m sorry, Father?
AMADOU
Beautiful, white mayonnaise. As beautiful as the lilies of the field. You spread the mayonnaise on the bread. It helps a little. The sins remain, but the mayonnaise provides a little love.
MRS. DALTON
Father, I’m confused.
AMADOU
Kiss your mother. Forgive her sin. That is your penance.
MRS. DALTON
(Quietly, her defenses down.) I don’t think she’d let me.
AMADOU
Why so?
MRS. DALTON
She’d never let me. (She bows her head, trying to control herself.)
Silence.
AMADOU
I see.
MRS. DALTON
She has never . . .
AMADOU
Go on.
MRS. DALTON
All my life. All my life. She views me . . . I’m inconvenient. I’ve always been inconvenient for her.
AMADOU
But you’re not. You are God’s child.
MRS. DALTON
Maybe God’s but not my mother’s. I’m nothing more than another piece of furniture in her presence. An accessory. Something to tolerate . . .
AMADOU
Yes. I understand. So here is my prayer for you. Oh. Do you pray?
MRS. DALTON
It’s very hard. I get distracted.
AMADOU
So do I. Here is my prayer. I ask that God gives you courage. The strength to watch you mother tear up your trust . . . all your money . . . to shreds! Let the little strips of paper drop down from her hands like snowflakes, like ash. Then, when she’s done, take her hand. She’s probably very strong I would guess. But take it quickly. Hold it. Press it. Let your pain fly through your fingers and vanish. Your mother will be surprised and, before she can do anything, I pray that you will kiss her. . . and with your kiss, forgiveness. This is what I pray.
MRS. DALTON
Oh, Father. I couldn’t do that! I can’t! I tried to defend you! (She breaks down and sobs.)
AMADOU
This is what I pray. (Makes a sign of the cross.)
Lights begin to fade.
This is what I pray.
Lights fade out.
Lights fade up. Amadou is sitting at a small round table. Father Stephen is standing as he pours cups of coffee for them.
STEPHEN
Mayonnaise? Really?
AMADOU
I like mayonnaise. There should be more of it in Senegal.
STEPHEN
I didn’t see any in your fridge.
AMADOU
Lent is near. I am mayonnaise-free. I will suffer and be happy.
STEPHEN
And you think mayonnaise is the embodiment of love to share in the confessional?
AMADOU
Should we be talking about this, Stephen? The sanctity of confession?
Stephen sits across from Amadou.
STEPHEN
Well, you brought it up. I’m just here for the coffee and gossip.
AMADOU
(Chuckles.) Really? You aren’t checking up on me? The archbishop’s eyes and ears?
STEPHEN
C’mon. Stop. We’ve known each other . . . how long? Ever since you came to the diocese. But yes . . .
They speak in unison.
AMADOU & STEPHEN
“. . . the archbishop cares about you.” (Amadou chuckles again.)
STEPHEN
Right? I mean, he brought you over here.
AMADOU
And he cares about mayonnaise?
STEPHEN
He cares about you. He knows you have, uh, unusual ways of leading your flock.
AMADOU
I call out to the nanny-goats. I want their attention. That’s all.
STEPHEN
Amadou, are you saying the rest of us priests are boring?
AMADOU
(Laughs loudly.) Oh, no, no, no. Boring? Not at all, not at all?
Let’s just say . . . (Slowly.) pre-dict-ab-le.
STEPHEN
What? Are we supposed to change the mass? Tap dance before the Prayers of the People?
AMADOU
Well . . . (Laughs deeply.) Do not tempt me, Stephen! I will be their Fred Astaire!
Amadou jumps up from his chair, grabs it, and skillfully dances with it humming to himself. It is not unlike the dance Fred Astaire does with a hat rack in “Royal Wedding.” At one point, Amadou embraces the chair as if it were a long lost love. Stephen watches and laughs. Amadou finishes his dance and Stephen applauds. Amadou bows to Stephen.
(Happy, breathless.) There you are!
STEPHEN
Ha. “Amidou! The musical!”
AMADOU
I have no future in show business. (Sits and sips coffee.)
STEPHEN
Can I tell you something? You do have a future here, in the diocese.
AMADOU
Uh oh. Stephen, are you my rabbi?
STEPHEN
Please.
AMADOU
Talent scout?
STEPHEN
You know you’re one of the best and brightest . . . despite your strange sense of humour. The missionary work in Gambia. Your big congregation in Dakar. Then you come here. Top of the class at Catholic U. Everybody flocking to your parish.
AMADOU
Many people have helped me.
STEPHEN
And many more shall as you think about your next position.
AMADOU
Next? Next? There is no next, Stephen. Only dancing lessons from Fred Astaire.
STEPHEN
Yeah, right. The archbishop is planning new ministries with hard assets to back them up. He’s thinking about creating a school for poor, gifted children. Free tuition, rigorous curriculum, no molly-coddling. You’d be a top candidate to lead it.
AMADOU
He wants me to be a school principal?
STEPHEN
He wants to call the school “The Summit.” And in answer to your question, he wants you to lead. Just like you always do. To help kids who need a chance to succeed.
Pause. Amadou bows his head and sighs.
AMADOU
I do not lead, Stephen.
STEPHEN
Of course you do.
AMADOU
No, I’m only a servant. I ask questions of people, listen to their pain, offer prayer. Sometimes I’m a little silly. But I’m not an administrator! I can’t count money!
STEPHEN
Other people will do the counting for you. You know that.
AMADOU
I am not sure it’s what I want.
STEPHEN
The chance to make a difference for children who face the same obstacles you once did? And to move up?
AMADOU
Up? Up where? Heaven?
STEPHEN
Amadou, the hard truth is that the diocese . . . no, not just the diocese . . . the whole church is running out of leaders. Especially in this town. Why do you think the archbishop wanted you here? We need good men who can carry the cross.
AMADOU
We are imports, Stephen.
STEPHEN
Really? Is that how you view it?
AMADOU
I think that’s how the people see me. An exotic bird from Africa. They love watching me fly around the sanctuary, but when I land they will lose interest. (Pauses.) Maybe I expect too much of them. To change, to give up their . . . hang-ups. They think if they cast the right vote, they will be saved. Or put up the right signs in front of their houses, say the right words, they’ll have a place in heaven.
STEPHEN
We have to deal with them wherever they stand. So . . . I take it you aren’t interested in leading The Summit?
AMADOU
(Sighs.) Let me think about it.
STEPHEN
Is this about home? Are you missing Senegal?
AMADOU
Perhaps. There, I don’t have to be the exotic bird. You would be the exotic bird, Stephen. In fact . . . we would have to give you a name. Hmmm. What would we call you?
Behind Amadou, a pool of light fades up revealing a woman dressed in layers of cloth, almost shrouded. Her face is barely visible. She stands, silent.
Amadou can feel the specter behind him. He is momentarily stunned but regains his composure.
We would call you . . . we would call . . .
Silence. Lights fade out on the woman.
STEPHEN
Oh, this is going to be a good one.
AMADOU
We would call you “the partridge of dreams.”
STEPHEN
Uh oh. Is that good or bad?
AMADOU
Both. But people would love you.
STEPHEN
(Laughs.) Okay, okay. Leave it at that. (Pauses.) I’ve got to run back to the office. There’s just one other thing. Do you know a Mrs. Dalton?
AMADOU
I think she is in my parish.
STEPHEN
Yes. Mrs. Dalton met with the archbishop yesterday. She is . . . well . . . a big contributor to the diocese.
AMADOU
Ah.
STEPHEN
She was in your confessional on Wednesday.
AMADOU
My mayonnaise lady.
STEPHEN
She complained.
AMADOU
To whom?
STEPHEN
She told the archbishop she would never donate to the diocese again because you told her to be . . . what? . . . serene? To accept her mother cutting off her trust fund. And something about defending you from the mom.
AMADOU
(Trying to remember.) Her first name . . .
STEPHEN
Yes?
AMADOU
There is a name. What are they calling them? Ah. “Karen.”
STEPHEN
Amadou . . .
AMADOU
Am I correct? Karen calls the manager to complain when the coffee is too hot? When forgiveness is too difficult. They want to see the boss.
STEPHEN
She had a concern.
AMADOU
I understand. Did she say she would take her business elsewhere? To the Presbyterians perhaps?
STEPHEN
The archbishop supports you. He’s not going to mess with your pastoral, uh, techniques. On the other hand, he’s going to miss the Dalton funds.
AMADOU
I pray for her. And for her mother.
STEPHEN
(Getting up to leave.) The archbishop did say she seemed a little neurotic.
AMADOU
(Rises to see Stephen out.) A little? Oh, my. I want her back in the confessional. I will listen to her for hours. The test of wills. (Laughs.) Clash of the titans!
STEPHEN
Absolutely. I’ll see you next week, my friend. And please think about the school opportunity. There’s no other candidate for the post and there’s no one better for it than you.
AMADOU
You are the flower of temptation, Stephen.
STEPHEN
(Laughs.) I’ll take that as a compliment.
Stephen exits.
Amadou returns to the table. He sits and sips his coffee. The pool of light fades up behind him, once again revealing the specter of the shrouded woman.
Amadou carefully places his coffee cup down. He bows his head, clenches his hands, and brings them to his forehead in desperate prayer.
Lights fade out on the specter and on Amadou.
Lights fade up on the confessional. Amadou sits on the right side of the booth. Mr. Dalton sits on the left.
MR. DALTON
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven years since my last confession.
AMADOU
(Gently.) A long time.
MR. DALTON
I never felt the need to confess. I have my faults. I do my best. I’m not even sure what I’m doing here.
AMADOU
But you are here.
MR. DALTON
Yes.
Silence.
AMADOU
You’re here. That’s not such a bad thing.
MR. DALTON
Really?
AMADOU
You are safe here.
MR. DALTON
Safe.
AMADOU
Everything is private. You can confess your sin. Only you and I will know about it.
MR. DALTON
It’s not really about my sin, Father.
AMADOU
No?
MR. DALTON
It’s about the sin of this church . . . Amadou.
AMADOU
(Hesitates for a moment.) Alright. I’m listening.
MR. DALTON
Listen well. Listen very well. My wife was here last week. You know who she is because she tried to defend you before her mother. And her mother cut off her trust fund. It was money we depended on. You remember this, correct?
AMADOU
I remember.
MR. DALTON
But there’s more to it than that. Much more. That money also supported our daughter. Our one daughter. Our only child. She was seventeen. Beautiful. Bright. The world was waiting for her. She was going to be something. Do you know her?
AMADOU
I do not.
MR. DALTON
She would never be someone to call attention to herself. With all her gifts, so modest. And devoted. Coming to mass every Sunday. And you say you don’t know her?
AMADOU
I am sorry. I should remember her. I do not.
MR. DALTON
Well, that figures. I guess what matters is keeping the factory going, right?
AMADOU
I don’t understand.
MR. DALTON
The pace, the rhythm, the shows. Gotta keep those services going, come hell or high water. Saturday afternoon vigil mass. 8:00 AM Sunday mass, another at 11:00 AM, 1:00 PM for the Senegalese community. How many Senegalese live in this town?
AMADOU
There are a few of us.
MR. DALTON
All those . . . blessed . . . masses. All of them! Why? What the hell for?
Silence.
AMADOU
You are upset we have mass? But that is what we do. You are a Catholic, you attend mass.
MR. DALTON
I’m no Catholic. Not anymore, thank you.
AMADOU
But what does all of this have to do with your daughter?
MR. DALTON
I want you to listen closely, Father. I hear you’re some kind of superstar priest. You can hear me, right?
AMADOU
(Quietly.) I can hear you.
MR. DALTON
Our daughter is Evelyn. Much more devout than me or my wife. I don’t know why. Nothing would keep her away from mass. Nothing. Even . . . (Pauses.)
AMADOU
Even what?
MR. DALTON
SILENCE! (Pauses.) Even what? Even what? My God! Where have you been? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?
AMADOU
My brother . . .
MR. DALTON
SILENCE! Where were you? What were you doing all that time?
AMADOU
When? What time?
MR. DALTON
The pandemic for the love of Christ! Covid! What were you doing all that time?
Silence.
AMADOU
I was here. I preached. I prayed . . . Mr. Dalton.
MR. DALTON
So now that you speak my name, let me ask you a question. You know that people were dying during that time? Correct? And we were doing everything we could to stop the spread of
that . . . plague? Everything. Protecting human life. All people had to do was just stay . . . away . . . stop the spread. Not forever. Just until we had things under control. It . . . it wasn’t a big thing. Just don’t gather. There was no discrimination. Just a small sacrifice. And every business, every school complied. All the churches in town agreed not to hold services. That was their contribution. All the religions, except one. Which one, Father?
AMADOU
(Sighs.) We both know the answer. Since you asked me a question, may I ask you one?
MR. DALTON
What?
AMADOU
Who is “we”?
MR. DALTON
We! The people! The government! You want me to be specific? The mayor. The city council. The health department. They were put on the spot and they had to do something.
AMADOU
And what has this to do with your daughter?
MR. DALTON
Only the Catholics kept their churches open.
AMADOU
Yes. The archbishop took the city to court against their order.
MR. DALTON
There was no order. It was a request to not have people gather.
AMADOU
“Render unto Caesar.” You know what that means?
MR. DALTON
I know the bible, if that’s what you’re asking.
AMADOU
Then you know the city wasn’t requesting. It was an order.
MR. DALTON
It doesn’t matter. Your people won. The city backed down. Your churches stayed open.
AMADOU
Mr. Dalton, I know little about politics or law. But in your country’s Constitution, aren’t there words about freedom of religion?
MR. DALTON
Not when your religion is killing people.
AMADOU
You are fine with your government shutting down churches?
MR. DALTON
It was an epidemic! You could have held mass on the Internet. You could have kept people safe.
AMADOU
We don’t worship on a computer screen, Mr. Dalton. We come together, in person, as one body.
MR. DALTON
I begged Evelyn not to go to mass. She refused. “Father Amidou is preaching,” she would say. The superstar from Africa.
AMADOU
We took precautions. We followed the . . . what do they call them? The social protocols.
MR. DALTON
It wasn’t good enough.
AMADOU
Where is your daughter?
MR. DALTON
When they took her to the hospital, I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know that they wouldn’t allow us, her parents, to visit, to be with her. They put her in an isolation ward. All we could do was talk to her by phone until . . . until they told us she was gone. We couldn’t see her while she was alive, but once she was dead we could look at her all we wanted. Are you still listening, Amadou? Still with me? She was infected in this church.
AMADOU
(Stunned, angry.) How do you know that? You call our worship unclean? Prove what you claim! Are you a doctor? Do you have a list of parishioners who were infected? You’re speaking nonsense.
MR. DALTON
I know she was infected here.
The specter of the shrouded woman reappears in a pool of light behind Amadou. Amadou senses it.
AMADOU
You’re wrong. And you came here to accuse!
MR. DALTON
You, your archbishop, your whole religion had a responsibility to keep people safe! You’re the ones who sinned, not me!
AMADOU
We have not!
MR. DALTON
The hell you haven’t!
AMADOU
Why have you come here with your lies? Why aren’t you confessing?
MR. DALTON
You’re the one who needs to confess. Not me. Go ahead. Admit it!
AMADOU
Admit what?
MR. DALTON
ADMIT IT!
AMADOU
GET BEHIND ME, SATAN!
Silence.
Were we lepers? Is that what you want me to say? That we were all . . . viruses, not people? To be feared by each other? Shunned? Isolated, like your poor daughter in the hospital? (Pauses.) I am sorry for her . . . I grieve for your loss . . . I will pray . . . I . . .
MR. DALTON
I don’t need your prayers.
The specter lifts her hand and beckons.
AMADOU
Then go. We are finished. You are mad. I will pray for you. Get behind me, Satan.
Lights fade out on the specter.
Lights fade out on Mr. Dalton.
Get behind me.
Lights fade out on Amadou.
Lights fade up on Amadou’s room. He is seated at his table. He stares at the table’s surface, in thought.
There is a knock on the door. Amadou is still lost in thought. There is another knock. Amadou rouses himself, rises, and crosses to the door. He opens it.
VOICE OF THE ARCHBISHOP
Amadou.
AMADOU
(Surprised.) Eminence.
The archbishop enters. He crosses to the chair across from Amadou’s but remains standing.
THE ARCHBISHOP
No formalities, brother. As far as we’re concerned, I’m not even here. Today, I’m just Martin.
AMADOU
(Blankly.) Martin. Yes. Please sit at my table.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Thank you.
AMADOU
Would you . . . like some coffee?
THE ARCHBISHOP
A glass of milk, perhaps?
AMADOU
Of course . . . Martin.
Amadou crosses to a small refrigerator and takes out a carton of milk. He takes a glass near the refrigerator and pours milk into it. He hands it to the archbishop.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Thank you. You’re not having anything?
AMADOU
No.
The archbishop takes a long sip of the milk. Then looks at Amadou, who is still standing.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Please, sit down.
Amadou sits across from the archbishop. The archbishop continues to sip milk. Then:
When did we first meet? Wasn’t it when I still had the downtown parish?
AMADOU
Yes. I was at Catholic University. You came to my homiletics class.
THE ARCHBISHOP
(Chuckles.) And whoever came up with that fancy word? Homiletics? Why don’t they just call it “how to preach good”?
AMADOU
I remember what you said then. “Step down from the pulpit. Go into the aisle. Look into the eyes of each soul as you speak.”
THE ARCHBISHOP
Did I really say that?
AMADOU
You did.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Fancy language. But you have always been a good preacher, Amadou. You didn’t need my guidance.
AMADOU
I have always sought your guidance.
Silence.
THE ARCHBISHOP
What happened on Tuesday?
AMADOU
Ah. That.
THE ARCHBISHOP
People who were waiting to confess, they heard someone shouting “Satan” in the confessional.
AMADOU
(Resignedly.) And then they complained to management?
THE ARCHBISHOP
What do you mean?
AMADOU
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.
THE ARCHBISHOP
What happened, Amadou?
AMADOU
A man . . . a torturer entered the booth. I think you know him. The husband of Mrs. Dalton.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Mrs. Dalton . . .
AMADOU
He believes we killed his daughter.
THE ARCHBISHOP
What?
AMADOU
We kept our churches open during Covid. His daughter would come to mass. He believes she caught the virus from another parishioner and died. He blames all of us, but I was his target.
THE ARCHBISHOP
And?
AMADOU
I didn’t accept his accusation. And I lost control. I heard stupidity and became stupid.
Pause.
THE ARCHBISHOP
I took the city to court to keep them from shutting down our mass. Frankly, I was very surprised the other religions were so passive, obeying orders from the government. I told the mayor our lawsuit was business, not personal. But here’s a little secret: do you know why I really did it?
AMADOU
No.
THE ARCHBISHOP
To show them who’s boss. (Pauses.) I think I took the shutdown order a little personally. Too personally. But I had to show them who’s boss. The real boss. No one tells people they can’t come to church. Or stop me from preaching. No one. That’s my secret, my admission.
AMADOU
Ah.
Silence.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Amadou, Mrs. Dalton is a widow.
Amadou stares at the archbishop.
AMADOU
What?
THE ARCHBISHOP
Her husband died more than ten years ago. Who was in the confessional?
AMADOU
He’s dead?
THE ARCHBISHOP
Who was there?
AMADOU
I don’t know. It was . . . someone.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Someone? Or no one?
AMADOU
I spoke to a man. I called him by name. Dalton.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Did you see him?
AMADOU
What can I see in the booth? We aren’t supposed to see. Just listen.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Did you see anything?
AMADOU
(Angrily.) I am not a witness to a crime. And you are not a policeman.
Pause.
THE ARCHBISHOP
No. You’re right. I suppose . . . in the course of my own sin I harbour other secrets. Ambition. Control. Maybe a little arrogance. Maybe not so little. But you already know this about me.
AMADOU
I do not, Martin.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Otherwise, why would I be here? And I will tell you another secret. The school I was planning. It will not happen without you. No one else can lead it.
AMADOU
Why would you give me such responsibility after what has happened?
THE ARCHBISHOP
Because I believe in redemption. With a little catch.
AMADOU
Is this business or personal?
THE ARCHBISHOP
Very good. You are . . . catching on, my friend. What I mean to say is that with no admission, there is no redemption.
AMADOU
And no school.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Correct.
AMADOU
(Pauses, thinking.) Back in Dakar, the opportunities are few. Not like this wealthy city, this rich country. And yet . . . with so much, people here always arguing. Fighting. Perhaps because they have so much. They’re bored. Faith is not enough. So they take on a second religion. Maybe politics. Perhaps justice, whatever that is. Prayer isn’t enough. They have to proclaim their morals to the world. In Senegal, Muslims, Christians, they live together. They try to help each other. Maybe because neither side has little except faith. We don’t have the luxury of time, or money, to fight. But here, I am fighting . . . what? (He begins to coil as if expecting violence.) What is it? I only want to preach, to comfort . . .
I . . . (Pauses.) No. That is a lie!
Amadou suddenly half-rises and angrily sweeps the archbishop’s glass of milk across the table and onto the floor. He stares at the archbishop, trying to control himself. He sits. He takes a breath, then another.
The archbishop is surprised but stays calm.
By this time, both men are seated facing the audience.
THE ARCHBISHOP
What is the lie, Amadou?
AMADOU
When we are called to become priests, everything about us must be revealed. That is what we do to prove our commitment.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Yes. Nothing can be held back.
AMADOU
And it must continue that way through seminary, ordination, each day we guide the faithful.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Yes.
AMADOU
As priests we know everything about each other. You know everything about me.
THE ARCHBISHOP
I thought I did. But . . .
AMADOU
But now you want my confession.
THE ARCHBISHOP
I want . . . yes, if you are ready to give it.
AMADOU
Am I ready? I have never been ready.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Then don’t.
AMADOU
No.! No! No! (Takes a breath, lets it out.) Bless me, Father, for I have . . . (Makes a sign of the cross.) It has been . . . too long since . . .
Silence.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Go on.
AMADOU
A sister. Did you know that I have one?
THE ARCHBISHOP
(Surprised, disturbed.) No.
AMADOU
You and Stephen thought you knew everything about me when you brought me here. Yacine. Her name. It means “bright”, “shining”. But more than that. It is . . . like morning dawn. With hope. Promise. Yacine. Much younger than me. My mother wanted many children but for years it was just Amadou running around the house . . . Amadou and mama. Father gone so early, too early. And one day mama tells me that I will have a new sister or brother. I ask, “how is this?” She wouldn’t say. A child conceived in sin? I do not know. I ask God and I can only guess. Then, Yacine comes into my world. Martin, she is the greatest gift! Now I can become big brother, her protector, the sheep dog! Oh, I am a very good sheep dog, very proud! And she is my confessor, my best friend, more than the boys at school, at seminary. She is . . . (Pauses.) Have you heard of Hansen?
THE ARCHBISHOP
Hansen?
AMADOU
A scientist. He discovered many things. Did you know there is something called Hansen’s disease?
THE ARCHBISHOP
Amadou . . .
AMADOU
There’s another name for it. Leprosy. Yacine is a leper.
The archbishop is stunned but says nothing.
How she caught it, I don’t know. She was seventeen. Our mama had already passed. I was just out of seminary. The doctors said it could be controlled. Controlled, so she wouldn’t die.
But . . . I would pray. Ask questions. No answers, of course. You don’t pray for answers . . . pray for . . . patience . . . courage. Of which I have very little.
THE ARCHBISHOP
That’s not my impression.
AMADOU
It’s a good word, “impression.” I never wanted to make a bad impression on the world. I wanted to be “kind Amadou,” “clever Amadou.” (Pauses.) The leprosy made Yacine . . . a monster. Her hands, her face. There was no “control” of her disease. And I wanted to make my way in the world, which made me a true sinner. I couldn’t become Father Amadou if I had to tend to her. (Pauses) No, it is worse. I could not look upon her. I feared her. The leprosy squeezed into her brain. It turned mu gentle sister into the devil. Her thoughts, her language . . . all utter filth. Where did this come from? Who taught her?
And in my confessional last Tuesday, I believed it was Satan again. Now he had come from my sister to pay me a visit.
THE ARCHBISHOP
You imagined it.
AMADOU
(Shaken.) I don’t know. Someone came to settle scores with me. He knew. He knew that I had her put away. That place, a hospice for lepers far away in the countryside. That’s where I locked her away. So I could forget and run to America. Fifteen years.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Is she alive?
AMADOU
Yes. There is money I send. For her care.
THE ARCHBISHOP
You’ve done what you can.
AMADOU
No! I wanted to lock her away, forget about her! Just as the mayor and her little officials wanted to lock away our church. Everyone thinks they have the right reasons . . . so they believe. Yes, you know I’m ambitious and you ask me about leading a school. Instead, I ask how I will end all this.
THE ARCHBISHOP
End what? You’re a priest. There’s always redemption.
AMADOU
No, there is only admission. I cannot be redeemed.
THE ARCHBISHOP
Brother . . .
AMADOU
No, not a brother. Only a sinner.
THE ARCHBISHOP
What do you want? Do you want to repent?
AMADOU
I am past that.
Lights fade up on the specter, Amadou’s sister, standing behind Amadou.
THE ARCHBISHOP
It can all be worked out. But you must repent.
AMADOU
(Rising from his chair.) Must I, Yacine? Repent? So simple. Repent and be free? Or return? Shall I return? Then, will you forgive me?
The specter beckons. The archbishop watches Amadou. He is unaware of the specter and unsure what to do.
Shall I come back to Senegal? Is that my repentance? If I return, will Satan leave me? Please, my sister. Tell me what to do.
Lights begin to fade out.
Yacine, guide me. (Whispers.) Tell me what to do.
Lights fade out.
Lights up on Amadou’s room. A suitcase sits on the stage right chair. A second suitcase, open, rests on the table. Amadou, upstage, finishes folding of a garment. He does it slowly, reluctantly. He lays it in the suitcase, closes the lid of the case, and snaps the hasps. He looks around the room. His eyes rest upon the stage left chair. He grasps it and makes a half-attempt at tipping, then twirling it gently on one of its legs. The chair topples. There is a knock on the door. Amadou scrambles to pick up the chair as Stephen enters.
STEPHEN
(As he enters.) The cab’s here. (Sees Amadou picking up the chair.) What happened?
AMADOU
A last dance.
STEPHEN
Oh. Okay. (Looks around the room.) You have everything?
AMADOU
Yes. Now it’s confirmed: I carry a lot of baggage.
STEPHEN
Well . . . just two cases . . . uh, oh sure. I get it.
AMADOU
Perhaps there will be a ministry for bad joke writers in Dakar.
STEPHEN
Yeah. Maybe. (Pauses.) Well . . . you ready for a last pitch?
AMADOU
Do we have time for baseball?
STEPHEN
You know what I mean. A proposal. Something I cooked up. I tried it out on the archbishop. He didn’t exactly say yes, but he wasn’t opposed to it. I can tell his moods, and it definitely has possibilities.
AMADOU
(Chuckles sadly.) Stephen and his plans . . .
STEPHEN
Just hear me out. You know the Benedictine monastery across town?
AMADOU
Benedictine monastery . . .
STEPHEN
Bentley. The Bentley Abbey.
AMADOU
Bentley? What about it?
STEPHEN
Okay. So the cab is waiting for you outside.
AMADOU
I hope so.
STEPHEN
But it doesn’t have to go to the airport. You catch my meaning?
AMADOU
What?
STEPHEN
You go to Bentley Abbey. To rest, rejuvenate. Work with the fathers there. Take your time. I sounded out the abbot there. He’d love to have you. He told me you could choose to do anything you like there.
AMADOU
Stephen . . .
STEPHEN
They have a middle school there. You could get a feel of what it’s like to be an educator. Who knows? It could be the first step in a new life. A calling.
AMADOU
You mean, to lead the archbishop’s school.
STEPHEN
Listen, anything could happen. And you’re not abandoning your sister by any means. The archbishop can use his connections to bring her here, to America, if you’d like.
AMADOU
“ . . . the partridge of dreams . . .”
STEPHEN
Yeah, yeah, okay. Yes, I’ll spin out dreams for good people who deserve the best of life. I know you think I’m a wheeler-dealer but . . . that’s me. That’s my vocation. If I can find an opportunity, I’ll grab it. And if I can pass it along to someone worthy, I sure as hell will do it.
AMADOU
Hell or heaven?
STEPHEN
Sorry. I just don’t want to see a life wasted.
AMADOU
(Taken aback, but gently speaks.) No waste, my friend. Just home. Going home.
Sound of a horn honking.
That’s home calling for me. Would you take this bag downstairs? (Looks over at the suitcase on the chair.) Let me lock up and I’ll be right behind you.
STEPHEN
I’m still going with you in the cab and I’m not giving up.
AMADOU
Of course. (Smiles.) That is what you do.
STEPHEN
Yeah . . . well . . . (Takes the suitcase.) Bentley is only fifteen minutes away.
AMADOU
Home is only fifteen hours.
Stephen, frustrated but resigned, looks at Amadou, unsure what to say. He turns and exits.
Amadou opens the suitcase on the table for one last check of its contents. He then looks around the room to see if he has forgotten anything. As he looks, a thought occurs to him and he stops and stares out over the audience. He considers Stephen’s plan, the possibilities. He shifts his body, uncertain. Then, his expression and body language changes. He begins nodding to himself as if having a revelation.
Yes. It is possible. It is very, very possible. (Chuckling.) Stephen, you man of miracles, you wheeler-dealer. Thank you!
As Amadou speaks these words, an undefinable white noise, fades up. Amadou stops, listens. The noise fades down.
VOICE OF YACINE
(Desperately.) Amadou! Awake!
Amadou is startled.
AMADOU
Yacine?
VOICE OF YACINE
Awake!
The white noise fades out. Silence. Amadou, shaken, looks around the room.
AMADOU
(Whispering.) Awake.
Amadou closes the suitcase, still unsure of what has just happened. He pauses, looks down at the suitcase, thinks. The horn of the taxi sounds again. Hearing it, he looks up. He hefts the suitcase, crosses stage left. He stops, turns, and looks around the room. The taxi horn sounds again. Amadou exits.
Lights fade to black.
Curtain.
