The Archaic: Another Scene

A "pivotal" scene--unfinished, sort of?

INT – HENRY’S APARTMENT – NIGHT

 

HENRY and IAN lounge tensely in dusty, threadbare furniture. Upbeat, Croatian folk music floods up through the floorboards. Ian taps his toe absently.

 

CHENOA struggles not to pace, but scuttles from the fold-out dinner table to the broken heater and then back to the center of the room. Finally, Chenoa settles for pulling at her hair.

 

Henry watches her, dreading to interrupt her thoughts.

 

HENRY

So...

(beat)

What do we do now?

(off Chenoa’s look; sardonically, but quietly)

Right, nothing. I forgot.

 

Chenoa hesitates and then kneels before Ian, searching for something in his face. He looks away, not comfortable with the contact.

 

CHENOA

Are you remembering anything?

 

Henry picks up his accordion, pretending not to listen -- He does not want to intrude on Ian and Chenoa’s closeness.

 

IAN

(forced, but gentle)

I can’t. Not that far back.

We were just kids. I barely remember you, Chenoa.

 

Chenoa stands up to pace again, decides against it, and moves towards the window as she...

 

CHENOA

(recites poetry; slowing rhythm as she goes)

“...Ethereal
Despondent

So unreal
Downhearted

We gotta...”

 

Chenoa touches the window, the heat from her fingers and her nervous breath fog the glass.

 

Henry fiddles with the accordion’s straps.

CHENOA (CONT’D)

Give up.

 

Henry finishes resetting and resetting the length of his accordion straps. He rubs his eyes.

 

HENRY

The poet who wrote that sure wasn’t very poetic.

(yawns dramatically;

getting up)

I need some coffee. Anyone want --

 

Suddenly, Henry missteps and he drops his accordion --

 

The bellows fall creating a breathy death rattle --

 

Henry grabs desperately for it, his hands laying a sporadic, haunting tune across the keys. The accordion cascades –- THUMP -- to the floor.

 

Chenoa spins away from the window, her attention caught.

 

CHENOA

What was that?

 

Ian holds his head, staring at the floor where the accordion has landed -- he’s felt it too.

 

Henry hunkers down next to his instrument, inspecting it hysterically for damages.

HENRY

(moaning)

My broken accordion...

 

Chenoa, excited now, squats down next to Henry as he runs his hands over the accordion’s keys. Nothing seems to be broken.

 

CHENOA

No, that tune?

(to Ian)

Did that sound familiar to you?

 

Ian nods, staring wordlessly at the accordion, not sure of how to describe the thought that the short, accidental song conjured.

 

Henry continues to gape at his accordion, sure that something must be wrong with it.

 

HENRY

(absently)

Whatever it was, it was in A minor and not very good at that.

 

Over Henry’s shoulder, Chenoa and Ian lock eyes. Ian sits up a little straighter in his chair.

 

IAN

Play it, Henry.

 

HENRY

(comes to; snaps)

Play it? It was there for all of three seconds, Boy George!

 

Chenoa stands up, clearly shaking from excitement and fear of the unknown.

 

CHENOA

Henry, play it. It was there, it could be there again!

 

HENRY

What are you on about?

 

Ian follows Chenoa’s lead and stands too.

IAN

The poem isn’t a poem --

 

CHENOA

(automatically)

It’s a song!

 

HENRY

Oh, aren’t you smart.

 

CHENOA/IAN

(exasperated)

Henry!

 

HENRY

Well, alright then!

 

Henry stands up, making a scene of dusting off his thatched jeans. Finished with his display, he puts his hands on his hips.

 

HENRY (CONT’D)

And what good would all this do, if I just play a song, eh?

 

Henry bends over and picks up his accordion.

 

HENRY (CONT’D)

(mocking)

Just play it, Accordion Man, Mr.

I-Can-Play-By-Ear-On-Beck-And-Call...

 

Henry “ahems” and plays a long sustained note that is grating on the ears -- A minor. He gives Chenoa an inquiring look.

 

Chenoa nods.

CHENOA

(singing)

 

They eat pie.