Paris, Or Someplace Like It
A Play in 4 Acts
Wobat (a brown-black, feathered bat with superfluous appendages)
The Devil’s Soul
Setting: Exterior, sidewalk of a sidestreet, windows partially defacerated with graffiti. Head- or searchlight reflections bounce at random and the competing sounds of heart- or hoofbeats mix with something like jazz and fall across the stage from both wings at uneven intervals. The sky is somewhere between pink and blue.
We stumble upon the play at Act III, Scene 7:
The Devil’s Soul (leaning heavily against a shop window, touching it only with his bald head.): It could be Paris. WE could be in Paris right now.
Wobat shrugs, causing a purring feathered roar.
The Devil’s Soul: I know you don’t agree. I didn’t ask if you agreed. I don’t care if you agree. (Something in the window catches his eye and he slowly sinks towards the sidewalk as if pulled by his kneecaps, his bald head never losing contact with the window.)
Wobat: (her voice garbled and an octave higher than usual): It isn’t whether I agree. Or disagree. Or disavow any knowledge of this entire operation. Or decide to operate on your brain. If you want to be in Paris, go to Paris. (she tries to whistle but makes only wind sounds, then flies to the spot next to and upstage from The Devil’s Soul and looks in the window)
The Devil’s Soul: Isn’t it perfect?
Wobat: (incredulous) That? THAT?!?! It looks just like…(she then walks across the stage away from him and the brassy thing in the window, only to fall off the stage which is no longer the stage but a bridge across La Seine, splashing as she falls in)
The Devil’s Soul: I know.