DEEP CLEANING
By GAVARRE
BENJAMIN
Characters:
·
CHRISTINA GUPSI: The Patient. Dressed in
severe black. Dramatic, elegant but frayed around the edges. She has lost her
status, but not her arrogance nor her oratory skills.
·
DR. MONICA: The Psychologist. Sober,
professional. She tries to maintain control of the session but finds herself
bulldozed by Christina’s energy.
Setting:
Dr.
Monica’s office. Minimalist, modern, cold. A chaise lounge and an armchair.
Props:
Christina brings with her, inexplicably, a cleaning kit: a broom, a mop, a rag,
and a spray bottle.
(The "Habanera" from Bizet’s Carmen plays. The music enters
forcefully. CHRISTINA GUPSI is not seated. She is standing, holding a broom,
sweeping the office with rhythmic, fatal, and passionate movements,
synchronized with the music. She sweeps as if she were killing ghosts.)
(DR. MONICA watches her from her armchair, pen frozen in mid-air,
fascinated and horrified at the same time.)
DR. MONICA: Christina, please. Try to focus. Tell me,
what lies behind this blatant compulsion? What is it that you,
truly, wish to clean?
CHRISTINA: (Without stopping, voice deep and tragic)
Dust, Doctor, is the past... pulverized. If I don’t move it, it settles. And if
it settles, it suffocates me. (She sweeps furiously toward the Doctor’s feet).
You see dirt; I see the ashes of my empire.
DR. MONICA: (Lifting her feet to avoid the broom) That is
a very poetic rationalization for Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Please, sit
down. Let’s talk about the loss.
(The Carmen music lowers in volume, remaining as an unsettling sonic
bed. Christina drops the broom and produces a rag and spray bottle. She begins
to polish a side table with circular, obsessive movements.)
CHRISTINA: Loss? (She laughs bitterly, a rehearsed
laugh). Loss is vulgar, Monica. Anyone can lose their keys or their wallet. I
didn't "lose." I was... dispossessed. It’s different. Imagine
it: I was at the summit. The society pages waited for me to decide the season's
color before printing their covers. And suddenly... the void. The silence of
the telephone is far more deafening than applause.
DR. MONICA: (Trying to take notes) Uh-huh. You feel your
identity depended exclusively on the external gaze.
CHRISTINA: (She stops, offended. Sprays the air as if it
were perfume) Oh, please! Don’t psychoanalyze me with fortune cookie wisdom. My
identity was solid as this oak... (She rubs the table vigorously) ...but envy
is a very industrious termite. I remember the dinner parties, Doctor. Dinners
served on silver and gold platters. And I presided over the table. Now... now I
sweep, I clean, I polish... That’s how I stop hearing that little voice chasing
me. (Dramatic pause) Do you see this stain? Almost no one can see it, but I
can.
DR. MONICA: That little voice chasing you... what does it
say? Tell me the precise words you "hear."
(The music swells. The intense chorus of Carmen ("L'amour!
L'amour!"). Christina grabs the mop. She embraces it as if it were a
lover. She dances a brief, tragic tango with it while mopping the center of the
stage.)
CHRISTINA: (Mopping furiously) It calls me a
"Loser." Me! The Christina who lived for power. I was the incarnation
of power! (She twirls with the mop). And now... (She stops dancing, stares into
the void, music cuts abruptly). I only see small people. Grey people. People
who buy shoes from the discount bin and feed on off-brand tuna. I see their
faces; they are all miserable, with their common, despicable expressions...
DR. MONICA: (Sighing) You are projecting your contempt
for your current situation onto others. That is called wounded narcissism.
CHRISTINA: (Ignores her. Changes tone. She stands tall.
Drops the mop. Looks toward the "future" with an almost mystical
illumination on her face). But the Phoenix does not rise from the ashes to stay
in the chicken coop, Monica.
DR. MONICA: (Interested) Good. Let’s talk about the
future. What do you see there? A real job? Reconnecting with your family?
CHRISTINA: (With disdain) Family? No, please, let’s be
serious. I see... (She gestures as if sculpting the air) ...Consolidation.
Empowerment. I see myself, not in a cubicle, but on a podium. A woman who has
descended into the hell of public transport and returned to tell the tale.
DR. MONICA: Are you going to write a book?
CHRISTINA: (Pulls out the rag again and starts cleaning
the frame of the Doctor’s university diploma hanging on the wall) I am going to
be a Guide. A Martyr of Lifestyle. I will teach the masses how to fall with
grace. Because anyone can climb, Doctor; that’s just a matter of luck or
sleeping with the right manager. But falling... (She turns to the Doctor, eyes
shining) ...falling without messing up your hair, that is an art.
DR. MONICA: Falling with grace and rising with
elegance...
CHRISTINA: (Straightens the diploma frame with
exaggerated precision) That is who I am. I may be down, but my comeback will be
the return of the Hero, the Power Woman. Imagine the headlines: "The
Return of the Iron Lady." I won’t need money anymore. Money is vulgar. I
will be envied and worshipped. People will say: "Did you see Christina
Gupsi? They say she lost everything, but she walks as if she holds the deeds to
the City."
DR. MONICA: (Checks her watch) We are out of time,
Christina. And frankly, this dissociation worries me. You cannot pay rent with
"grace" and "worship."
CHRISTINA: (Gathers her cleaning tools with dry,
military movements. The Carmen music returns softly for the close). How little
imagination science has, Monica. That is why you listen, and I speak. You
analyze life; I interpret it.
(Christina heads to the door. She stops, turns, and looks at the
spotless office.)
CHRISTINA: By the way. I’m not paying for today’s
session.
DR. MONICA: (Stands up, annoyed) Excuse me?
CHRISTINA: (Points to the shiny floor and polished
furniture) I just saved you a week's worth of maid service. Let’s call it even.
That’s market economy, darling.
(Christina exits, chin up, humming the Habanera. Dr. Monica is left
alone, looks at the spotless floor, then looks at her diploma on the wall,
slightly crooked.)
DR. MONICA: (Takes a step, slips, stumbles, but manages
not to fall completely) Oh my God... She left the floor slippery. I nearly
killed myself... with absolutely no grace or elegance! Sweet
Jesus!
(Blackout).
