Albemarle by Caridad Svich

What if literature and spoken words could help us understand ‘what is’ in a way that western science never could? What if freedom of thought and expression was what we needed to break our mind-frames and build new connections? Happy strolling through our Word Forest!

An excerpt from Albemarle – A play by Caridad Svich

Cleaner

Always use bicarb soda for concrete 

and olive oil for the bronze, that’s how you keep it clean. 

This opera house may be old, 

and may not do any operas anymore, 

but no sense for it be filthy. 

I

For a moment I don’t know where the voice is coming from, 

and then I see a tall figure in coveralls with a bucket in their hand. 

They look as if they’d come from within the walls of this place. 

Their skin is like ash.

Cleaner

Gone and done an opera on you. Such a beating.

I

They dip a sponge into the bucket, wring it fast, 

and rub something on all the places on my body 

that show their hurt on the outside. 

They’re not a doctor, 

but they move their hands as if they’ve done this plenty of times.

Cleaner

This town got a knack for hurting their fellow citizens. 

Must have something to do with its history.

I

I don’t know what history they speak of. 

Not much of it was taught in school, 

and most everything ‘round here that smacked of anything unclean 

has been erased. 

Cleaner

They call this place Albemarle, 

but you’d think they’d know what it meant.

I

Small and useless?

Cleaner

From the Latin. Alba Marla. Fertile soil. 

‘Course, they’ve seen to ruining it. 

Have made this place nothing but a bunch of chemicals, 

and all the madness done to others in the long-lost past? 

Kept that well and hidden. 

Never seen a town full of such shame. 

The scoundrels took something from you?

I

stupid trinket. They thought it was worth something.

Cleaner

If they take it to the jeweler’s, they’ll find out soon enough.

I

The tall person massages the small of my back. 

Cleaner

How many times they hit you?

I

 I’d like to tell them I stopped counting. 

But the truth is, somewhere in my consciousness, 

I must’ve clocked it at 27 times (but it felt like 127,000).

Cleaner

People will do anything. Just to do. 

Whole land’s become a mass of raging demons. 

Not much to keep anyone anywhere anymore, 

the way things have gone. 

When I first came to the opera house, 

at least people believed in things. 

Wouldn’t say I liked everything they believed, 

but there was an attempt at decency, 

even if it was mired in hypocrisy. 

Now, every day is a battlefield. 

You wake up, 

and wonder what in heaven’s name is gonna happen, 

and whether you’re gonna make it back home alive.

I

Their face is lined with grief, even though they try not to let on.

Cleaner

people don’t care much for opera. 

I can’t say that I blame them. 

I like listening to the big voices 

and how they make you feel like you can reach for the stars, 

but all the rest of it – 

who’s allowed in and who’s not, and how much it all costs – 

it’s not for me. 

I believe in democracy. 

Maybe not the kind others mean.

I

They look out at the small round window that frames the opera house. 

For a moment, it feels as if I recognize them. 

Like maybe inside their eyes is the trace of Someone Else 

and what might’ve happened if they hadn’t left when I was little. 

I try to think if they even liked opera or knew what it meant to some people. 

Cleaner

Back when I was a child, 

I was told opera was for everybody. 

All music was for everybody in the whole world, 

because it was a gift from the gods, 

and, as such, it wasn’t the kind of gift that could be bartered,

fenced in or built a wall around. 

Imagine my surprise when I came here and was told to clean. 

They said, ‘that’s all you’re good for, and all you’ll ever be.” 

Don’t get me wrong, I take pride in cleaning. It’s an honorable profession. 

But I’m not gonna lie, 

the fact that someone put a fence ‘round me, 

and told me in no uncertain terms, 

that they’d decided was I was good for in life, 

makes me angry as hell. 

I

They drop the sponge in the bucket. Splash.

Cleaner

Ever since I’ve been here, tending to this wreck of a place, 

my anger’s become a mountain. I scale it every day. 

Good for the muscles, they say. Poison for the mind. (you) 

Need to lie down for a while, rest those bones. Amazing you’re still alive.

I

They walk down a thin corridor 

away from the small round window, and out of sight. 

The night sky is a silvery delusion. 

I wonder if the badger’s all right. 

I must remember to thank them if I see them again. 

They fucking saved my life.