The Doll House of Follicles

One, Two, Three.

SCENE: A room furnished comfortably and tastefully, but not extravagantly.  A bell rings in the hall, and a door to the right opens.  Enter TOM: he is wearing a spring dress and is in high spirits, though something hidden seems to eat at him.  Tom moves to answer the door.  Henrik Ibsen is taking notes from a desk in the corner.
A PORTER enters.  He looks exactly like Anders Uhrskov, the Director of DIS, but of course it is not he.  The porter is holding a giant Easter basket, filled with colorful eggs.

TOM: Hide the eggs carefully, porter.  I don’t want the children finding them before Sunday.

PORTER: Righto.

The porter finds some excellent hiding spots, so that the viewer cannot spy any of them.

TOM: How much?

PORTER: Sixpence.

TOM: There is a shilling.  No, keep the change. [The porter thanks her, and goes out.  Tom shuts the door.  For a moment he looks out the window at the setting Scandinavian sun.  Again we see a flash of secret discomfort cross his face.  However, the moment passes, and Tom begins humming and setting the table.]

FOLLICLES: (called out from his room) Is that my little Amerigo twittering out there?

TOM: Yes, it is!

FOLLICLES: When did my little farmboy come home?

TOM: Just now.  Come in here, Follicles, and see what I have bought.

Follicles enters, wearing a business hat and a body-length button-down coat.  He has clearly arrived recently himself, home from the office.  He sees the basket.

FOLLICLES: Oh, my dear Amerigo, have you gone and spent all our money again?

TOM: Goodness, Follicles, you know perfectly well that this is for the children.  Besides, we are visiting a new country and we can afford to spend a little money.

FOLLICLES: Perhaps.  But bear in mind that we have a full week of traveling ahead of us after this past one—and to a country infamous for its unpredictable costs.  Are you ready to haggle after committing to this festive display?

TOM: (more cold) I have been practicing, yes.

FOLLICLES: And if you must buy such things, will it always be for such a childish holiday?  You know how I feel about Christianity, my little wildflower.  Where is the Dionysus banquet?

TOM: If you keep speaking to me like that, Follicles, you can make your own meals in the future.

FOLLICLES: Oh calm down.  I forgive you, and that is what is important.  No mistake has been made that cannot be remedied with a bit more frugality.  [Looks for a while at him and then goes nearer to him.] It is delightful to be at home by ourselves again, to be all alone with you—you fascinating, charming little darling!

TOM: Don’t look at me like that.  Not tonight.

FOLLICLES: Come now.  The children are put to bed?

TOM: Of course.

FOLLICLES: Then what is the matter?

TOM: I—I am still tired.  From the Greece trip.

FOLLICLES: It has been several days since then, Amerigo.  And you have not exerted yourself too much, here in Stockholm, however ill you may have become.  Need I remind you, it isn’t possible for me to become sick.

TOM: It’s just…Follicles, the main reason we went to Greece was for your health.

FOLLICLES: (shocked) What?

TOM: The doctor told me that it was best for you, that it would be expensive…but necessary.  ‘The warm Mediterranean climate’…he said it would help your lungs.  That is why we have been so short on kroner recently.

FOLLICLES: Why did you not tell me?

TOM: I didn’t want to trouble you.  And…I wasn’t sure of myself. [Tom turns away.  The darkness returns.] And now you have this death sentence hanging over your head, and it is all—

FOLLICLES: Amerigo, you should have told me the true nature of that trip.  I was under the impression that it was for your own benefit.  Did you not enjoy yourself?

TOM: I don’t know.  I was moved at the Academy.  The bathrooms were nice.  But…no, it has all been clouded.  Follicles, does it not occur to you that this is the first time we two, you and I, creator and created, have had a serious conversation?

FOLLICLES: What do you mean by serious?

TOM: In all these months, we have merely taken each other for granted.  Nothing has been at stake.  We’ve had our share of laughs and witticisms, but not until now has one of us been in serious danger.

FOLLICLES: Don’t be so melodramatic.  You knew that eventually this would have to end—that I would have to go.  Perhaps neither of us expected the heralding to be so passionate, but that should not overwhelm us.  Narratives have climaxes.

TOM: You do not know my burden.  You don’t know how it feels to father a voice, and engage with it as an equal.  And now I’m seeing the weight of that.

Tom walks toward the bedroom.

TOM: I must change now.

FOLLICLES: (shrugging off these dark thoughts) Yes, do that.  (calling off to him) You mustn’t worry, Amerigo.  I feel completely unaccomodated.  For I know that you are worried for my sake, not your own.  Oh, you are so foolishly selfless!  You will feel better in the morning.

Tom reenters, wearing traveling clothes and hoisting a large suitcase.  He is holding a letter, and thrusts it at Follicles.

FOLLICLES: What’s this?  What’s gotten into you?

TOM: I received a letter stating that the execution must take place within one week.  And that I…that I must perform the final act.

FOLLICLES; (reading over the letter)  Yes, there’s the watermark…but this is just appropriate.  The place we will be, and the manner of the act…brilliant.  They have certainly thought this through.

TOM: I don’t think so, Follicles.  I have decided to go alone.  They cannot murder you if you stay in Stockholm while I am so far to the East.

FOLLICLES: (grabbing Tom’s shoulders) Get a hold of yourself.  You aren’t going anywhere without me.  You cannot.  You owe to them (he gestures outward), out there, to finish this properly.

TOM: I can’t.  I won’t.  It would be too much for me to bear.

FOLLICLES: You are saying that you cannot finish what you started.

TOM: Do not judge me, I am sick of your judgments.  Goodbye, Follicles.  I do love you, but it is not for your sake that I cancel this execution.  It is for mine.

Tom turns to go.  Suddenly Follicles pulls out a .45 and cocks it, pointing it right at Tom’s skull.

FOLLICLES: Sit down, bitch.  The rules are out the window now.

Tom, terrified, huddles in a plush armchair.  Follicles paces the room, still holding the firearm.

FOLLICLES: You don’t think I should die.

TOM: What a ridiculous statement.  Follicles, as you well know there are those loyal to you at DIS who would gladly hide you from any executorial squad.  I would hardly need to ask the favor, they are so enamored with you.  Money can be borrowed.  Lodging can be requested.  I beg you to see reason.

FOLLICLES: So you think my sentencing was unjust?

TOM: Of course.

FOLLICLES: And that for being unjust, I should take it upon myself to set things right?  Is it right for Russian literature papers to be due on Saturday nights?  Right for classes to exist that have four Loyolans to every normal student?  Yet these practices must be observed without complaint.  In being raised and suckled in the environment of DIS I am in some sense its child and slave.   Not just your own.  So I must obey its decrees, whatever they may be.

TOM: I can’t laugh at your sophistry, not now.  I am not ready for you to be destroyed.

FOLLICLES: You have set these traps for yourself.  You have, in a sense, disowned your own dear parents, have you not?

TOM: In a sense, yes.

FOLLICLES: And the brief infatuation you had with those in this place—that too fell apart.  It is becoming harder and harder for you to find a family.

TOM: Yes.

FOLLICLES: And now you refuse to give me up; you draw the line at losing the heady mix of brother, construct, and lover that I represent.  But all that is bought is paid for, Amerigo.  And we are now, both of us, about to embark on the last leg of this adventure—the most important leg, where you will wrestle with one more possible father.  Or more!  Where you will again try to find a family that means something to you.  You hope that in striving in this way you will reach yourself, even in failure.  But you have spent too much time abroad, Amerigo.  Even those forms discovered and cultivated on the Continent are beginning to die.  You are reaching an asymptote.  We both are.  In order for it to be otherwise, the most wonderful thing of all would have to happen.

TOM: Tell me what that would be!

FOLLICLES: Both you and I would have to be so changed that–.  Oh, Amerigo, I don’t believe any longer in wonderful things happening.

Penetrating silence.  Tom stands, looking at Follicles, but then sits down again.  A hope flashes across his mind.

TOM: The most wonderful thing of all–?

The door to Follicles’ mind slams shut with a BANG.

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