The Death of Follicles

It is extremely important that while reading the following you allow this to play in the background.

…and will all memory of this young poet
fade into Lethe’s abyss?
–Tchaikovsky, Eugene Onegin

SETTING: Mariinsky Theater, the greatest opera house in Russia.

The audience anxiously awaits the conclusion of our drama.  The curtain finally rises.

SCENE: A rustic water-mill on the banks of a wooded stream.  Dawn; the sun has barely risen.  It is early spring, just after Easter.  Follicles is sitting under a tree, lost in thought.  His second, Jon, is pacing back and forth.

JON
What’s this?  It seems your executioner hasn’t appeared.

FOLLICLES
He’ll be here any minute.

Follicles stands and approaches the center of the stage, staring out at the audience into nothing.

FOLLICLES
Where, oh where have you gone,
Golden days of my youth?
My gaze searches in vain;
All is shrouded in darkness,
As it was before my birth.
No matter: Fate’s law is just.
Blessed was that secret night,
Blessed, too, the coming of darkness!
The world will forget me; but you,
You!…Master…
Say,
Will you come, scholar of beauty,
To shed a tear on the untimely urn
And think: he loved me!
I am the only redemption,
The sad dawn of your storm-tossed life!

Follicles looks down at himself, his face a mixture of shame and passion.  He realizes that his death is imminent.

FOLLICLES
Oh, Master, I loved you!
Come, oh come!  You raised me
From your scalp, the Kattegat
My cradle.  However much I
Mocked and twisted your memory—
Come, come!  I am your son!
Where, where, where have you gone,
Golden days, golden days of my youth?

Jon returns to Follicles.  He looks to the horizon, standing on tiptoes.

JON
Ah, here they are!
But who’s your friend with?
I can’t make it out.

Tom comes in with his second, who carries the basin of hair straightener.

TOM
I ask your pardon.
I’m a little late.

JON
Forgive me!  Where’s your second?
Where execution is concerned,
I’m somewhat old-fashioned;
I heartily approve of method
And I don’t allow a hair
To be stretched out cold just anyhow,
But according to the strict rules of the art,
Following the old tradition.

TOM
For which I must praise you.
My second?
This is he: Monsieur Hyldekjær.
I don’t envisage any objection
To my choice;
Although he’s not well known,
Still, he’s a decent fellow, of course.

Peter bows deeply.  Jon returns it with a cold nod of the head.

TOM
Well?  Shall we begin?

FOLLICLES
Let’s begin, if you please.

The two seconds withdraw to one side to discuss the choreography of the act.  Follicles and Tom stand with their backs to each other, waiting.

FOLLICLES
Would you dare, my great defender,
To abandon me like this?
To hide behind procedure?
Has your love for Pygmalion
Turned back into stone?
Amerigo, Amerigo, where have you gone?

Tom tries to ignore the baring of Follicles’ soul.  But this is a kinship incapable of burial.

TOM
I am required to fulfill this role,
So Role is what you shall call me.
DIS has decreed your death
And the approach of finals and papers
Has made me see the truth.

He turns to face his unctuous friend, his icy eyes dead set.

TOM
Rather would I pass with colors flying,
Your keratin on my guilty hands,
Then drop all edifying coursework
Only to save your simpering cortex!

The orchestra rumbles.  The die is cast.  Our two heroes see each other for what they really are.

FOLLICLES, TOM
Enemies!  Is it long since the thirst
For blood drove us apart?
Is it so long since we shared everything,
Our thoughts, our jokes, our leisure,
As friends together?  Now in anger,
Like hereditary enemies,
We silently and coldbloodedly
Prepare for annihilation.
Oh, should we not burst out laughing
Before the Hyaline layer dissolves,
And should we not part friends?

The catharsis of trepidation fills the stage.  Our story is suspended, as the two revel in absolute freedom.

FOLLICLES, TOM
No!

Could they be rejecting that liberty?

FOLLICLES, TOM
No!

Are they prostrating before the narrative?

FOLLICLES, TOM
No!

Will the inevitable come true?

FOLLICLES, TOM
No!

The seconds have measured the basin’s depth.  Jon brings the principals together.  Everything is done in silence.  Peter, in embarrassment, hides behind a tree.

JON
Now—lower him!

He claps his hands three times.  Tom lifts Follicles upward, the poisonous fumes of the potion tickling the corpus of my beloved creation.  Slowly, oh so slowly, Tom lowers him to the basin’s lip.  He lets Follicles curl around his hand one last time before dropping him onto the placid surface.  As he did on that fateful night so long ago, Tom swirls the concoction until the hair becomes smooth and supple, resting just below the surface.  Follicles arches himself in glory, releases a guttural gasp, and straightens—silent.

TOM
Dead?

Jon approaches, prodding the fallen champion with his finger.

JON
Dead!

Aghast, Tom clasps his head in his hands.  The curtain falls.

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