Drawn Up From Deep Places

I don’t take your meaning. Besides which, I must confess, I

would still like to know.

JACK

Are you so sure?

(Tired)

Go on, then. Please. Don’t concern yourself about me.

MRS. BENTHAM

But I do, Stephen; knowing your true name won’t stop me

from continuing to do so. Until supper.

JACK

Until then—goodbye.

She leaves. He starts humming again. It begins as a snatch of the MUSIC BOX tune, but soon trails off into the barest beat of a rhyme: A, B, A, B, A . . . JACK begins to sound it out aloud, hesitantly.

JACK

I’m not . . . a butcher, not a Yid, nor . . . yet some foreign skipper . . .

But I’m your own dear loving friend, yours truly . . .

He stops, puzzled. Then repeats, over and over—

JACK

Yours truly. Truly yours. Yours truly, truly, truly . . .

SILENCE.

TABLEAU NINE: LESSON THE SECOND—NAKED, YET IN RAGS

A CLICK: the watch’s lid, opening. The MUSIC BOX theme starts yet once more, warped at first, then gradually purifying. It echoes slightly, as though being played in a large, bare room.

FOOTSTEPS hurry down the corridor, then enter; a door SHUTS behind them, with a hollow sound. The watch SNAPS SHUT as well, music cutting off in mid-note.

JACK’S FATHER

Late again, I see.

JACK

Yes. The traffic was—

FATHER

Don’t give excuses; patients brook none. Bear in mind that

yours would be dead by now.

JACK