Caros amigos do Cadafalso: escrevi essa peça em inglês mesmo (só consigo pensar Wilde, de verdade, em inglês) há alguns anos. Me deu vontade de postá-la aqui agora. Pronto, o primeiro ato está aí (é longo). Os dois restantes serão postados em breve.

THE WILDE GAME
an ethereal play by André Machado

ACT I

SCENE
It's a Victorian room, with red roses on the table at the center. At the right, a colorful sofa, two armchairs, and, left, an oak bookshelf with first editions of all the great 1880's and 90's British and French authors. In the background, a staircase leads to a corridor where a huge clock hangs on the wall. Two drawings, one from Whistler and the other by Beardsley, adorn the living-room. It lights up little by little, like if some playful old spirit is passing by and spraying vivid memories of a forgotten era. There are two doors, at the left and right.

TIME
Lots of it.

The left door opens, and enter Oscar Wilde and Ada Leverson, known as The Sphinx. He is wearing an Inverness coat, a top hat, gloves, and holds a carved cane. Carefully, Wilde removes the hat, and halts, looking around. The Sphinx stares at him after giving a few more steps.

SPHINX
Why, Oscar, what are you waiting for?
WILDE
My dear Sphinx, it is perfectly natural for a gentleman to give his top hat and coat to the butler. In fact, that is almost all the meaning there is to life for the butler. And an appropriate one, I dare say.
SPHINX (sighing)
There is no butler, Oscar. Don't you remember? We are no more in the 1890's.
WILDE (after hesitating for a moment)
Yes, we are no more.
SPHINX
Please don't be sad. The dead ones lack their fondest memories. Thus we had better forget the rest, because the gods only leave us the ability to retain the scent of our mistakes. No cause of shame, not remembering even the pleasure of being greeted by a butler.
WILDE (impatiently)
By Jove! how didatic you became after passing away! Dear Sphinx, can't you even remember our little jokes? My mistakes are simply delicious when I hear your scientific explanations.
SPHINX (smiling)
The gods are never scientific.
WILDE
I was a thoroughly scientific god once. My life was planned to the end.
SPHINX
Ah, but you would have put the hard labours aside.
WILDE
No. I had already doomed myself-I only objected to the trial. In the end, I would have confessed all my sins. How wonderful it would have been if I were the one who said all those things about my pleasures, my recklessness. I think I wrote something about this in the prison letter to Bosie, didn't I?
SPHINX
De Profundis.
WILDE (with an expression of disgust)
Ah! was that the title dear Robbie chose? I simply hate it. Quite medieval.
SPHINX
Let us sit down, dear. Aren't you tired? (They sit on the sofa). I wish I had a glass of champagne. In fact I wish I was able to desire one. (Wilde begins to tremble uncontrollably) What is the matter, Oscar?
WILDE (breaks down quietly, tries to speak but nothing comes, breathes deeply and begins again)
Sphinx, my Sphinx... After all, I can remember-the dinners, the luncheons, the wine-and it entrances me. Oh! I am so hungry!
SPHINX
That is most irregular.
WILDE
That is precisely what is best in the human soul. It is most irregular all the time. And when one becomes a spirit, one has the entire eternity to miss precisely the one thing that makes any existence, at all levels, interesting-pathos. To change is to awake to new worlds like the ones I described in Dorian Gray; drama is what all paradises lack. Should one know the true nature of immortality, the words dictated by Allah to Mohammed would be no more than the babble of a drunk, and the Four Gospels would turn into insipid pocket books like that monstrous novel from Bram Stoker.
SPHINX
You are not real, Mr. Wilde! (She laughs, throwing back her delicate head, and it is a delicious, sounding laugh)
WILDE
Oh, certainly. After all, I am dead. (They laugh together.)
SPHINX
Now come on, dear, you had to mention Stoker! And just because he stole from you that beautiful girl-Florrie, right?
WILDE (trying to keep serious)
Miss Florence Balcombe, please. And you know I never regretted her leaving me. He made a much better husband for her than I would ever be. Yes, a good husband. That accounts for the fact that he was a bad writer.
SPHINX
Perhaps they had so romantic a marriage that it inspired the vampire's tale...?
WILDE (smiling)
Now that is the old Sphinx.
SPHINX
A Sphinx has no age. (A pause.) Still it counts its own periods of time... by the men she devoures.
WILDE (pretending shock)
Indeed? Upon my word, Mrs. Leverson, you are quite dangerous in the afterlife. Whereas during the romantic nineties you only discovered the importance of having Ernest. (More laughs.)
SPHINX (looking at him tenderly)
Oscar, I miss that years so much. Being here with you is almost like gaining flesh once more. That is why we seem to remember it all. But it is strange. We met so often in the eternity whirlwind, and never talked like this before.
WILDE
Maybe it is the influence of this room. A place always has its secrets. I was in Capri once, and the turquoise-blue waters inside Tiberius's grotto revealed more of his wicked games than all the Roman chronicles.
SPHINX
But whose room is this? I cannot see it in anyone's house when I think of our acquaintances. It is more like a fancy room.
WILDE (looking around)
In certain aspects, it resembles one of the rooms in Lady Windermere's Fan.
SPHINX
Yes, but some things are out of place. The clock-you hated clocks in your scenes-and the bookshelf...
WILDE
And this sofa is too vivid. Besides, I don't mean to be rude, but why are we here?
SPHINX
I am not supposed to tell you, but it is a kind of mission-
(Suddenly a pale green light comes through the right door, and a soft odour of musk fills the room. Enters a little man, with a nice suit and a carefully waved moustache planted in the exact center of his egg-like face. Deep black is the tone of his hair; equally dark and very penetrating are his eyes. The man, a little over his weight, walks slowly and examines each detail of the room. Finally he stops and turns to the other two.)
THE MAN
Monsieur Melmoth, I presume?
WILDE
Sir, there are no need for false names here. A man in disguise is useful for adding colour to a scandal. But I haven't seen one at this level of existence since the day my former friend Jimmy Whistler tried to leave for hell without permission.
THE MAN
Ah, l'esprit! I wish my creator had the fifth part of your style, Mr. Wilde.
WILDE (standing up. The Sphinx does the same)
Whom have I the honour to talk to?
THE MAN
Hercule Poirot, sir. It is my duty to-how do the Americans say?-fill you in about your mission.
WILDE
Poirot? (Turning to the Sphinx) Isn't he that French detective so obsessed with Apollo who killed a very special type of assassin by shooting exactly the central spot in his forehead?
POIROT (moving his eyes and sighing)
Mon Dieu! Even when one's dead! My dear sir, it's a Belgian detective. And yes, that last case of mine was extremely exciting. You know, certain individuals have a subtle influence over the others. ...And in most situations they conclude that bringing the evil that's in our hearts about is much more fun than to play an exotic instrument or doing any other harmless thing. In this instance, I felt pity for the murderers in spite of the victims, for they were moved to kill by the right word in the wrong moment. And he who said it was the real culprit. It was a desperate case. I had to solve it myself, and this time did not use only my gray cells.
SPHINX
Mr. Poirot, let us sit down. (They do it.)
WILDE
An interesting theory. But, pardon me, if you did kill this crook, why then are you here, Mr. Poirot?
POIROT
Don't you know I am a character? All characters who die go to heaven. (Smiling) And almost all great writers, no matter how inconsiderate they were.
WILDE (a little taken aback)
You are not going to say that Æschylus's Agamemnom is here! And my Basil Hallward? Oh, Romeo, Juliet, Hamlet... Now come, monsieur, if that's supposed to be true this place would be completely different.
POIROT
C'est vrai. The problem is, they lose their memories, and all charm, once they get here. I'm an exception. That's because even The Great One couldn't stand my casual conversation.
SPHINX
Mr. Poirot, I wonder why you were sent. In fact I was expecting something more... dramatic.
POIROT
Well, I know Mr. Wilde's works and life well. And besides, they thought it would be nice if someone with a French touch came. You see, there are no Frenchmen in paradise.
WILDE
I knew there was some mysterious reason why we got so spicy a hell.
SPHINX
By the way, Oscar, have you been there?
WILDE
Of course. The devil is the most delightful talker I have ever met. But his breath is a nuisance. Nevertheless, he told me a very revealing Bible tale.
SPHINX
And won't you tell us?
WILDE
Well, it was about time I told you a story-if I can remember how. Do I still have the style of old, dear Sphinx?
POIROT
Mon cher, that is what is wrong with eternity. It may lack emotion, as you said shortly before I got in; but there is so much style that one feels like reading a book by Zola.
WILDE (shaking his head)
Zola! No wonder you were a detective, my friend. Zola has no more style than an octopus has night gowns... And the only thing that makes our existence bearable is the complete unreality of this place. Were it to resemble a very small part of Zola's worlds, we all would want to die all over again, if that's possible. You mean style and no story? Take Proust. Take Thomas Mann. Take Godard's films. Take new age music. Oh, I'm sorry. New age music has no style, nor story, and, I think, not even notes!
SPHINX
You are quite well informed for a man that once hated journalists.
WILDE
Journalists are uninteresting; newspapers are always fun. I once tried to read the Daily Chronicle upside down in a train, and still laughed all the way to London. Besides, what are we to do but behold the new wonders from here? I simply loathe being a mere ghost.
POIROT
Ah, you court reality then!
WILDE
No. The twentieth century is everything but real. Even the most sombre moments mislead us, puzzle the mind.
SPHINX
What about our story?
WILDE
Christ came in from a white plain into a purple city... No, that's another one. Christ ventured into the desert, where He fasted and prayed for forty days and nights. Then came the devil, and the devil tempted Him in many ways. He offered not just power and gold, but all the finest wines from Rome, the most sought delicacies from the East and West, and slaves of all kinds and races. Negroes that could dive so deep they robbed very exquisite pearls from the mouths of giant oysters; Arabians that were able to forge the sharpest blades throughout the Crescent and fought like hungry lions in the desert battlefields; and Greeks who sang with such honey-touched voices you would think 'twas the mighty Orpheus hypnotizing the earth when you closed your eyes. 'Adore me, and all these shall be Yours for ever', said the Beast.
"All this the Son of Man refused. Then the devil touched a dying tree nearby, and its naked and forlorn branches turned into the arms and legs of a most exotic Jewish woman. She had emerald-green eyes, darkened skin, long and black hair, and a voluptuous body so perfect Adam would have burned the entire Garden of Eden to build another one, for Eros this time, in its place. 'Kneel down, and pay me due homage. All this shall be
Yours for ever', said Lucifer.
"But the Son of Man was adamant. And then the Lord of the Flies sighed, opened his arms, and from the very warm air a personal computer formed. And on the screen it showed home pages from every corner of the world, and amazing images of the future. And Christ said, 'This is nothing new for the Son of God'. The devil replied: 'Is it? Have You already been properly introduced to Your Father, the Third Millenium version?'
And Christ laughed, but His eyes were stormy. The devil then pressed some keys, and He watched the letters dancing on the screen. They said 'www.god.com'. All of a sudden the most incredible landscapes passed through the screen, of places never imagined, of mythical creatures, of past and future civilizations. The entire Universe captured Christ's eyes and filled them with Wonder. There were Adam and Eve, looking more like beasts than anything else. There was the Red Sea enveloping the Egyptians in a violent mist, and their screams were so vivid Jesus thought of entering the screen to save them. There was John the Baptist's head lying between Salomé's lovely marble-pale limbs, wickedly coloured by the seven veils and the prophet's blood. Christ saw Himself on the cross, and His very last breath. He saw the precise instant when He returned from Hades. And He could behold the first steps of a Faith that would set the world on fire. A Faith that would turn the beautiful Jerusalem into ashes and corpses of children. A Faith whose Gospel created over the Sinai sands and the Jordan waters would be discreetly murmured into luxurious and expensive churches.
And the Son of Man beheld the Vatican. The crowd at St Peter's Square went wild when a man richly dressed in purple and gold appeared at the balcony.
'Father', He said, looking at the sky, 'never in my wildest dreams could I envision the future in such detail!'
The silence swallowed the sands, the sun, the wind, the insects. And the screen showed the simple words-
Adore him and all this shall be yours for ever.
And the devil laughed.
And the Son of Man wept bitterly.
(A pause. Time stands still. The Sphinx looks luminous and younger. Poirot is humbly bowing his head.)
SPHINX
Oh, Oscar! (A tiny tear crosses her cheek.)
POIROT
This does not come from the devil, monsieur. It is genuine Wildeana.
WILDE
(Clearly enjoying the moment) How accurate of you, M. Poirot! But I suppose I shall know now the true nature of the mission I must accomplish.
POIROT
Yes. Eh bien-your mission, Mr. Wilde, is to save yourself.
WILDE
I beg your pardon?
SPHINX
My dear, don't you know there are two possible dates for your death?
WILDE
Oh! but didn't I pass away on November 30, 1900?
POIROT
That's the official day. It's in the books. But, mysteriously enough, there is another Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde buried not at Père Lachaise, but at the Los Angeles County Cemetery. And this one apparently died on July 27, 1930.
SPHINX
Oscar gone Hollywood? That's impossible.
POIROT
That's entertainment. (Nobody laughs. He smiles awkwardly.) Excuse me. Fact is, Mr. Wilde was-till now-recognized as one of the finest British writers of all times. This alter-ego, or whatever it may be, was a second-rate screenplay scribbler that ruined your former fame by plagiarizing each and every cliché he could find.
WILDE
But he is certainly not me.
POIROT
Unfortunately he is. We checked all available data on his past, and discovered that you, by some twist of fate, left Paris in September 1900 and crossed the Atlantic. He-or you-simply disappeared from the Rue des Beaux-Arts and was never found again.
WILDE
I never thought I would fall so low... And what am I to do?
POIROT
As the Great One does not want the Phillistines to rule the world, and your works helped purify a lot of air, you were granted a chance. You are to find yourself with the help of an English gentleman, and convince you to choose posterity instead of Hollywood's posters...
WILDE
And who shall this gentleman be...?
POIROT (looking at the Sphinx)
You know who he is, my dear. Please give Mr. Wilde his card.
SPHINX
Here it is. And I wish you good luck, Oscar. Otherwise we shall miss you here. Mediocrity stays six feet under.
WILDE (starts and reads the address on the card)
"221-B Baker Street, Chelsea, London."

END OF ACT I