220
JULES FEIFFER
dark windows is of vegetation: crawling vines, blackened leaves. Pic–
tures bury the walls: simply framed, very small, mostly family photo–
graphs and postcard-size reproductions of impressionist paintings. In
one corner: a large steamer trunk. Somewhere close to the kitchen:
an open ironing board; on it a graying bundle of shirts, living there
for days. On a side table:
COHN'S
violin, near it, a music stand. In
addition to the two dining-room chairs there is an old rocker,
COHN'S,
and a huge, beat-up, overstuffed armchair,
ABE'S.
At rise:
COHN,
overweight and fifty, is at the stove, reading from a cookbook
and mixing ingredients into a pot. He is humming a Mozart aria. He
hums, cooks, tastes. Across the room,
ABE,
underweight and fifty, lies
in his chair, staring into space. He lights a cigar and meditates.
ABE: It's getting better.
COHN:
(tastes)
Who says?
ABE:
I
say.
COHN:
(mixes)
With what evidence?
ABE: My eyes are my evidence.
COHN:
(turns to
ABE
and raises two fingers)
How many fingers?
ABE: Five.
COHN: Some eyes.
(goes back to his cooking)
You're blind.
ABE:
All
right, two.
COHN:
(slams down the pot and turns to
ABE) So
if
you can see
two, why do you say five?
ABE:
I
prefer five.
COHN: That's not a reason.
ABE: Why does there always have to be a reason?
COHN: Abe, I've known you for twenty-five years and for you there's
never a reason.
ABE: And you? You're better off.
COHN:
I
don't invent.
ABE:
I
beg your pardon. Neither do
1.
COHN: What kind of fool am
I
living with? You just made up five.
ABE:
I
didn't make it up.
COHN: Not a minute ago.
ABE: No.
COHN:
I
was holding up two
(holds up two fingers)
and you said
I
was holding up five!
(holds up five fingers)
