The Green Olive Soap (One-act play) (Α bedroom. A man lies on his bed, staring calmly at the ceiling. Throughout the play, we hear his thoughts out loud.) It’s peeling in the corner. Turns out, staring at the ceiling has its own kind of charm. Spring has really set in outside. How did Mrs. Marika put it? I must have copied it out ten times. “Persephone leaves the Underworld and reunites with her mother.” But along with the plants, the parasites wake up too, Mrs. Marika. You never told us that. And Persephone isn’t a permanent resident of the Upper World. Crrrk, crrrk (the window creaks, then a voice speaks). I don’t feel like it. Too many subtle details up there waiting to be noticed. The aphids…those damn parasites… have set up colonies on my plant. They’re laying siege, taking over the tender parts, sucking it dry, twisting it out of shape. Mouths, only mouths, thousands of mouths, eating it alive just to spawn more mouths, so they can devour it completely. And when they’re strong enough, they’ll fly off and take over new bodies. My mother used green soap for everything. Green soap for the laundry, the dishes, the wounds, the tears. Every morning she stood by my bed until I got up, always saying, “Wash your face with green soap,” and her voice sounded like an echo of the alarm clock. Today I didn’t hear the alarm clock. Or her voice. Strange… And if I don’t water it today, what happens? But it’s in a tiny pot… it needs water every day… Drip, drip, drip (sound of a faucet dripping) What’s that? Again with the faucet’s breathing. It sounds louder than mine. (The faucet speaks.) I’m waiting for you. Send me to the roots of the plant, wash your face with me. Listen… I’m wasted drop by drop until you finally notice me. Listen to me… I’m wasting… Please notice me. It’s been days since I splashed water on my face. (He scratches his face with his nails. Grease and dust gather underneath. He stares at his nails.) (The faucet again.) I’m waiting… I’m wasted… I’m waiting… Mother had this strange habit, I remember… She always kept a bar of green soap under her pillow. And when nobody was watching -or thought nobody was- she wouldn’t just scratch its surface. No. She dug her nails into it with such desperation, like she was hanging off the edge of a cliff. What cliff? Must’ve been her own cliff, invisible to others and she clung to it so she wouldn’t fall. These little bugs leave behind a sticky film wherever they pass. It seals the plant off from the outside world. No air gets through. The plant suffocates. They breed so fast that before you know it, they’re entire armies. That’s their plan. First, they approach you in silence, then they trap you and cut off your air. Finally, they swallow you whole. Me too. I’m being eaten alive by tiny, countless, invisible mouths. They’ve become complete phalanxes. Soon they’ll devour my whole body. That’s why my breaths are getting shallower. Ravenous mouths are tearing at the plant’s skin… and mine too. Nobody escapes the mouths. Not the plant. Not me. To get rid of the aphids, I’ll dissolve grated green soap in water. To get rid of… whatever’s taken over me… but I don’t know what to call it (pause)… or maybe I don’t want to… I should probably just wash my face with green soap. (Voices overlap, clashing with each other.) “Wash your face with green soap.” “Green soap for clothes and for tears.” “I’m waiting… I’m wasted away…” “The mouths devour…” (sound of window, sound of faucet, sound of long, heavy breath) When Persephone came up to the Upper World, my mother went down. They met halfway. My mother gave her a bar of green olive soap to pass on to me, so I’d never run out. I remember your atrophied hand, like a withered leaf. You couldn’t cling to your soap anymore, and you were left dangling on the edge of your cliff. No, you didn’t fall. I’m sure wings sprouted on your back. (Silence.) (Alarm clock rings.) The green soap is calling me. Wants to be rubbed, dissolved into water, to save me from all these devouring mouths. (He closes his eyes, curls up, gathers the last of his strength to rise. It’s not clear if he does.) About the Author Georgia Xanthopoulou lives in Athens. She writes poetry, prose, and plays. Her works have been published in English-language literary magazines. She studied English Literature and holds a PhD in Philosophy.
Take your eyes off the ceiling for a moment. I’m here too. Please..
Damn it, won’t let me focus.