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Act 2. A dark, empty stage.

Marat
(standing up)

It's all a blur. It’s all a little dizzy. 
I just have dreamed a scary dream as if 
two vagabond philosophers robbed me
and killed. I must admit it's a bit strange: 
I used to dream of danger, I was close 
of being caught up with death and that was when
I woke up in a sweat but this dream seems
to last for now. A dream within a dream. 
It's weird. I suppose I shouldn't have
to drink a single malt with a red wine.
But what is that? I think, I hear footsteps 
behind the stage. What if my greedy drunkards
decided to come back? I’d better hide 
behind the curtain. 

(Marat hides. Charles in mask comes out)

                             Do you see? It is
indeed a dream. Not dream, but Cirque. At first,
a pair of angry clowns, than a Punch
in a long nosed mask. Look, how he’s nervous!
He must be waiting for somebody, frowning,
pacing about, sighing, every minute 
looking at face of watch. 
                                    Bonjour, Monsieur.

Charles

Good God! You frightened me! Oh, wait a second.
I know you! It’s fun to see my killer
postmortem. Though, it doesn't matter. You
must leave. My fiancée is on her way
here right now and I would rather not
see here to see you. 

Marat
(to himself)

                              Holy dreams, he tells me
to leave my own dream! Let’s turn cad on,
because a dreamer can allow himself 
in dreams nearly anything he wants.

A pretty? 

Charles

              Who? 

Marat

                       Your fiancée. 

Charles

                                           You know it
better than anyone. 

Marat

                               Looks like the Punch
likes talking riddles. So, what is her name?

Charles

Who’s? 

Marat

            Fiancée! 

Charles

                         You know it better. 

Marat

                                                     Go
to hell! 

Charles

              Her name is Charlotte. 

Marat

                                                Oh, my God,
what a charlottish name! An apple pie,
that’s what it tastes like. 

Charles

                                      Well, it's up to you.
But you yourself have recently extolled
its virtues. “Charlotte! Chocolate and cherries!
A babycakes!”

Marat

                      Shut up! About cherries
and babycakes she was the only one 
who knew. I don’t believe it! How comes 
you know? There's something weird here.
Take off your mask! 

Charles

                              If you say so, Monsieur.

(Charles takes off his mask)

Marat

So is it you?! It can't be! I have seen
the butcher lifted your severed head 
by its long hair from the basket. You
are dead! 

Charles

               Well, may be dead and may be not
enough. There are more things in heaven and earth,
Friend of the People. Anyway, a friend
of people isn’t friend of mine, but I
will tell you as a friend… Though, I will not.
I'll let you guess. 

Marat

                           I guess enough to throw
this gauntlet in your face! 

Charles

                                       Slow down, Monsieur..
You want to fight? So let a formal duel
to settle your blood feud. A la court paille? 
A volonte?* 

Marat

                 No matter. A fistfight.

Charles

Okay, I’m in. 

The Commentator’s Voice

                   May I have your attention,
ladies and gentlemen? And welcome to a night
of boxing! In one corner here's the young…
Whatever. I would like to introduce 
to you Charles Barbaroux. Jean-Paul Marat
is in the other corner and he’s mad. 
So, we begin. Let's see who beats up who.
At the same moment, clenching their fists,
keeping their elbows to themselves, the boxers
began to circle, waltzing round each other.
Quick left shot out and caught Marat on crunchy
tooth. That's a good start! Dodging tricky lunge,
Marat attempted a side strike and got
himself such a ferocious blow in 
the eyebrow that he staggered, nearly missed
the most vicious of the dozen swipes.
Ducked under Charles’s right, he crouched, feinted
and jabbed his rival’s nose but at once
was punished in the head. They bounced away,
resuming circles. Frankly, if I were
to choose between these two, I would bet on…
Bang on the jaw! And, as Marat was tumbling,
Charles managed to hit him another time.
Get up and waltz around, Salvatore! 
Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!
Oh, look, Marat woke up, back to the fray! 
Alas, he’s tired. Legs aren't working well.
The legs in boxing like the hands in sex:
they play small parts but they require skill.
Charles stepped up pressure, furiously bombarding
his rival with a hail of blows. Marat
tried clinch with him but all to no avail.
Marat collapsed. Charles won. The curtain, please.

Charles

Death is a bad excuse to end the strife.
We’re doomed to conflict even afterlife.

(leaves)

* Duel's types
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