Norma Jeane Baker of Troy Read online

  NORMA JEANE BAKER OF TROY

  also by anne carson

  available from new directions

  * * *

  the albertine workout

  antigonick

  bakkhai

  glass, irony & god

  nox

  Copyright © 2019 by Anne Carson

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Published by arrangement with Oberon Books, Ltd.

  “Persephone” by Stevie Smith, copyright © 1950 by Stevie Smith.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  New Directions books are printed on acid-free paper

  First published as New Directions Paperbook 1467 in 2020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

  Names: Carson, Anne, 1950– author. | Euripides. Helen.

  Title: Norma Jeane Baker of Troy : a version of Euripides’s Helen / Anne Carson.

  Description: First New Directions edition. |

  New York : New Directions Publishing, 2020.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019043444 (print) | LCCN 2019043445 (ebook) | ISBN 9780811229364 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780811229371 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS3553.A7667 N67 2020 (print) | LCC PS3553.A7667 (ebook) | DDC 812/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019043444

  New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin

  by New Directions Publishing Corporation

  80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011

  Norma Jeane Baker of Troy

  Commissioned by The Shed, New York

  Alex Poots, Artistic Director and CEO

  World premiere April 9, 2019

  The Kenneth C. Griffin Theater

  Scene

  Troy and Los Angeles

  Cast

  Norma Jeane Baker

  Enter Norma Jeane Baker.

  Enter Norma Jeane Baker.

  Prologue.

  This is the Nile and I’m a liar.

  Those are both true.

  Are you confused yet?

  The play is a tragedy. Watch closely now

  how I save it from sorrow.

  I expect you’ve heard of the Trojan War

  and how it was caused by Norma Jeane Baker,

  harlot of Troy.

  Well, welcome to Public Relations.

  That was all a hoax.

  A bluff, a dodge, a swindle, a gimmick, a gem of a stratagem.

  The truth is,

  a cloud went to Troy.

  A cloud in the shape of Norma Jean Baker.

  The gods arranged it, sort of.

  They flew me to LA. Locked me in a suite of the Chateau Marmont.

  Told me to learn my lines for Clash By Night,

  a film with Fritz Lang, the famous director.

  That’s enough about him.

  Speaking of ignorant armies though,

  that cloud scam fooled everyone.

  Maybe a thousand Trojans died at Troy. I feel bad about them.

  I feel bad about me.

  You know the phrase “box office poison”?

  How to redeem the good name of Norma Jeane?

  How to explain it all to Arthur?

  My good husband Arthur,

  king of Sparta and New York,

  dear honourable, old-fashioned Arthur,

  who led an army to Troy to win me back.

  I am after all his most prized possession — the Greeks

  value women less than pure gold

  but slightly ahead of oxen, sheep or goats—

  but also,

  and more important,

  Arthur is a man who believes in war.

  Men standing shoulder to shoulder,

  tempered in the fire of battle.

  Himself

  in a crested helmet,

  his army rippling around him

  like bees smelling honey.

  Arthur gives thanks to the gods every day

  for the precision of command,

  which makes order of the anarchy of his heart.

  A cloud? he’ll say. We went to Troy to get a cloud?

  We lived all those years knee-deep in death for the sake of a cloud?

  I’m not sure he’ll believe me.

  I’m not sure I believe me.

  Just think,

  when the Greeks first beached their ships at Troy

  they could see the legendary city glittering a mere football field away.

  It took them ten years to walk to it.

  A thousand bloody T-shirts left on the sand.

  Oh I need a drink.

  Or a big bowl of whipped cream. I’ve got to think.

  Norma Jeane sits, takes out her knitting.

  εἴδωλον

  “image, likeness, simulacrum, replica, proxy, idol”

  HISTORY OF WAR: LESSON 1

  To make people believe that a replica is the real thing, manipulate “the optics” of the situation. Managing optics cleverly will generate an alternate version of the facts, which then stands alongside the facts like a cloud in the shape of a woman, or a golden Hollywood idol in place of a mousy-haired pinup girl from Los Angeles.

  CASE STUDY: The Russian military now uses decoy armaments of a Euripidean design — lifesize tanks, MiG-31 fighter jets and missile launchers made of inflatable plastic. A hot-air balloon company provides them to the Ministry of Defense.

  FALLOUT: There may be ethical queries. Point out that war has always made use of camouflage, spies, stealth tactics. Make it clear: completely convincing unreal weapons able to pop up or vanish in moments are too good to forego! Do not use terms like “trickery” or “deceit.” Substitute the playful and musical Russian expression maskirovka: “masking.”

  APPLICATIONS (specific): Move Helen’s mask aside momentarily if she wants to spit tequila in your mouth.

  APPLICATIONS (general): Trust Euripides. Trust Helen. She never went to Troy. Marilyn really was a blonde. And we all go to heaven when we die. As Marilyn used to say, “Keep the balloon and dare not to worry.”

  Norma Jeane continues knitting.

  Episode One.

  Enter Greek sailor trying to find his way home from Troy.

  Sailor sees me, does one of those (doubletakes).

  Says he can’t believe how much I look like her.

  Thought he’d never see a pair of tits like those again.

  Like these. Again.

  Goes into a rant about Norma Jeane Baker the harlot of Troy—

  that WMD in the forked form of woman! He curses her! He spits on her!

  He calls the gods to spit on her!

  And so forth.

  I let him unload it all.

  Then ask about his family

  (usually where the anger starts).

  Turns out his brother suicided at Troy

  and their dad holds him responsible.

  Don’t bother coming home alone, said Dad.

  And I thought, Fuck! Those humans!

  Always finding a way to break each other’s hearts!

  But anyway then we got back to talking of Troy

 
and Norma Jeane, whom

  he was absolutely sure he’d seen on the last day at Troy

  being dragged off by the hair,

  as clear as I see you, he says.

  Who dragged her? I says.

  Her own husband, he says, Arthur of New York and Sparta.

  And next thing he tells me — heartbreak! — is

  Arthur might not be coming back!

  Rumour has it

  Arthur’s lost his way sailing home from Troy with Norma Jeane.

  Assumed dead.

  Who’ll save me from Fritz Lang now?

  Exit Norma Jeane.

  τραῦμα

  “wound”

  HISTORY OF WAR: LESSON 2

  War creates two categories of persons: those who outlive it and those who don’t.

  Both carry wounds.

  CHANGING ATTITUDES: An ancient Homeric catalogue of battlefield trauma would include wounds to eyeball, nose, palate, forehead, throat, collarbone, back of skull, nape of neck, upper arm, forearm, heart, lungs, liver, spleen, thigh, knee, shin, heel, ankle. Lasting psychological damage, however keen a concern of modern research, does not seem to have interested the ancient poet.

  CONTINUITIES: On the other hand, Homer has given us Achilles, who went berserk in the midst of battle (Iliad) and Odysseus, who went berserk afterwards (Odyssey), while Euripides makes a hero out of Helen, who was brutalized by merely staring at war too long.

  TEACHABLE MOMENTS: In Euripides’ play Helen, we watch Helen watch her husband, Menelaos, as he ambushes and slaughters a boatload of unarmed people. She cheers him on, shouting, “Where is the glory of Troy? Show it to these barbarians!”

  DISCUSSION TOPICS: Compare and contrast catching a spear in the spleen with utter mental darkness. Consider ancient vs modern experience. Consider whether any of these is what is meant in poetry by “a beautiful death.”

  Enter Norma Jeane.

  Enter Norma Jeane as Mr. Truman Capote.

  First choral song.

  Enter chorus.

  I am my own chorus.

  I think of my chorus as Mr. Truman Capote.

  He was a good friend, he told me the truth.

  You’ll never admit it when you’ve made a mess,

  he said to me once

  and that was true.

  I can still hear his funny little girl voice — Truman

  had a voice like a negligee, always

  slipping off one bare shoulder,

  just a bit.

  And he hated melodrama,

  though he loved to quote poetry — highbrow stuff—

  here’s one he says is about me—

  by Stevie Smith (it’s called “Persephone”):

  I am that Persephone

  Who played with her darlings in Sicily

  Against a background of social security.

  Oh what a glorious time we had.

  Or had we not? They said it was sad.

  I was born good, grown bad.

  And isn’t that how it always starts, this myth that ends with the girl “grown bad”?

  She’s in a meadow gathering flowers

  twirling her own small sunny hours.

  When up rides a man on black horses.

  Up rides a man in a black hat.

  Up rides a man with a black letter to deliver.

  Shall I make you my queen?

  She’s maybe 12 or 13.

  Rape

  is the story of Helen,

  Persephone,

  Norma Jeane,

  Troy.

  War is the context

  and God is a boy.

  Oh my darlings,

  they tell you you’re born with a precious pearl.

  Truth is,

  it’s a disaster to be a girl.

  Up came the black horses and the dark King.

  And the harsh sunshine was as if it had never been.

  In the halls of Hades they said I was queen.

  Exit Norma Jeane as Mr. Truman Capote.

  ἁρπάζειν

  “to take”

  HISTORY OF WAR: LESSON 3

  If you pick a flower, if you snatch a handbag, if you possess a woman, if you plunder a storehouse, ravage a countryside or occupy a city, you are a taker. You are taking. In ancient Greek you use the verb άρπάζειν, which comes over into Latin as rapio, rapere, raptus sum and gives us English rapture and rape — words stained with the very early blood of girls, with the very late blood of cities, with the hysteria of the end of the world. Sometimes I think language should cover its own eyes when it speaks.

  Enter Norma Jeane.

  Enter Norma Jeane as Norma Jeane.

  Episode two.

  The story so far:

  TROY DOWN

  THOUSANDS DEAD

  NORMA JEANE TO BLAME

  NORMA JEANE NOT TO BLAME

  ARTHUR LOST (AT SEA)

  NORMA JEANE CAPTIVE (CHATEAU MARMONT)

  EXIT MR. TRUMAN CAPOTE TO LUNCH WITH MISS PEARL BAILEY

  Norma Jeane sits, knits a bit, puts down knitting.

  (Here’s an aside.

  I’m not generally a weeping woman

  but the sailor told me

  a bit of news

  I didn’t mention before. About my daughter,

  my dear one, back in New York.

  What he heard is that

  she’s dropped out of school

  and is hoarding her meds.

  Hermione’s her name.

  She must be 17 now.

  A golden flower of a girl.

  A precarious girl.

  I’ve wanted to call her so many times — Fritz Lang said No—

  we can’t jeopardize the cloud scam.

  MGM has a lot invested in this war at Troy,

  even beside the movie deals there’s spinoffs, casinos, reality shows.

  But Hermione!

  Hermione is my own soul walking around in another body.

  So here’s what I do when I really miss her.

  I use the wind telephone.

  A guy in Japan — remember that place in Japan where they had the big wave,

  the earthquake? and the sea

  came up over the town, thousands drowned.

  And the ones left behind

  were so sad they couldn’t live.

  So this guy buys himself an old telephone booth,

  sets it up by the side of the road

  on the edge of town.

  People can go in and dial a number

  and talk to the dead, talk to their lost ones, talk to the underworld.

  It’s rotary dial.

  People find that comforting.

  Most of them just say Hi Dad or Funny weather these days or Guess what we got a dog—

  but they come out of the booth smiling.

  It was said in the town that the phone sometimes rang

  at odd hours.

  I’ve no opinion on that.)

  Exit Norma Jeane on wind phone, hand to ear, Hermione it’s me, hello hello hello hello hello.

  Enter Norma Jeane.

  Enter Norma Jeane.

  Episode three.

  Surprise!

  Enter Arthur.

  I was downstairs chatting up the night clerk, Bobby.

  Arthur just came walking into the lobby.

  Looking like a bum. Smelling like a guy who’s spent 7 years in the same shirt.

  I tell you who was more surprised than me, however,

  was he.

  No, he said.

  No, he said eleven more times.

  I’ll skip ahead.

  He told me his Troy story— br />
  basically nine years of cattle raids and pillaging the locals (Arthur calls it Blood, Sheep and Tears).

  Then, year ten, Achilles wakes up and they take the town.

  Kill all the men,

  rape all the women,

  pack up the boats and sail for home.

  Main point being: he got his war prize, the whole reason he went, his casus belli,

  his Norma Jeane

  (or so he thinks).

  He said she was there,

  locked in a bathroom,

  kind of high.

  Had to break her nose with his fist but he got her.

  Then they wandered seven years through stormy seas

  and alien airports, washed up yesterday on Venice Beach.

  Where’s Norma Jeane now? I said and he said, Best Western.

  Okay, I said. My turn.

  Okay, I said, my turn.

  I said that twice. Nervous.

  So.

  I explain to Arthur about the cloud.

  A cloud went to Troy, I say. It wasn’t me.

  MGM had the rights to a war movie, big investors involved, you know

  how things work.

  That Norma Jeane at Troy, that wasn’t me (I repeat). It was a cloud.

  He stands there like a stilled avalanche.

  Cloud, he says.

  We fought ten years at Troy over a cloud.

  Well, I said, that’s the gist.

  And then,

  this is God’s truth,

  Arthur burst into flame.

  I extinguished Arthur by beating him with my bathrobe.

  Just then his phone rang.

  It was the manager at the Best Western.

  Arthur of New York and Sparta?

  Yes.

  Room 7B?

  Yes.

  It’s about your wife.

  My wife?

  The maid went in with towels,

  handed them to your wife and

  your wife melted into thin air — you know what I’m saying? She

  dematerialized. Beamed out. Right before Maria’s eyes.

  I got a hysterical maid here and you’re still paying double occupancy.

  δουλεία

  “slavery”

  HISTORY OF WAR: LESSON 4

  The economy of ancient Greece, like that of early modern America, depended on the institution of slavery. And warfare was a factory for the production of slaves. Anyone who survived a war on the losing side was destined for this category. Because ancient slavery was not predicated on any pseudoscience of genetic inferiority, kings and queens and movie stars, as well as bakers and barbers, were in theory but a city’s fall away from servitude — Helen being a legendary example of that rare creature who could talk or charm or seduce her way out of this fate. Surely all the other fine ladies of Troy ended up slaves of some Greek soldier or his wife at home. Helen evidently persuaded her husband, dear honourable old-fashioned Menelaos, king of Sparta, to reinstate her as wife and queen, although technically, legally and hygienically she was dirt.