The play follows seamlessly after the Prelude.
Oupa shuffles toward the wall with the square of sunlight. As he approaches it, his shadow creeps slowly up from the floor. He holds out his arms in a welcoming embrace.
OUPA: Me . . . my dark shape . . . my very own unique little patch of darkness.
Like the wallpaper sticks to the wall
Like the seashore clings to the sea
Like youâll never get rid of your shadow
Frank, youâll never get rid of me.
Let all the others fight and fuss
Whatever happens, weâve got us.
Me and my shadow
Weâre closer than pages that stick in a book . . .
OUPA: Whatâs the matter with you, Boba . . . are you blind? Iâve transmogrified!
BOBA: Into what?
OUPA: The teacher from the black lagoon! And I am hungry for your tender white meat . . . so defend yourself.
BOBA: He doesnât frighten me anymore, Oupa. And, anyway, weâve stopped playing with wooden swords . . . havenât we?
OUPA: For Godâs sake, Boba! . . . Have you forgotten everything Iâve taught you? Unsheathe the sword of your imagination, boy, because here I come!
BOBA: Die! . . . You worm-faced creature of the night!
OUPA (Crawling to his chair with a groan): Merciful Heaven. Why did it take you so long? Was your sword blunt? I thought it was never going to end.
BOBA: Your skin was very thick, Oupa.
OUPA (Hands to his heart): Ooooh! That my lord was a deadlier thrust than any of those your Excalibur inflicted. But, pray tell me, at whose hand did I have the honor, the agony, and the ecstasy of dying this time?
BOBA: Prince Gruffydd of Deheubarth.
OUPA (Suddenly an old, cringing menial): Ay . . . ay . . . and a nobler lord never defended the sacred soil of Wales.
BOBA: Same as usual.
OUPA: Which I take it means you are in the dog-box again. What did it this time?
BOBA: Didnât do my homework.
OUPA: As you well know, my cherished one, I hate to say anything in support of your father, but he might be right this time . . . And now to top it all, they, of course, donât know where you are.
BOBA: No.
OUPA: So where are you supposed to be?
BOBA: At Norellâs house doing homework.
OUPA (Groaning): Oh God, Boba . . . what are we going to do?
BOBA: About what, Oupa?
OUPA: Me and you. Sooner or later they are going to find out that you are secretly visiting me again. And then you will be in very hot water with your dad.
BOBA: If you just say you are sorry, Oupa.
OUPA (Flaring up): No! Iâll drop the ox but not the qualifying adjective . . . because that is what he is and I know your mother secretly agrees with me. I know he is my son, but, believe me, Boba, that, as Godâs dirty tricks go, giving him to me as my one and only heir, is by far the dirtiest one he has ever played on me. When he first married your mother, and she became pregnant, I lived in mortal terror of the possibility that another idiot was on the way. All I can say is thank God for your mother. She must have...