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 you’ll never get rid of your shadow
Frank, you’ll never get rid of me.
Let all the others fight and fuss
Whatever happens, we’ve got us.
Me and my shadow
We’re closer than pages that stick in a book . . .
OUPA: What’s the matter with you, Boba . . . are you blind? I’ve 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 doesn’t frighten me anymore, Oupa. And, anyway, we’ve stopped playing with wooden swords . . . haven’t we?
OUPA: For God’s sake, Boba! . . . Have you forgotten everything I’ve 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: Didn’t 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, don’t know where you are.
BOBA: No.
OUPA: So where are you supposed to be?
BOBA: At Norell’s 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! I’ll 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 God’s 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...