Disgraced
Disgraced
Disgraced
BY AYAD AKHTAR
DRAMATISTS
PLAY SERVICE
INC.
DISGRACED
Copyright © 2015, Ayad Akhtar
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New York, NY 10016. No professional or nonprofessional performance of the
Play may be given without obtaining in advance the written permission of
DRAMATISTS PLAY SERVICE, INC., and paying the requisite fee.
Inquiries concerning all other rights should be addressed to Creative Artists Agency,
405 Lexington Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, NY 10174. Attn: Chris Till.
SPECIAL NOTE
Anyone receiving permission to produce DISGRACED is required to give credit to
the Author(s) as sole and exclusive Author(s) of the Play on the title page of all
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DISGRACED had its world premiere at American Theater
Company (PJ Paparelli, Artistic Director), Chicago, Illinois, in
January 2012. It was directed by Kimberly Senior; the set design
was by Jack Magaw; the costume design was by Janice Pytel; the
lighting design was by Christine Binder; the sound design was
by Kevin O’Donnell; the properties were designed by Nick
Heggestad; and the stage manager was Katie Klemme. The cast
was as follows:
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DISGRACED was originally produced on Broadway by the Araca
Group, Lincoln Center Theater, Jennifer Evans, Amanda Watkins,
Richard Winkler, Rodger Hess, Stephanie P. Mcclelland, Tulchin/
Bartner Productions, Jessica Genick, Jonathan Reinis, Carl Levin/
Ashley De Simone/TNTDynaMite Productions, Alden Bergson/
Rachel Weinstein, Greenleaf Productions, Darren Deverna/Jere
Harris, the Shubert Organization, and the David Merrick Arts
Foundation. It was directed by Kimberly Senior; the set design
was by John Lee Beatty; the costume design was by Jennifer von
Mayrhauser; the lighting design was by Kenneth Posner; the sound
design was by Jill BC Du Boff; and the fight direction was by
UnkleDave’s Fight-House. The cast was as follows:
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CHARACTERS
EMILY
AMIR
ABE
JORY
ISAAC
SETTING
TIME
2011–2012.
The first two scenes take place in late summer of 2011.
The third scene takes place three months later during fall.
The fourth scene takes place six months later during spring.
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NOTE TO DIRECTORS
Although Disgraced has many “ideas” in it, playing the “ideas” leads,
invariably, to a stilted and stentorian quality. Odd as it may seem,
the play was written as an entertainment. Something of a situation
comedy that becomes an office thriller that becomes a comedy of
manners that becomes a play of romantic intrigue and finally ends
in domestic tragedy. The surefire sign that the actors are “playing
ideas” — and not the relationships — is a slackening of the pace.
Disgraced was written to be performed allegro con brio — light and
bold. If, at times, the performers err on the side of briskness, it is still
a preferable to error than to fall into the trap of feeling obligated to
do justice to the ideas by slowing down.
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DISGRACED
Scene 1
7
Emily sketches, assesses her model … Amir — 40, of South
Asian origin, in an Italian suit jacket, with a crisp, collared
shirt, but only boxers underneath. He speaks with a perfect
American accent.
Beat(s).
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AMIR. Selling’s not everything. (Amir’s cell phone rings.)
EMILY. Selling’s not everything? You really believe that? (Emily
grabs the phone and tosses it to him.)
AMIR. I have to get this …
EMILY. Fine. Just … stay where you are?
AMIR. (Into the phone.) You enjoying your Pop Tarts? I don’t give a
fuck that it’s Saturday morning. You’re paid six figures to return my
calls. (Breaking away and going to a contract on the table.) Paragraph
4, Subsection 3. Last sentence. Why are those three words still in
there? You missed that? No. What actually happened is I told you
to fix it and you didn’t. Then behave like it. Fucking career paralegal.
(Amir hangs up.)
EMILY. Wow.
AMIR. I don’t catch his little fuck-up? It costs the client $850 grand.
EMILY. (Sketching.) It’s actually kinda hot.
AMIR. Is it? (Pointing at the picture of the Velázquez painting.)
What’s his name again?
EMILY. Juan de Pareja.
AMIR. It’s a little fucked-up. Give me that at least.
EMILY. (Sexy.) I happen to know you like it a little fucked-up.
(They kiss. Kiss again. The phone rings. Amir …)
AMIR. That’s Mort. I need to get it.
EMILY. Fine. You’re done. You want more coffee? (Amir nods.
Emily exits.)
AMIR. (Into the phone.) Hey, Mort … Good, good. You? Contract’s
done. We’ll have it to them first thing Monday. I spoke to Paolo.
Seller’s remorse. But it’s a moot point. His board’s gonna vote against
him. I’m just going to keep feeding him the line on litigation. He
doesn’t play ball? They’re going to rip his guts out. So you should
expect him to call you after I’m through with him. Good cop, bad
cop. (Emily returns with coffee.) She’s right here … (To Emily.) Mort
says hi.
EMILY. Tell him hi.
AMIR. She says hi … We have plans for Labor Day, Mort. Don’t
worry about it. Enjoy the weekend … Okay, bye.
EMILY. Hamptons?
AMIR. Bucks County.
EMILY. I know.
AMIR. Jory and Isaac.
EMILY. It’s got me a little freaked out.
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AMIR. It’s taken forever to make that happen.
EMILY. Isaac is a big deal.
AMIR. And he is going to love your work. (Beat.)
EMILY. (Changing the subject.) How is Mort?
AMIR. Obsessed with the idea that meditation is going to lower
his cholesterol.
EMILY. Haven’t seen him in ages.
AMIR. I barely see him. He hardly comes in. I mean, basically, I’m
doing his job. Not that I mind.
EMILY. He loves you.
AMIR. He depends on me.
EMILY. He spent I don’t know how much on that birthday present
for you?
AMIR. Couple grand at least.
EMILY. Excuse me?
AMIR. Honey, I really am pretty much doing his job.
EMILY. So he gets you a book. Or a bottle of scotch. Or takes you
to dinner. Why’d he get you that statue of Siva? (Beat.) He doesn’t
think you’re Hindu, does he?
AMIR. He may have mentioned something once … You realize
I’m going to end up with my name on that firm?
EMILY. Leibowitz, Bernstein, Harris, and Kapoor.
AMIR. My mother will roll over in her grave …
EMILY. Your mother would be proud.
AMIR. It’s not the family name, so she might not care, seeing it
alongside all those Jewish ones … But proud, my mother would not
be. (From the kitchen: The intercom buzzes. Amir looks over, surprised.
Emily heads for the kitchen.)
EMILY. That’ll be Abe.
AMIR. (Surprised.) Abe?
EMILY. (Disappearing into the kitchen.) Your nephew.
AMIR. Right. Abe.
EMILY. (At the intercom, offstage.) Yes? Send him up.
AMIR. Abe Jensen. I’ll never get used to it …From Hussein Malik,
he goes to Abe Jensen … I can’t take it seriously.
EMILY. I don’t like what’s happening.
AMIR. You’re not gonna let this thing go, are you?
EMILY. Somebody’s gotta do something about it.
AMIR. I went to see that Imam in prison. What more do you
two want?
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EMILY. Please just talk to him? (There’s a knocking on the door, as Amir
starts putting on his pants. Amir’s gotten to the door. Opening, it shows …
Abe — 22, of South Asian origin. But as American as American gets.
Vibrant and endearing. He’s wearing a Kidrobot t-shirt under a hoodie,
skinny jeans, and high tops.)
ABE. Should I come back?
EMILY. No, no.
ABE. You sure?
AMIR. Come in, Hussein.
ABE. Uncle.
AMIR. What?
ABE. Could you just call me —
AMIR. (Finishing his thought.) I’ve known you your whole life as
Hussein. I’m not gonna start calling you Abe now. (Abe shakes his
head. Turning to Emily.)
EMILY. Hi, Abe.
ABE. Hi, Aunt Emily. (Abe turns to Amir, lighthearted. Pointing.)
See? How hard can it be?
AMIR. Abe Jensen. Really?
ABE. You know how much easier things are for me since I changed
my name? It’s in the Quran. It says you can hide your religion if
you have to. It’s called taqiyya —
AMIR. (Coming in.) I’m not talking about the Quran. Just lay off
it with me and your folks at least.
ABE. It’s gotta be one thing or the other. I can’t be all mixed up.
EMILY. (To Amir, off his reaction.) You changed your name, too.
ABE. You were lucky. You didn’t have to change your first name.
Could be Christian. Jewish. Plus, you were born here. It’s different.
EMILY. (To Abe.) You want something, sweetie? Coffee, juice?
ABE. Nah. I’m good.
AMIR. So what’s up?
EMILY. I’ll let you two gentlemen talk.
AMIR. No need. Everybody knows you’re in on this. (To Abe.) So
you’ve been calling her, too?
ABE. You weren’t calling me back.
AMIR. Why are we still talking about this? I’m a corporate lawyer.
In mergers and acquisitions —
EMILY. Who started in the public defender’s —
AMIR. That was years ago.
ABE. Imam Fareed didn’t do anything.
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DISGRACED
by Ayad Akhtar
Winner of the 2013 Pulitzer Prize
3M, 2W
“ … blistering social drama about the racial prejudices that secretly persist in progressive
cultural circles … Akhtar knows how to build a scene and maintain suspense, so there’s
a sense of inevitability about the damage that’s done over the course of the evening. But
because of the artful construction, it still comes as a shock when the two couples go into
attack mode.” —Variety
“What makes DISGRACED impressive is that Akhtar, having invented four educated,
intelligent adult characters, lets the burgeoning mess articulate itself through their
interaction … you rarely feel the playwright nudging them in the right direction.”
—The Village Voice