(Virgil and Beatrice are sitting at the foot of the tree.
They are looking out blankly.
Silence.)

VIRGIL: What I’d give for a pear.

BEATRICE: A pear?

VIRGIL: Yes. A ripe and juicy one.

(Pause.)

BEATRICE: I’ve never had a pear.

VIRGIL: What?

BEATRICE: In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever set eyes on one.

VIRGIL: How is that possible? It’s a common fruit.

BEATRICE: My parents were always eating apples and carrots. I
guess they didn’t like pears.

VIRGIL: But pears are so good! I bet you there’s a pear tree
right around here. (He looks about.)

…

BEATRICE: What does a pear taste like?

VIRGIL: Wait. You must smell it first. A ripe pear breathes a
fragrance that is watery and subtle, its power lying
in the lightness of its impression upon the olfactory
sense. Can you imagine the smell of nutmeg or
cinnamon?

BEATRICE: I can.

VIRGIL: The smell of a ripe pear has the same effect on the
mind as these aromatic spices. The mind is arrested,
spellbound, and a thousand and one memories and
associations are thrown up as the mind burrows deep
to understand the allure of this beguiling smell—
which it never comes to understand, by the way.

BEATRICE: But how does it taste? I can’t wait any longer.

VIRGIL: A ripe pear overflows with sweet juiciness.

BEATRICE: Oh, that sounds good.

VIRGIL: Slice a pear and you will find that its flesh is
incandescent white. It glows with inner light. Those
who carry a knife and a pear are never afraid of the
dark.

BEATRICE: I must have one.

VIRGIL: The texture of a pear, its consistency, is yet another
difficult matter to put into words. Some pears are a
little crunchy.

BEATRICE: Like an apple?

VIRGIL: No, not at all like an apple! An apple resists being
eaten. An apple is not eaten, it is conquered. The
crunchiness of a pear is far more appealing. It is
giving and fragile. To eat a pear is akin to . . .
kissing.

BEATRICE: Oh, my. It sounds so good.

VIRGIL: The flesh of a pear can be slightly gritty. And yet it
melts in the mouth.

BEATRICE: Is such a thing possible?

VIRGIL: With every pear. And that is only the look, the feel,
the smell, the texture. I have not even told you of
the taste.

BEATRICE: My God!

VIRGIL: The taste of a good pear is such that when you eat
one, when your teeth sink into the bliss of one, it
becomes a wholly engrossing activity. You want to
do nothing else but eat your pear. You would rather
sit than stand. You would rather be alone than in
company. You would rather have silence than music.
All your senses but taste fall inactive. You see
nothing, you hear nothing, you feel nothing—or
only as it helps you to appreciate the divine taste of
your pear.

BEATRICE: But what does it actually taste like?

VIRGIL: A pear tastes like, it tastes like . . . (He struggles. He
gives up with a shrug.) I don’t know. I can’t put it into
words. A pear tastes like itself.

BEATRICE: (sadly) I wish you had a pear.

VIRGIL: And if I had one, I would give it to you.

(Silence.)