BC先生学习笔记-The City 录入

非常非常感谢未知的剧本来源（心），请容许我誊抄以学习：）
http://www.douban.com/note/145895758/
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Martin Crimp
The City
Characters
Clair
Christopher
--both heading for forty
Jenny
--heading for thirty
Girl
--a small girl of what? Nine or ten?
Time
--Blank
Place
--Blank
 
THE CITY
Everything we do, in art and life, is the imperfect copy of what we intended.
--- Fernando Pessoa
   The Book of Disquiet
I
Clair holds a flat object in a plain paper bag.
After a while Chris comes on. He’s wearing a suit, carries a case, has a security pass hanging from his neck.
Chris: How was your day?
Clair: My day was fine. Only –
Chris: Oh?
Clair: Only – yes – I was waiting on the station concourse this afternoon after my meeting – waiting for my train – when this man came up to me and said, have you seen a little girl about so high – I’ve lost her.
Chris: Lost her?
Clair: Well that’s what I said. I said what d’you mean lost her?----What does she look like? He said, I’ve told you: she’s about so high and she’s wearing pink jeans. I said well in that case I’ve just seen her----she was heading for the taxi rank with a woman who looked like a nurse----I can’t say for certain she was a nurse, but it looked as if she had a uniform on, under her coat. So then he says, why didn’t you stop them?
Chris: It wasn’t your responsibility to stop them.
Clair: Exactly. But of course that’s not what I said––what I said to him was: well let’s call the police. And that’s when it turned out no no no it was nothing as serious as he’d led me to believe. Because the girl was his daughter, and the woman––who––I was right––is a nurse at a nearby hospital––the Middlesex––was his sister-in-law. The girl – because they’d just got off the train––the girl has been brought here to stay with the sister-in-law. But the man––the father––had decided at the last moment to buy his little girl a diary. But when he came out with the diary, expecting his kiss, they’d gone.
Chris: His kiss.
Clair: Yes, to be kissed goodbye. I mean by his little girl. He said he didn’t expect to be kissed goodbye by his sister-in-law because his sister-in-law despised him. Which is why––thinking about it––not me, I mean him, him thinking about it––maybe why the moment he was out of sight she’d deliberately dragged the little girl off.
Chris: What? Was she being dragged?
Clair: No––but they were moving quite fast. Maybe not fast for the nurse, but fast for the little girl.
Chris: That’s why you noticed the jeans.
Clair: That’s right.
Chris: Because her legs were having to move quickly you mean to keep up with this woman, this nurse, this aunt dragging her to the taxi rank.
Clair: Well no––I’ve said––not dragging––but yes––I certainly did notice the jeans.
Pause.
What about you?
Chris: Mmm?
Clair: How was your day?
Chris: My day was good. Only my card wouldn’t swipe. Took me fifteen minutes to get into my own building.
Clair: Oh no. Why was that?
Chris: Well I tapped on the glass and the only person in there was a cleaner so the cleaner came over to the glass and I held up my card and pointed, obviously, at my picture on the card, but the cleaner just shrugged––which is odd because I know all those cleaners really well.
Clair: So what did you do?
Chris: Buzzed the buzzer till somebody came. (Slight pause.) What’s that?
Clair: What’s wrong?
Chris: Wrong? Nothing. Why?
Clair: It’s just the way you said: ‘What’s that?’
Chris: Nothing’s wrong.
Clair: Good. I’m pleased nothing’s wrong. Because I wanted to show you this.
Chris: What’s that? The diary?
Clair: He gave me the diary––yes. I said: you mustn’t give me this––it’s for your daughter. Because of course the idea had been for his little girl to write down all her thoughts and feelings about this big change in her life.
Chris: What big change in her life?
Clair: Leaving her father of cause. Living with her aunt.
Pause.
Have you not been/listening?
Chris: Does it start in January?
Clair: What?
Chris: Does it start in January?
Clair: Yes––it’s just a normal diary.
Chris: What’re you going to do with it?
Clair: I don’t know.
Chris: Write in it?
Clair: I don’t know.
Chris: Write what?
Clair: I’ve told you: I have/no idea.
Chris: And he just gave it to you?
Clair: Mmm?
Chris: The man––this man––he just gave it to you?
Clair: Well no––not right there––obviously––in the middle of Waterloo Station. He asked if he could talk to me. So because of what had happened––the little girl and so on––the fact I’d seen her heading off like that towards the taxis––I felt I didn’t really have a choice. And I was glad, as it happened, because it turned out I knew him.
Chris: You knew him?
Clair: Yes––not knew him––but knew who he was.
Chris: Oh?
Clair: Yes. Well yes. He’s this writer that everyone’s talking about. Well not everyone––obviously––but people who know––people who know about writing. So of course that was completely fascinating––it was completely fascinating to find myself sitting in a café with this writer that everyone’s talking about. Because he never gives interviews, but there he was sitting in this café opening his heart to me. About his time in prison––and the torture there––but all quite normally––just a normal conversation––just like me talking to you now––about torture––about the bucket on the cement floor––all quite normal––and the child of course––his little girl––the hopes he had for her––which made him sad––why is it, he said to me, that it’s our hopes that make us sad––even there––in the dark––in the cell––which is why he tried not to––hope, I mean––I think I’ve got this right––during all the nights and days he waited for them to come––just waited and waited for them to come.
Chris: Them?
Clair: His torturers.
Chris: I see.
Clair: The people who were determined to/break his will.
Chris: I had a visit from Bobby today.
Pause.
Clair: Oh? Bobby Williams?
Chris: Yes.
Clair: What did Bobby Williams want?
Chris: Just to say hello. Well––no––more in fact than to say hello. He came into my office because he wanted to tell me about his lunch he’d had with Jeanette. Because the week before last it seems he’d had this lunch with Jeanette and according to Jeanette the North American division is beginning to restructure and Jeanette’s instinct is, is that if they’re beginning to restructure in North American it won’t be long before they start restructuring here.
Clair: Oh?
Chris: And of course he managed to make all this sound as if he cares about what happens to me and to my family but the truth is he wanted to see me squirm. And because of his relationship with Jeanette––which I would hesitate to call sexual––but because of this thing, whatever it is, this intimacy, these lunches they have––well because of that, Bobby’s job is protected, whereas mine, given the situation in North American territories, is , well is obviously much more vulnerable.
Clair: Look, if the changes are going to be that radical, then even Jeanette won’t be able to protect Bobby for the simple reason that Jeanette will be vulnerable herself.
Chris: Yes, but Jeanette’s very clever. I’m not saying she’s indispensable––nobody’s indispensable––but she’s worked out a way of printing herself onto people’s minds. I mean let’s say, let’s just say that this afternoon, instead of meeting this man at Waterloo Station, you’d met Jeanette, and that it was Jeanette who’d taken you to a café and told you this ridiculous story about the little girl and the nurse and about being tortured in a bucket or whatever it is this man tried to make you believe. Well in those two hours in the café––because I’m assuming you spent a couple of hours with him––but in those two hours Jeanette would have made it her business to print herself onto your mind. You’d come away from the café, and regardless of her ridiculous story, or perhaps, who knows, because of it, you’d be thinking that Jeanette––and I’ve seen this happen––was essential to your company’s survival. You’d be talking to me now––having, as you say, a normal conversation with me now––but in your head there’d be this current––this flow of speculation about Jeanette––Jeanette’s grasp of the market––Jeanette’s strategic vision––Jeanette’s ability to think outside of the box blah blah blah. And once that flow started there would be no way you could ever dismiss her from your thoughts––the way for example you’ll almost certainly dismiss the man.
Clair: Oh?
Chris: Yes.
Clair: A flow of speculation.
Chris: Yes. And you’d have no idea why. Because after all Jeanette is very ordinary-looking.
Clair: Is she?
Chris: And yet she has this power.
Clair: Over men.
Chris: Over what? ––no––that’s not at all what I mean––I mean over everyone––men and women/likewise.
Clair: So you’re saying you may lose your job?
Chris: I’m just saying what Bobby told me Jeanette said to him at lunch. It doesn’t mean I’m going to kill myself. I have no plans to hang myself from a tree, if that’s what you think. There are, as you are well aware, two small children sleeping in this house, and I’m not going to leave them fatherless, any more than I’m prepared to let my decomposing body be found by someone out walking their dog. I hardly think I’m unemployable. And even someone who’s spent a whole meeting with their head down drawing interlocking shapes on the agenda––or imaginary animals––will often come up to me afterwards and thank me for being the only person in the room to ’ve talked sense. Even Bobby Williams would grant me that. So I really don’t think you need to be afraid.
Clair: Afraid of what?
Chris: Because obviously this kind of rumour is unsettling.
Clair: I’m not afraid.
Chris: Then why are you smiling?
Clair: Am I?
Chris: You know you’re smiling.
Clair: I had no idea I was smiling. (Slight pause.) Am I still smiling?
Chris: You know you are.
Clair: Then I must be smiling in spite of myself. Or perhaps I’m smiling because I’m looking at you in that suit of yours and remembering how much I love you. But––well––listen––what makes you think I’ve dismissed him from my thoughts?
Chris: I’m sorry?
Clair: Why do you call his story ridiculous? What makes you think I’ve dismissed Mohamed from thoughts?
Chris: Dismissed who?
Clair: The writer. Mohamed. What makes you think I’ve dismissed him from my thought?
Chris: Well haven’t you?
Clair: Yes––no––no––not necessarily.
Pause.
He begins to laugh.
What is it?
Chris: You’ve stopped smiling.
Clair: Have I?
Chris: Yes.
Clair: Really?
Chris: Yes.
They both chuckle.
I’ll tell you something that will make you laugh. You know this morning when I got to my building? Well my card wouldn’t swipe. I tried and I tried but it would not swipe. So I tapped on the glass but the only person in there at that time of the morning was a cleaner so the cleaner came over to the glass…No. I’ve told you this. Have I already told you this?
Clair: Go on.
Chris: But I’ve already told you this.
Clair: Told me what? Have you?
Chris: About the cleaner coming over to the glass. About when I held up me card.
Clair: Oh that.
Chris: Well didn’t i?
Clair: Yes.
Chris: So why did you say go on? (Slight pause.) Hmm.
Clair: What is it?
Chris: Nothing. Nothing at all. Where’re you going?
Clair: I’m going to put this somewhere safe.
Clair goes out with the diary. Chris remains. He does nothing.
II
Clair works at a computer, referring to a book or manuscript beside her.
Chris appears––‘casually’ dressed.
He stands behind her, watching her work. She takes no notice. Time passes, then:
Chris: Don’t you get bored with it?
Clair: Mmm?
Chris: Translating. Don’t you get/bored with it?
Clair (continuing to work): Well of course I get bored with it sometimes. Not everything people write is interesting and even interesting writing––like this––can be dull to translate. On the other hand, I do get to meet authors, and some of them are real characters––they take me out to dinner––introduce me to their families. Some of them are much quieter. They’re the crabs. As soon as you pick up the stone they’re hiding under, they scuttle off to another one. D’you have to keep standing behind me like that?
He doesn’t move. She continues to work.
Chris: So you’re not ever tempted.
Clair: Tempted to do what?
Chris: To write something of your own.
Clair: Me? (Smiles, and turns to him for the first time.) What makes you say that?
He starts to walk away.
What makes you say that? Where are you going?
Chris: It was the doorbell.
Clair: What doorbell? I didn’t hear it. Are you sure?
Chris: I’m pretty sure I heard the doorbell.
He goes off.
She listens out for a moment and, hearing nothing, continues to work.
Finally he returns with a woman, Jenny, who is wearing a nurse’s uniform under her coat. They are talking as they appear.
Chris: Please. I’m sure you won’t be disturbing her. She’s just here––look––in the garden––working.
Jenny: I don’t want to disturb anyone.
Chris: I really don’t think she minds––do you?
Clair: Minds what?
Chris: This is––sorry.
Jenny: Jenny.
Chris: This is Jenny.
Jenny: I’m Jenny. Hello.
Chris: Can I get you something, Jenny––something to drink.
Jenny: Oh no. I can’t stop. (To Clair.) I just wondered if we could talk for a moment.
Clair: I’d be very happy to. Let me just take these things back inside.
Chris: I’ll do that if you like.
Clair: No. You stay here and talk to Jenny.
She gathers up her things and goes. Pause.
Chris: So…you’re a nurse.
Jenny: Yes.
Chris: Have you always been a nurse?
Jenny: Yes.
Pause.
Chris: I suppose a lot of nurses are men.
Jenny: A lot of nurses––you’re right––are men. But a surprising number of nurses––perhaps the majority of nurses in fact––are women.
Chris: Is that so.
Jenny: Oh yes.
Chris: But you must be under a great deal of pressure.
Jenny: We are all of us––yes––men and women––under an intense pressure. (Pause.) And sometimes the pressure is so intense…it’s so intense that…(She laughs.) But this is such a beautiful garden. I can see it from my window. I often see your children running up and down shouting and screaming. I often think how extraordinary it is to see a garden like yours with children running up and down shouting and screaming––right here––right here in the middle of a city.
Chris: Isn’t our garden just like all the other gardens? Surely the city’s full of this kind of garden––a patch of grass––a few plants round the edge we typically don’t know the names of. I don’t really understand what you’re saying.
Jenny: Of course there are similar gardens––but now I’m in your garden––right inside your garden––actually standing here––actually standing on this patch of grass––I realize that your garden genuinely is unique. We know each other, don’t we. I’ve seen you somewhere––was it the optician’s? Or I know what it is––looking in a freezer cabinet in the supermarket––digging right down into the packs of frozen vegetables––looking at the broccoli––digging right down––that was you––only you were wearing a suit––you must’ve been coming home from work.
Chris: Yes.
Jenny: Picking up some shopping on the way home from work.
Chris: Yes.
Jenny: And also––
Chris: You’re right.
Jenny: I’m sure I’ve seen you––
Chris: Oh?
Jenny: Yes––standing at an upstairs window.
Chris: You’re right.
Jenny: Because when you opened the door I thought to myself: I’ve seen that face before––in the supermarket or something––or standing at an upstairs window looking a bit sad.
Chris: Can I take your coat?
Jenny: What?
Chris: Your coat.
Jenny: Oh no. I can’t stay. I’m working. (Slight pause.) I did want to talk to your wife, though.
Chris: I’ll call her.
Jenny: No––please don’t raise your voice. It frightens me.
Chris: Well in that case I’ll go and find her.
He goes. Jenny waits. She takes out a mirror and examines her face. The other two come back and watch her in silence. Then:
Clair: You wanted to talk to me?
Jenny: Yes.
Clair: What about?
Jenny: Mmm?
Clair: What about?
Jenny: You sound surprised that I want to talk to you, but the fact is we’re neighbours, and even if your house is much bigger than my tiny flat, we still––or at least I imagine we do––still care about the same things: street lighting, one-way systems, noise levels and so on. Not only that, but we’re both women––which means––well I hope it does––that unlike men we can hopefully define our territory without having to piss on it first.
Clair: Do I know you?
Jenny: I’m Jenny. I’ve told you who I am. We’re neighbours. You’ve probably seen me getting into my car––or––like your husband over there––watched me in the mornings taking off my uniform when I’ve driven back totally exhausted from the hospital at a time when most people are getting up and listening to the radio while they have their breakfast. In fact I could probably fall asleep there and then, but what I like to do instead is curl up in a chair with a nice piece of toast or a nice egg and watch one of those old black-and-white films on TV. Today for example there was the one where Humphrey Bogart pretends to be in love with Audrey Hepburn but ends up really loving her––really and truly loving her. After that––well you’ve probably heard––I like to play the piano for a bit. I’m not too bad at playing the piano––I took it quite seriously as a child––and I always warm up with scales and things like that––but the funny thing is, is that although I can get all the notes and understand just how intensely the composer must’ve imagined it, there’s no life to my playing. Emotionally it’s dead. Because you know what it’s like when the sun shines on the TV screen so the picture disappears and all you see is the glass surface of it? Well that’s what my playing’s like––hard and colourless. I’m not saying that if you heard me in the street on a summer’s day when I had the windows open you wouldn’t think ‘Oh––exquisite.’ But if you stopped and began to listen––began to really really listen––then the expression on your face would turn––oh yes––believe me––to dread––the same look I see on a patient’s face when they’re told that the tumour growing in their lungs has now spread to the brain––a kind of hardening––here––round the eyes––because of course once that point’s been reached then death––well I’m sure you both know this––is inevitable. But listen: I didn’t come here to talk about my piano playing.
Clair: Oh?
Jenny: Of course not.
Chris: Then why have you––?
Jenny: Yes?
Chris: Then why have you––?
Jenny: Yes? Come? Why have I come?
Chris: Exactly.
Clair: To talk to me.
Chris: Mmm?
Clair: To talk to me.
Jenny: That’s right.
Chris: I’ll take your coat.
Jenny: No. Keep away.
Chris: I’m sorry?
Jenny: I said: keep away from me.
She smiles. Slight pause. To Clair:
Let me explain. I work hard. I get tired. I’m finding it difficult to sleep. My husband’s gone to war. Not to kill. Of course not. He’s a doctor. He has a gun––because all soldiers have guns––but you’d laugh if you saw the tiny tiny gun they give to doctors––no use at all for killing people––not the large numbers of people you have to kill in a war. It’s a secret war. I can’t tell you where it is, or I’d be putting lives at risk. But I can tell you that what they’re doing now, in the secret war, is they’re attacking a city––pulverising it, in fact––yes––turning this city––the squares, the shops, the parks, the leisure centres and the schools––turning the whole thing into a fine grey dust. Because––and I have my husband’s word for this––everybody in that city has to be killed. Not by him. Of course not. He’s a doctor. But all the same the city has to be pulverised so that the boys––our boys––can safely go in and kill the people who are left––the people, I mean, still clinging on to life. (Slight pause.) Because it’s amazing how people can cling on to life––I’m a nurse––I see it every day––I see people cling on to life almost every day––and it’s the same––according to my husband––in this city: people in all sorts of unexpected places, clinging on to life. So the boys––what the boys have to do is they have to go in and kill the people clinging on to life. And just to make things clear, they’ve got blue cards, and on the cards, that’s what it says: kill. And I know what you’re thinking: you’re thinking it must be pretty easy to kill people who are simply clinging on to life––any fool could do that, you’re thinking––it must be like––what?––going round your house before you go away on holiday––pulling the plugs out. But no––ah––well––no––because––you see––and I have my husband’s word for this––the people clinging on to life are the most dangerous people of all. (Slight pause.) Say you’re one of the boys––and you’re patrolling a street and you notice an open hatch––and the hatch leads to a drain––so you go into the drain––you go into the drain because you think: hmm––perhaps there’s life in this drain––perhaps there are people clinging on to life in this drain. And yes –– listen –– sounds –– scratching –– sucking sounds––signs of life in the dark––because it’s pretty dark––of course it is––down there––deep under the city––in the drain. So you drop your goggles over your eyes and you can see––yes––actually see––according to my husband––in the dark––you can see the whole grey-green world of the drain using your goggles in the dark. (Slight pause.) And yes––look––here are the signs––here are the signs of people clinging on to life: rags, blood, coffee cups––and the stink of course––I’m a nurse––I smell it every day––the particular stink people make when they’re clinging and clinging on to life. And there they are! ‘Suddenly’, like it says in a book, there they are: a bright green woman with a bright grey baby at her breast––right there at the end of the drain––sucking––that was the sound you heard––a woman giving suck. (Slight pause.) So the boy thinks: (without characterizing) ‘Hmm, fuck this, fuck this you bitch. I can’t just––well––kill. I can’t kill a woman with a baby at her breast you cunt, you fucking bitch. Hmm, I know what I’ll do: I’ll get out my blue card and I’ll check the rules, I’ll see what it says about this, about mothers and their babies, in the rules.’ So he reaches for his blue card to check the rules and that’s when they’re on him. Angry fuckers clinging to life in the drain. Angry and unscrupulous perpetrators of terror who’ll stop at nothing to stay alive––use a mother and her baby simply to stay alive. A brick splits the soldier’s skull. And the last thing the baby sees as its mothers uses her finger to slip its mouth off her nipple is a serrated kitchen knife––and I have my husband’s word for this––a small knife with a stainless serrated blade being used to cut the soldier’s heart out––d’you see? (Slight pause.) I said: d’you see?
Clair: Well…
Jenny: Do you?
Clair: Yes––of course––well no––see what?
Chris: See what exactly?
Jenny: I’m not talking to you. Keep out of it.
Clair: See what, Jenny?
Jenny: How difficult it is to sleep.
Clair: Oh?
Jenny: How difficult it is––yes––for me to sleep in the daytime with all this on my mind when your children are running up and down shouting and screaming. D’you see?
Clair (faint laugh): What––d’you want me to lock them indoors?
Jenny: Would you?
Clair: What?
Jenny: Would you lock them indoors?
Clair: Of course not. Of course we wouldn’t lock our children indoors. Would we?
Chris: Of course not.
Jenny: Where are they now then?
Chris: They’re playing. They’re playing in the playroom.
Clair: That’s right: they’re playing in the playroom.
Jenny: Locked in?
Clair: No.
Jenny: Locked in the playroom?
Clair: No.
Slight pause. Clair and Chris exchange a glance and chuckle. Softly:
What makes you think we lock our children in the playroom, Jenny? The playroom doesn’t even have a key.
Chris: It doesn’t have a lock, let alone a key.
Clair: I think it has a lock.
Chris: Does it?
Clair: I think it does––yes––have a lock. But the point is––Jenny––
Chris: I’ll go and look.
Clair: What?
Chris: You’ve made me curious. I’ll go and look.
He goes. Slight pause.
Clair (lowering voice): I’m afraid he’s got like this since he lost his job. He’s bored and he’s always looking for things to do. That’s why he wanted to take your coat. To feel useful. And when he brought it back to you, he wouldn’t’ve just handed you the coat––oh no––he’s started holding my coat up and expecting me to slip my arm gratefully into the sleeve, like some character out of those old films you talked about. (Smiles.) And of course being a man he makes them play these games––these horrible noisy games––make them scream––shout out––shriek––tosses them into the air––pretends––I hate it––I can’t watch––to drop them on their heads––when they’d rather––obviously––watch TV or a blackbird––well, wouldn’t you? ––building its nest. You’re right, Jenny––we’re women––we don’t have to bang our fists on the table to make a point and the point you’re making is a fair one. And the fact that summer’s coming––obviously––makes it even worse. Because if you shut your windows, you won’t be able to breathe, and if you open them––because I do understand this––even when the shouting and screaming stops––if it stops––instead of going to sleep, you’ll lie there waiting and waiting for it to start again, even if it never does––a kind of torture, really. (Smiles.) I don’t know what the solution is, Jenny. I can ask my husband––what––to cut his toenails––I can turn away my head if I don’t want to be kissed (although of course that’s more dangerous) ––but what I can’t do––Jenny––is ask him not to play with his own children––in the daytime––when he has no job––in his own garden.
Jenny: What then?
Clair: Mmm?
Jenny: What can you do?
Clair: There’s nothing I can do. I’m very sorry.
Chris comes back, laughing.
Chris: Incredible.
Clair: What is?
Chris: They are locked in.
Clair: What d’you mean?
Chris: You were right: there is a lock––they’ve locked themselves in––they’ve found a key.
Clair: What key?
Chris: Well they must’ve found one.
Clair: What did you say to them?
Chris: Well I told them to unlock the door immediately.
Jenny: They’ve found a key?
Chris: I can only think it was under the carpet. They must’ve pulled up the carpet and found the key––yes.
Jenny (laughs): Devils.
Chris: Yes.
Clair: What did you say to them?
Chris: I’ve told you: I asked them to come out. I asked them what they thought they were playing at. I asked them if they realized just how dangerous it was to pull up a carpet and lock themselves in a room. Because now, I said to them, now, even if you get the door unlocked, there’s no guarantee that you’ll be able get the door open, because it will jam against the carpet. You’ll be trapped, I said, you’ll be trapped in that playroom, and if either of you has an accident in there––cuts yourself, for example, and starts losing blood––then how will Mummy and Daddy be able to help you?
Slight pause.
Clair: What did they say?
Chris: Nothing.
Clair: You’re sure they’re in there?
Chris: Well of course they’re in there. The door’s locked.
Jenny: She means maybe they’ve locked the door from the outside then run away.
Chris: I know exactly what she means––I don’t need you to explain to me what she means––but the fact is, is I heard their voices and if they haven’t unlocked that door in another––(Looks at watch.) what shall we say? ––forty-five seconds? ––
He concentrates on his watch. The two women look at him. Ten seconds of this.
III
Chris exactly as he was, concentrating on his watch.
After ten seconds, Clair appears, in a light summer dress.
Clair: You look funny. What’re you doing?
Chris: Mmm? (Looks up.)
Clair: What’re you doing?
Chris: Funny?
Clair: Yes. What’re you doing?
Chris (smiles): You’ve been on that phone for over an hour.
Clair: Have I? Sorry. I’ve been talking to one of my writers. He’s inviting me to Lisbon. In October. Did you want to use the phone then?
Chris: October.
Clair: Yes––well––I say one of my writers, but it’s the same writer––the one I met at the train station––Mohamed? ––remember? ––he’d lost his child? Anyway he’s organising a conference––a conference about translation––and he’s asked me to give a paper.
Chris: Mohamed.
Clair: Yes––don’t you remember––last Christmas––he’d lost his little girl.
Slight pause.
Chris: Won’t it be hot?
Clair: I like the heat. You mean in Lisbon?
Chris: Yes.
Clair: I like the heat. You know that. (Slight pause.) Is something funny?
Chris: No.
Clair: Then what does that look mean?
Chris: It simply means I suddenly realise how much I love you.
Clair: Oh?
Chris: Yes.
Clair: You suddenly realise?
Chris: Yes.
Clair: Fuck off.
Chris: What?
Clair: I said: fuck off. You’re only saying you love me because you feel bad about yourself and you hope that saying you love me will make you feel like a better person than you really are.
Chris: On the contrary: I’m saying I love you because I feel good about myself. I have some very good news.
Clair: Oh?
Chris: Yes.
Clair: Is it about work?
Chris: Yes.
Clair: You’ve found a job.
Chris: Yes. (Slight pause.) I’ve found a job. Aren’t you happy for me?
Clair: I’m very happy for you. (Slight pause.) What’s wrong?
Chris: Kiss me.
Clair: No.
Chris: Hold my hand.
Clair: No––why? ––not now. (Slight pause.) It’s hot. (Slight pause.) Well anyway how did this happen?
Chris: Won’t you kiss me?
Clair: Not now. Not when it’s hot.
Chris: I thought you liked the heat.
Clair: What? I do like the heat. Of course I like the heat. But not being kissed in it, that’s all.
Chris: In which case I’m sorry.
Clair: Don’t apologise. Impose your will.
Chris: What?
Clair: Impose your will.
Slight pause.
Chris: You mean force you to kiss me?
Clair (laughs): How could you force me to kiss you?
Chris: I could come over to you. I could force you.
Clair: Oh
Chris: Yes.
Clair: How will you do that?
Chris: I’ll show you. I’ll come over to you. I’ll make you. It’s simple.
Clair: Is it?
Chris: It’s really very simple: I’ll come over to you and I’ll force you to kiss me.
Clair: Go on then.
Chris: If that’s what you want.
Clair: Go on then.
Chris: Is that what you want?
Clair: Why should I want that? What kind of woman would want that?
He doesn’t move.
Jeanette?
Chris: Who?
Clair: Jeanette?
Slight pause.
Chris: Is that what you want?
Clair: It’s no good asking me what I want, you have to impose your will. You have to impose your will or you’ll be (snaps fingers) out, you’ll be (snaps fingers) out of that plate-glass door before you’ve even arranged our photos on your desk. Because the world has changed––oh yes––and you’ll have to be much stronger than this.
Chris: I am much stronger than this.
Clair: Then prove it.
A slight pause. He goes over to her. He touches her face, touches her hair. She doesn’t react but she doesn’t resist. At the last moment he goes to kiss her, but she twists her head violently away.
No! (Smiles.) And anyway how did this happen, how did all of this happen? How did you come to get this job or whatever it is –– mmm?
Chris: It’s quite a long story, as a matter of fact. And I can’t remember if I told you what happened at the end of last year but at the end of last year when the restructuring began, Jeanette got herself voted onto the board and the first thing she did in her new capacity as executive member was to quite unexpectedly force Bobby Williams––I think I told you this ––to resign. And early in the New Year perhaps I didn’t mention that Bobby was found dead in a hotel room in Paris where he’d told his family he was going for a job interview.
Well soon after the funeral in––hmm, when was that? ––March? ––I’d gone down to the supermarket one evening to buy meat and because I couldn’t find the quantity of meat I wanted in the pre-packed section––I mean in the plastic boxes where they put the meat on the little absorbent mats––I had to go to the meat counter and there was something very familiar about the man behind the meat counter and it turned out we’d been at school together. I know––yes––incredible. I didn’t know who he was, but he recognised me straight way, he said, ‘I can see you don’t remember me, but I know who you are, I recognised you straight away, you’re Christopher, we went to the same school, it’s the hat.’ I said, ‘How d’you mean––that hat?’ He said, ‘No one recognises me in this hat.’ So he took off the hat––one of those white muslin trilby things they make them wear in the supermarket and I concentrated on his eyes and I realised there was in fact something really familiar about this person’s eyes. So I said to him, ‘Yes, you’re right, I do remember you, but I’m sorry, even without the hat I don’t remember your name.’ So he goes, ‘You don’t have to remember it: my name’s right here.’ And what he meant of course was he was wearing a name badge and on the badge was ‘Sam’. Of course. Sam. Sam from school. Jesus Christ. So I asked him how things were going––how life was treating him––which was really stupid because I could see that life was treating him like shit: wearing a badge, dressed in a stupid hat––but no––on no––life was treating him well, he said––the pay and conditions were well above average––there was a friendly atmosphere and generous discounts for staff––job security––good prospects––he’d no complaints––what about myself? So I explained to him that I was…well… what’s the word…(Bows head.) Hmm.
Slight pause. Lifts head.
He’s changed into this navy-blue tracksuit and we’re sitting in this pub and he buys me a drink and he says, ‘You probably don’t remember the day you spat on me––spat all over my clothes––spat all over my face––cornered me in the classroom with that friend of yours and spat on me. You probably don’t remember that, Christopher. You probably don’t remember spitting on my hair. Cheers.’ (Bows head.)
Slight pause. Head still bowed.
We’re sitting in the pub, we’ve had a few drinks, there’s me, there’s Sam, and now there’s Sam’s friend Phil who works in the warehouse, drives a fork-lift. Who’s your friend, says Phil. This, says Sam, is my old friend Christopher from school, done very well for himself, lost his job, arsehole, scuse my French. Oh, says Phil, sorry to hear it mate, seen Indy? Not here yet? Maybe it’s the flight, says Sam, maybe there’s fog, where’s she coming from? Abu Dhabi, says Phil, fucked if there’s fog there, what’s she playing at? Give her a chance, says Sam, beautiful girl like that.
Slight pause. Lifts head.
Okay––listen––I’m on my own––I’m in the pub––I’ve had a few drinks––Indy walks in––I know it’s her from the logo on her jacket––the skirt––the works––the little bag on wheels––Indy, I say to her, Phil’s gone––I’m really sorry but he wouldn’t wait. Beg your pardon? says Indy––who are you? Where’s Phil? What’s going on? So I try to explain––about the meat––about Sam from school––his eyes––the white hat––treating him well––no complaints––and she’s looking at me––that’s right––like that––the way you’re looking at me now––the same disdain––this girl Indy––the same disdain––the way she looks at the men in business class when they order champagne––touch her arm and order champagne for the girls they’ve left their wives for––silver-haired men watching the river turn to threads––cities to maps––whole oceans to a field of sparks––utter contempt ––yes––like that––like you––that look––BECAUSE WHAT IS IT EXACTLY YOU’RE TRYING TO SAY TO ME?
Silence.
Clair: Look. I’m just going to Lisbon for a few days. It won’t be till October. I don’t despise you. Of course I don’t. And why should you care about the opinion of a complete stranger in a pub? It’s not as if you’ll ever see her again.
Chris: No.
Clair: Is it?
Chris: No.
Clair: Will you?
Chris: No. (Slight pause.) Jesus Christ, no, I hope not.
Clair (smiles): Then stop thinking about it.
Chris: I’m not thinking about it.
Clair: Good––because you should stop thinking about it.
Chris: Well I’m not.
Slight pause.
Clair: I’m so happy for you.
Chris: Oh?
Clair: It’s such wonderful news.
Chris: Yes.
Clair: You’ve changed completely.
Chris: Yes. What? Have I?
Clair: Yes, you’ve completely changed. You’re much more…
Chris: Am I?
Clair: Of course you are.
Chris: More what?
Clair: More confident.
Chris: Am I?
Clair: Of course you are. Look at you.
Chris: More confident.
Clair: Yes. Look at you. Much more confident. You’re a different man.
Slight pause: he bows his head.
Well don’t you feel like a completely different man?
Chris: Yes.
Clair: Your whole attitude’s changed.
Chris: Yes.
Clair: Even the way you’re standing.
Chris: Yes.
Pause. His head remains bowed.
Yes I suppose you’re / right.
Clair: Because let’s face it: you’ve been impossible. You’ve stormed round this house shouting and slamming doors ever since Christmas. I close all the windows, but even then––well as you know, even then the neighbours turn up here complaining they can’t sleep –– and I can see them looking at the children, wondering if there are bruises under their dressing-up clothes. When I’ve tried to work you’ve sat at the other end of the table writing shopping lists, or stood behind me, criticising my choice of words. You’ve almost stopped being interested in sex––and when you have been interested, it’s felt like a business opportunity, or a bank loan––forgive me––arranged over the phone. But now––
Chris: Yes.
Clair: But now––
Chris: You’re right.
Clair: But now––
Chris: Now what?
Clair: Because I’d been dreading summer, but now your whole attitude’s changed.
Chris: Even the way I’m standing.
Clair: Yes.
Chris: Even the way the trees look. Even the roses have changed.
Clair: Yes. Even the forget-me-nots.
Chris: You know what we ought to do.
Clair: What’s that?
Chris: We ought to celebrate. We ought to all get in the car and celebrate. We ought to all drive up the motorway into the oncoming traffic and celebrate. Don’t you think? Or I know what: invite someone round.
Clair: Who?
Chris: People––people we know––friends. Bobby for example.
Clair: What d’you mean: Bobby?
Chris: Bobby––Bobby Williams––invite him round to celebrate––eh? Get him to bring Jeanette.
Slight pause.
Clair (laughs): I don’t think that’s funny.
Chris: He’s a friend. He’s someone we know.
Clair (laughs): Stop it.
Chris: Because there are number of things, sweetheart, I don’t quite understand––and some of them are things I’ll never understand––and I’m quite happy for there to be some things I’ll never understand––but one of the things I don’t understand but that I really would like to understand is why you say that it’s hot. Because––well––what with the trees and so on––what with the shade and the air––because I can feel it––moving through the house––see what I mean? (Slight pause.) You see what I mean about the heat? You see what I mean about not wanting to be kissed?
Clair (laughs): Who doesn’t want to be kissed?
Chris: You don’t.
Clair (laughs): What makes you say that?
Chris: Well do you?
Clair (laughs): What? Want to be kissed?
Chris: Do you?
Clair: It’s no good asking.
Chris: Mmm?
Clair: It’s no good asking me. (Slight pause.) It’s no good asking a woman if she wants/to be kissed.
Chris: Well shall I assume that you do, then? Shall I come over to you? Shall I assume –– mmm? ––that that’s what you want? (Slight pause.) Listen: I’m going to assume that that’s what you want.
Clair: Go on then.
Chris: I’m going––you’re right––to impose my will.
Clair: Go on then.
He doesn’t move. Slight pause.
Chris: Are you crying? Why are you crying? Don’t cry. Why are you crying?
Clair: BECAUSE I AM ANGRY.
On this line, music in the distance from Jenny’s flat: Schubert, ‘Moments Musicaux’, No.3 in F minor. Pause. The music plays.
Chris: I don’t understand. You were laughing. Just a moment ago you were laughing. (Slight pause.) Bruises? Why did you say that? Why would anyone think we’d harm our children? We love our children––love’s what brought them into the world. Well didn’t it––didn’t it?
Pause. Music continues.
You’re being unreasonable.
Clair (wiping her eyes): Where’re you going?
Chris: I’m going to watch TV.
Clair: I thought you wanted to celebrate.
Chris: I’m going to hoover then I’m going to watch TV.
Clair: But you haven’t even told me what the job is.
  He looks back at her for a moment, then goes, leaving her alone. A few more seconds and the piece of music, which has began in the minor, comes to an end in the major.
IV
Chris is listening to a girl of what? 9 or 10? Reciting poems. The girl wears a coat over a nurse’s uniform, exactly like Jenny in Scene II.
On stage is a concert grand piano, with the lid closed.
Pause.
Chris (smiles): Go on.
Girl:
There once was a pianist called Jo
Who played every piece far too slow.
  When she got to the end
  She would turn to a friend
And say: ‘You don’t have to tell me. I know.’
Pause.
Chris: Go on.
Girl:
There once was a girl called Jo Gupta
Who slept with a famous conductor.
  But her friends were naïve
  And just wouldn’t believe
A famous conductor had fucked her.
Pause.
Chris: Go on.
Girl:
There once was a child in a drain
Who longed for the sound of the rain.
  But when the storm broke
  The poor child awoke
In a stream of unbearable pain.
Slight pause. Chris chuckles. Girl smiles.
Chris: Who taught you that?
Girl: Mummy did.
Slight pause.
Chris: Take off your coat, sweetheart. You look hot. You can’t play the piano with your coat on.
Girl: I’m not going to play the piano.
Chris: Yes you are. You’re going to let me hear the piece you’re going to play Mummy when she comes home. Take off your coat. Come on.
  She unbuttons her coat. He takes it and holds it. Her uniform, though tiny, is not a ‘play’ uniform but a precise copy of that worn by Jenny.
How are those patients today? How’s Charlie?
Girl: Charlie’s lost a lot of blood.
Chris: I hope not.
Girl: Now he’s on a drip.
Chris: I hope it’s not all over the playroom carpet, sweetheart, like it was last time. (Slight pause.) Why are you wearing a coat anyway?
Girl: We were outside.
Chris: Oh?
Girl: Yes, we were watching a blackbird build its nest.
Chris: That’s nice.
Girl: It sang to us.
Chris: That’s very nice, only I don’t think you were watching a blackbird build its nest. I don’t think blackbirds make nests––sweetheart––in October. I think they perch on TV aerials––I think they hop across the grass keeping their legs together and stand suddenly very still, with their heads tipped to the side––but I don’t think they make nests.
Girl: We saw it. We both saw it. It had moss in its beak.
Chris: Then how did it sing? (Slight pause.) October is when the leaves change colour, not when birds build their nests––mmm? Aren’t you collecting pretty leaves at school? Aren’t you getting out nice bright paints and printing leaf-shapes onto sheets of white paper? Eh? (Smiles.) Aren’t your teachers explaining about the seasons? Haven’t they told you how the earth leans away from the sun? (Slight pause.) What about conkers? When I was your age my coat pockets were full of them––but yours––well…
  He’s still holding her coat. He reaches towards one of the pockets. She makes a tiny move as if to stop him, then checks herself. He notices this, meets her eyes for a moment, smiles, then pushes his hand into the pocket.
What’s this, sweetheart? What’s this in your pocket?
  He withdraws his hand: there’s a red sticky substance on his fingers. He lifts his fingers to his nose and sniffs––or perhaps tastes.
Girl: It was Charlie.
Chris: What was Charlie?
Girl: The blood. It was Charlie.
Chris: It’s no good blaming Charlie. Charlie is too small.
Girl: He’s not too small to be bad. You should punish him.
Chris: He’s not bad.
Girl: Hit him.
Chris: Don’t talk like that.
Girl: Punish him. Hit him.
Chris: Hey hey hey––I said I don’t want to hear you talk like that. Understood?
  He wipes his fingers on the coat and drops the coat on the ground.
Let me hear your piece, sweetheart.
Girl: And he opens doors.
Chris: Does what?
Girl: He is bad. He opens doors. He found Mummy’s writing.
Chris: You mean her work. Well I hope you’ve made it tidy.
Girl: Not work––writing. She’s been writing in a secret diary. He opened her wardrobe and he found a secret diary under her shoes.
  Slight pause.
Chris: Well I hope you haven’t been reading it.
Girl: Charlie can’t read.
Chris: I’m not talking about Charlie. (Slight pause.) You do know that it’s wrong to read somebody’s secret diary. (Slight pause.) Think how you’d feel if somebody read your secret diary.
Girl: If I had a secret diary no one would ever find it.
Chris: But what if they did find it? What if they read your secret thoughts.
Girl: I don’t have any secret thoughts. (Slight pause.) I want my coat.
Chris: Mmm?
Girl: I want my coat back.
Chris: Your coat is dirty, sweetheart. Look at it.
Girl: I want it back. I’m cold.
Chris: You can’t be cold. You’re indoors. It’s October and the heating’s on. (Slight pause.) Look, if I let you wear your coat, will you play your piece for Mummy when she wakes up?
Girl: Mummy’s not here. Mummy’s at a conference.
Chris: Will you?
Girl: Mummy’s not here.
The girl hesitates, then takes a step towards the coat.
Chris (stopping her verbally.): Uh-uh. (Smiles.)
He picks up the coat himself and holds it up for her to put on. She comes over, tries to get her arm in the sleeve, but gets in a muddle.
(Smiles.) Wrong arm, sweetheart.
They try again and again get in a muddle.
Girl: I can’t get my arm in.
Chris: What’s wrong?
Girl: I can’t get my arm in the right place.
Chris: What? ––come on––you’re/not trying.
Girl: I can’t get my arm into the sleeve. It’s the way you’re/holding it.
Chris: Alright, alright, just do it yourself. JUST DO THE FUCKING THING YOURSELF.
  He moves away, turns his back. The girl calmly puts on the coat and calmly buttons it. Then:
Girl: Daddy?
Chris: What?
Girl: Shall I play you my piece now?
Chris (begins very soft and fast): Listen, sweetheart, there’s something you ought to know: Mummy came home last night––she came home from Lisbon in the middle of the night––well––like it says in a book––‘unexpectedly’ ––and went straight to bed. She’s here now––yes––that’s right––in the house––but I’ve left her asleep because she was so tired. (Laughs.) You should’ve seen her. She was so worn out that she didn’t even to into your room, she didn’t even have the strength (she said) to push the hair back behind your ear and kiss you, the way she normally does. Not because she was unhappy––you’re not to think that Mummy was unhappy––because––well––in fact she was laughing. That’s how I knew she was home. I heard Mummy laughing out in the street––and there she was––under the street-lamp––sharing a joke––something about crocodiles––with the taxi driver out in the street. (Laughs.) Oh, it was windy! You should’ve seen all the leaves swirling round the shiny black ta Clair (turns to him): Thank you.
Chris: Oh?
Clair: Thank you––yes––for letting me sleep.
Slight pause.
Chris: So how was your conference?
Clair: Mmm?
Chris: The conference––in Lisbon––how was it?
Clair: Oh it was a marvelous conference. People from all over the world converged on Lisbon to talk about books. Can you imagine? Authors read passages from their books and talked about that what had inspired them. And the translators talked about the authors and how hard it was to translate the authors and the authors spoke very highly of the translations and were even, some of them, translators themselves, which meant that they had interesting things to say not just about writing but about translating too. And after lunch we’d all go off into little rooms––split up I mean––and go off into little rooms––those funny little rooms they have in Lisbon––take some particular topic––poetry––politics––and really pull it apart––really examine poetry or politics under the knife––put these things really and truly under the knife––just five to six of us in a little room really concentrating––I can’t explain what it was like.
Chris: You’ve just told me what it was like.
Clair (smiles): No. Because it wasn’t like that at all, you see.
Pause.
And my paper went well.
Chris: Good.
Clair: Went really well. My hand shook at that beginning, but everybody paid attention––even laughed at my jokes.
Chris: You? Jokes?
Clair: Yes––because I was nervous––obviously––about the jokes––but the jokes worked.
Chris: What jokes? Tell me one.
xi under the orange light. And when she came through the front door––still laughing, by the way––guess what; two enormous chestnut leaves followed her right into the house. (Laughs.) I said ‘Well this is a surprise: I didn’t expect you back till the middle of next week!’
Girl: And what did Mummy say to that?
Chris: Mmm?
Girl: And what did Mummy say to that?
Chris: I’ve told you, sweetheart: Mummy was tired––she didn’t say anything.
Girl: Not even when the leaves came in?
Chris: What leaves?
Girl: You said two enormous leaves came into the house.
Chris: Well yes they did––two enormous leaves did come into the house––but Mummy didn’t even see them, sweetheart, because of the way she was clinging on to me.
Girl: Was she afraid?
Chris (laughs): Of course she wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t that kind of clinging.
Girl: Maybe she was afraid that someone would find her secret diary, and that’s why she came back home.
Slight pause. In the distance an alarm clock starts ringing.
Chris: Why don’t you run off and play.
Girl: That’s Mummy’s clock.
Chris: I know it’s Mummy’s clock––and that’s why I want you to run off and play.
Girl: I want to see her.
Chris: You can see her after we’ve talked.
Girl: What are you going to talk about?
Chris: We won’t know, sweetheart, what we’re going to talk about until we start talking. Now off you go.
Girl: The diary?
Chris: Of course not the diary. The diary––remember? ––is a secret. Kiss?
He bends down. She kisses his cheek.
Good girl.
Girl: What about the piano?
Chris: The piano can wait. Now off you go.
The girl runs off. The alarm clock gets louder and after a few moments Clair appears, holding the clock, which is still ringing. She puts it down on the piano, which makes the sound even louder, and watches it until the ringing stops.
Clair (turns to him): Thank you.
Chris: Oh?
Clair: Thank you––yes––for letting me sleep.
Slight pause.
Chris: So how was your conference?
Clair: Mmm?
Chris: The conference––in Lisbon––how was it?
Clair: Oh it was a marvelous conference. People from all over the world converged on Lisbon to talk about books. Can you imagine? Authors read passages from their books and talked about that what had inspired them. And the translators talked about the authors and how hard it was to translate the authors and the authors spoke very highly of the translations and were even, some of them, translators themselves, which meant that they had interesting things to say not just about writing but about translating too. And after lunch we’d all go off into little rooms––split up I mean––and go off into little rooms––those funny little rooms they have in Lisbon––take some particular topic––poetry––politics––and really pull it apart––really examine poetry or politics under the knife––put these things really and truly under the knife––just five to six of us in a little room really concentrating––I can’t explain what it was like.
Chris: You’ve just told me what it was like.
Clair (smiles): No. Because it wasn’t like that at all, you see.
Pause.
And my paper went well.
Chris: Good.
Clair: Went really well. My hand shook at that beginning, but everybody paid attention––even laughed at my jokes.
Chris: You? Jokes?
Clair: Yes––because I was nervous––obviously––about the jokes––but the jokes worked.
Chris: What jokes? Tell me one.
Clair: What?
Chris: Tell me joke.
Clair: Not that kind of joke––not a joke you ‘tell’ ––just ways of putting things––phrasing things––and Mohamed was pleased––he came up to me afterwards––in fact he sought me out––
Chris: Oh?
Clair: Yes––sought me out––singled me out I mean in the cafeteria and in front of everyone he knocked me into a table.
Chris: Hurt you?
Clair: No no––just rushed over to thank me and knocked me backwards into a table. He was so clumsy––this big bear of a man knocking me off my feet––I couldn’t help smiling myself.
Chris: Like you are now?
Clair: What？
Chris: Like you are now––smiling to yourself like you are now?
Clair: Of course I’m not smiling to myself. I’m smiling at you.
Chris: Oh? Are you? Why?
Clair: Of course I’m smiling at you. You’re my husband. You’re my husband, and––What are you doing?
Chris: Sorry?
Clair: You backed away.
Chris: I did what?
Clair: You backed away.
Chris: No.
Clair: I stepped towards you and you backed away. You know you did. (Slight pause.) Why did you back away from me?
Pause.
Look. I’m here. I’m home. What more do you want from me? Try to understand. I open my door and what do I see? A man I very much respect. He wants to talk. He says he has a confession to make. What d’you mean, Mohamed, I say, a confession, can’t it wait. No, it can’t wait, he has to talk to me now, right now. Alright, Mohamed, let’s go downstairs, I say, let’s go down to the bar together, let’s talk there. I can’t, says Mohamed, I can’t say what I have to say to you in the bar. So––look––I’m not stupid––I tell Mohamed that in that case he’ll have to wait till morning because it’s late, I’m tired, and I want to go to bed. No, says Mohamed, I have to come in, you have to let me talk, there’s something I need to confess, don’t close the door. So what can I do? D’you see? Mmm? Try to understand. Because this is a man that I very much respect––because of what he’s suffered––and written about. So I let him into my room and he sits down in front of the window which I’ve kept open because of the heat and he says to me my child is dead. I say what d’you mean Mohamed, your child is dead? He says she’s been knocked over by a car, she’s dead, I just had a call from my sister-in-law. You mean the little girl I saw at the station? Yes, he says––Laela–– she was crossing the road to post a letter. And he just sits there in front of the window looking down at his hands.
Slight pause.
Chris: Waiting for you to comfort him.
Clair: What?
Chris: He was waiting for you to/comfort him.
Clair: Well obviously––yes––I thought––of course I did––thought about going to him––putting my arm around him––thought about attempting to comfort him. But that’s when he looked up at me. He looked up at me and what was strange was that his eyes––which were grey––had always been grey––were grey at the station––were grey in the cafeteria––his eyes had turned––and I don’t mean the light––I mean the eyes themselves––had turned black. His eyes had turned black like the inside of a poppy and he said to me, I still haven’t confessed. I said, look Mohamed, you’re upset, you don’t need to confess, you need to go to your sister-in-law, you need to try and sleep, let’s see if there’s a pharmacy still open. He said to me, no no no I still haven’t confessed. And this time he frightened me.
Chris: You should’ve asked him to leave.
Clair: Of course, but how? I said, you’ve got nothing to confess, Mohamed, it was an accident. Oh yes, he said, it was an accident, but listen Clair, what you have to know, and what I didn’t tell you when we first met, is why I sent my little girl away. I sent her away because she got under my feet, because she stopped me writing, because she constantly interrupted my work, and sometimes, when I shouted at her, because she had interrupted my work, to ask for a drink, or to be read a story, her small body jerked back, he said, as if hit by a bullet. Me, he said, a writer, refusing my own child a story. Come on, Mohamed, I said, come on, we all get angry with our children, it’s normal. No, said Mohamed, nothing a writer does is normal, and besides that not what I’m confessing, because that is, as you say, something that is entirely human and banal. No, what I have to tell you is that the moment I finished speaking to my sister-in-law tonight, and put down the phone, I experienced––and the nearest thing to the word he used is ‘exaltation’ ––I experienced a secret exaltation, he said, as I realised that what had happened could only enhance my work. My child, you see, is like a log thrown into the fire, making the fire burn, he said, more brightly.
Pause.
Chris: Thrown into the fire.
Clair: That’s what he said––yes––like a piece of wood. So I was very angry then––with Mohamed. I told him I didn’t care how many people he’d killed in his never-ending fight for freedom and democracy, or how many ways he’d been tortured or how many prizes he’d won for describing it. I told him I was disgusted by what he called his exhilaration or his exaltation or whatever the fuck it was and I wanted him out––I wanted him to GET OUT OF MY ROOM.
Chris: And did he?
Clair: I’m sorry?
Chris: Did he get out of your room?
Pause. She looks away.
So you believed him.
Clair: Yes. No. Of course I did. Believed what?
Chris: That his child was dead.
Clair: Laela. Yes. He told me.
Chris: So she won’t be needing the diary then.
  Pause. She meets his eye. He smiles at her.
V
Jenny alone, wearing pink jeans and high-heeled shoes. She takes out a mirror and inspects her face. She puts away the mirror. She looks at the piano, whose lid is now up. She runs her fingers over the keyboard without making any sound.
Clair enters.
Jenny: It’s very nice here. I had no idea ––to be honest––it would be so nice inside your house. It’s warm––and surprisingly peaceful. You have such lovely things, like this piano. And I’ve just realised that now the leaves have gone, I can see my own windows. (Slight pause.) Oh––and this is for you.
She hands Clair a small parcel, which Clair begins to unwrap.
Clair: You’re right. It’s a nice house. It’s warm in every sense. We’re very happy here.
Pause.
Jenny: How’re your children?
Clair: Mmm?
Jenny: How’re your children?
Clair: They’re not bothering you, are they?
Jenny: What?
Clair: I said: they’re not bothering you––not keeping you awake.
Jenny: Oh no. I don’t hear them. Or if I do it makes me feel…well…Hmm.
Clair finishes unwrapping the present: a small serrated kitchen knife.
(Smiles.) I hope you like it. I thought it would be useful with small children.
Clair: Oh?
Jenny: To cut up their food.
Clair: You’re right. (Goes to kiss her.) Thank you.
Jenny: Careful! (Steps back.)
Clair: Mmm?
Jenny: The knife.
Clair: Of course. Sorry. (Points the knife away or puts it down.) Thank you, Jenny. (Kisses her.)
Slight pause.
Jenny: I haven’t seen your children.
Clair: Oh they’re probably racing up and down excitedly on their new bikes.
Jenny: What, with your husband?
Clair: Mmm?
Jenny: With your husband?
Clair: Oh no––my husband found a job––he’s working.
Jenny: What? At Christmas?
Clair: You sound surprised, but surely it’s not unusual. It’s not just doctors and soldiers, it’s not just nurses like yourself, Jenny, who work at Christmas -time. Commerce can’t stop any more than the course––isn’t this right? –– of some fatal disease. And while you and I are sitting in front of the fire like this, * unwrapping our gifts, people still need to buy things.
【*There is no fire. They are not sitting.】
Pause.
What’s wrong?
Jenny: I don’t know. Nothing feels right. Everything––don’t you think? ––seems awkward and artificial. I put these shoes on specially––but I’m not really comfortable in them––and if I’m honest, I don’t know why I’m wearing them. Even a normal conversation like this––with a person I like––because I certainly like you––don’t get me wrong––but even this––I don’t know why––seems strained. I don’t really know why I’m here at all.
Clair (smiles): You’re here, Jenny, because I invited you. And if your shoes feel uncomfortable––well––simple––take them off.
Jenny: You say your children are out on their bikes––but I can’t hear them––I didn’t see one single child when I walked here from my flat––nobody was out––it was so quiet––it was unnatural.
Clair: Christmas is always like that: everyone’s indoors with their families.
Jenny: It didn’t feel right. There were no smells in the air. People had wreaths on their front doors, but I couldn’t see anybody through the windows, even though they had lights flashing round window frames. And before I came out, I spoke to my husband and he just sounded angry.
Clair: May be he misses you.
Jenny: Well that’s not my fault.
  Christopher enters. He wears the outfit of a supermarket butcher’s assistant: a white hat with a brim, a white smock, and pinned to the smock a badge with his name: ‘Chris’.
Chris (kisses Clair on the cheek): Hello sweetheart. We have a guest.
Clair: This is Jenny.
Chris: Jenny. Of course. Hello.
Clair: How was work?
Chris: Totally mad. Sam’s off sick and Janine can’t tell a pig’s ear from a cow’s arsehole, scuse my French. (Chuckles.) But listen: we know each other.
Jenny: Yes.
Chris: Don’t we.
Jenny: Yes.
Chris: Wednesdays.
Jenny: That’s right.
Chris: Wednesday afternoons: minced steak––two hundred grams.
Jenny: Yes.
Chris: I find myself asking: who is it who’s eating those two hundred grams of minced steak.
Jenny: I am.
Chris: Not the dog then.
Jenny: I’m sorry?
Chris: Because 9 times out of 10 it’s the dog. Guaranteed.
Slight pause.
Clair: You should take off your hat.
Chris: Mmm?
Clair: Take off your hat. And don’t wear your badge indoors. We know who you are.
Chris: I’m Christopher. (Grins.)
Clair: Exactly. You’re my husband.
Chris: I’m Christopher. I’m her husband. And I want my present. I don’t want to take off my hat. I like my hat. I want my present.
Clair: What makes you think I’ve got you a present?
Chris: Well if she hasn’t got me a present I’ll break her fucking neck. (Chuckles.) Translate that into English––eh?
Clair: I’ll go and get it.
She goes. Pause.
Chris: How’s the war?
Jenny: Mmm?
Chris: The war. How’s the war?
Jenny: Oh, the war’s fine, thank you.
Chris: Going well?
Jenny: Mmm?
Chris: Going well, is it?
Jenny: I think so.
Slight pause.
Chris: And the enemy? How’s the enemy?
Jenny: Intractable.
Chris: Oh?
Jenny: Pretty intractable, yes.
Chris: Bastards.
Slight pause.
Are you comfortable in those shoes?
Jenny: What? Yes, I’m fine.
Chris: Because if you’re not comfortable / take them off.
Jenny: I’m absolutely fine. Thank you.
Clair enters with gift.
Clair: What is it?
Jenny: Nothing.
Clair: Is something wrong?
Jenny: Of course not––no––we were chatting.
Chris: What’s this then?
Jenny: Just chatting away.
Chris: I said what’s this?
Clair: Open it.
He takes the presents, opens it. It’s the diary from Scene I.
Chris: It’s a diary.
Clair: Yes.
Chris: But it’s been written in.
Clair: Yes.
Chris: Why’s it been written in?
He flicks through the diary, stops at a page, reads softly.
‘…a different person…to the person who is writing this now…’ Hmm.
He flicks through, reads softly.
‘…then I myself––this is what I imaged––could come…’ (Peers at word.) What’s this word?
Clair: Alive––come alive.
Chris: ‘…I myself––this is what I imaged––could come alive.’ Hmm.
Pause. He looks at her.
Clair: Go on.
Chris: Go on what?
Jenny: She means read it––don’t you.
Clair: Yes. Read it.
  Chris reads softly, finding the words not always easy to decipher, following them with his finger. He’s not a ‘good’ reader. He seems generally oblivious to the sense of what he’s reading.
Chris: ‘When I was young––much younger than now––a different person you might even say––to the person who is writing this now––and before I began to make my living from translation––taking refuge in it as one writer says “the way an alcoholic takes refuge in alcoholism” ––before that I truly believed there was…’ (Peers at word.) can’t read it.
Clair: A city.
Chris: A what?
Clair: A city.
Chris: ‘…truly believed there was’ ––that’s right––‘a city inside of me––a huge and varied city full of green squares, shops and churches, secret streets, and hidden doors leading to staircases that climbed to rooms full of light where there would be drops of rain on the windows, and where in each small drop the whole city would be seen, upside down. There would be industrial zones where elevated trains ran past the windows of factories and conference centres. There would be schools where, when there was a lull in the traffic, you could hear children playing. The season in the city would be distinct: hot summer nights when everyone slept with their windows open, or sat out on their balconies in their underwear, drinking beer from the fridge––and in winter, very cold mornings when snow had settled in courtyards and they showed the snow on TV and the snow on TV was the same snow out in the street, shovelled to the side to enable the inhabitants to get to work. And I was convinced that in this city of mine I would find an inex…’ (Peers at word.)
Clair: Inexhaustible.
Chris: ‘…an inexhaustible source of characters and stories for my writing. I was convinced that in order to be a writer I’d simply have to travel to this city––the one inside of me––and write down what I discovered there.’
Slight pause.
Clair: Go on.
Chris: ‘I knew it would be difficult to reach this city. It wouldn’t be like going on a planet to Marrakech, say, or Lisbon. I knew the journey could take days or even years quite possibly. But I knew that if I could find life in my city, and be able to describe life, the stories and characters of life, then I myself––this is what I imaged––could come alive. And I did reach my city. Yes. Oh yes. But when I reached it found it had been destroyed. The houses had been destroyed, and so had the shops. Minarets lay on the ground next to church steeples. What…balconies’? (Momentarily confused.) ‘ What balconies there were had dropped to the pavement. There were no children in the playgrounds, only coloured lines. I looked for inhabitants to write about, but there were no inhabitants, just dust. I looked for the people still clinging on to life––what stories they could tell! ––but even there––in the drains, the basements––in the underground railway system––there was nothing––nobody––just dust. And this grey dust, like the ash from a cigarette, was so fine it got into my pen and stopped the ink reaching the page. Could this really be all that was inside of me? I cried at first but then I pulled myself together and tried for a while then to invent. I invented…’ (Peers at word.) What?
Clair: Characters.
Chris: ‘…characters…invented characters…’ (Loses his place, finds it again.) ‘I invented characters and I put them in my city. The one I called Mohamed. The one I called the nurse––Jenny––she was funny. I invented a child too, I was quite pleased with the child. But it was a struggle. They wouldn’t come alive. The lived a little––but only the way a sick bird tortured by a cat lives in a shoebox. It was hard to make them speak normally––and their stories fell apart even as I was telling them. Sometimes I even…’ (Peers at word.) What’s this?
Clair: Dressed them up.
Chris: Mmm?
Clair: Dressed them––dressed / them up.
Chris: ‘Sometimes I even’ ––okay––‘dressed them up the way I used to dress my dolls when I was little. I put them in funny clothes but then I felt ashamed. And when they looked at me, they looked at me––like it says in a book––“accusingly”.’
The little girl appears, dressed exactly like Jenny: pink jeans, high-heeled shoes. She sits at the piano.
‘So I gave up on my city. I was no writer––that much was clear. I’d like to say how sad the discovery of my own emptiness made me, but the truth is I feel as I write this down nothing but relief.’
  He turns the pages looking for more text, but finds none. He closes the diary and looks at Clair.
What about me?
Clair: What about you?
Chris: Am I / invented too?
Clair: Why don’t you take off your hat now? What?
Chris: Me. Am I invented too?
Clair: No more than I am, surely. Take off your hat.
Jenny: Yes. Go on. Take it off.
Chris: Why?
Clair: Because it will be better.
  He slowly removes his hat.
You see: much better.
Chris: You think?
Clair: Much better. (To Jenny.) Don’t you agree?
Jenny: Oh yes. Yes. Much better like that.
Clair (to Girl): Play us your piece, sweetheart.
Jenny: Much much better like that.
  The Girl begins to play the Schubert movement heard in Scene III. She sets off confidently but get stuck at bar 3. She starts again but is soon in difficulty. The light begins to fade. She can’t get beyond bar 4.
Fin.