Every Good Boy Deserves Favor & Professional Foul

by Tom Stoppard

  MRS HOLLAR: (In Czech) Show me where it says I can’t listen to my own radio.

  (MAN 3 returns from the front door with MAN 6. MAN 6 enters the room saying:)

  MAN 6: (In Czech) I said don’t let him leave—I didn’t say bring him inside. (To ANDERSON in English.) Professor Anderson? I’m sorry your friend Mr Hollar has got himself into trouble.

  ANDERSON: Thank Christ—now listen to me—I am a professor of philosophy. I am a guest of the Czechoslovakian government. I might almost say an honoured guest. I have been invited to speak at the Colloquium in Prague. My connections in England reach up to the highest in the land—

  MAN 6: Do you know the Queen?

  ANDERSON: Certainly. (But he has rushed into that.) No, I do not know the Queen—but I speak the truth when I say that I am personally acquainted with two members of the government, one of whom has been to my house, and I assure you that unless I am allowed to leave this building immediately there is going to be a major incident about the way my liberty has been impeded by your men. I do not know what they are doing here, I do not care what they are doing here—

  MAN 6: Excuse me. Professor. There is some mistake. I thought you were here as a friend of the Hollar family.

  ANDERSON: I know Pavel Hollar, certainly.

  MAN 6: Absolutely. You are here as a friend, at Mrs Hollar’s request.

  ANDERSON: I just dropped in to—what do you mean?

  MAN 6: Mr Hollar unfortunately has been arrested for a serious crime against the State. It is usual for the home of an accused person to be searched for evidence, and so on. I am sure the same thing happens in your country. Well, under our law Mrs Hollar is entitled to have a friendly witness present during the search. To be frank she is entitled to two witnesses. So if, for example, an expensive vase is broken by mistake, and the police claim it was broken before, it will not just be her word against theirs. And so on. I think you will agree that’s fair.

  ANDERSON: Well?

  MAN 6: Well, my understanding is that she asked you to be her witness. (In Czech to MRS HOLLAR.) Did you ask him to be your witness?

  MRS HOLLAR: (In Czech) Yes, I did.

  MAN 6: (In English to ANDERSON) Yes. Exactly so. (Pause.) You are Mr Hollar’s friend, aren’t you?

  ANDERSON: I taught him in Cambridge after he left Czechoslovakia.

  MAN 6: A brave man.

  ANDERSON: Yes … a change of language … and culture …

  MAN 6: He walked across a minefield. In 1962. Brave.

  ANDERSON: Perhaps he was simply desperate.

  MAN 6: Perhaps a little ungrateful. The State, you know, educated him, fed him, for eighteen years. ‘Thank you very much—good-bye.’

  ANDERSON: Well he came back, in the Spring of sixty-eight.

  MAN 6: Oh yes.

  ANDERSON: A miscalculation.

  MAN 6: How do you mean?

  ANDERSON: Well, really … there are a lot of things wrong in England but it is still not ‘a serious crime against the State’ to put forward a philosophical view which does not find favour with the Government.

  MAN 6: Professor…. Hollar is charged with currency offences. There is a black market in hard currency. It is illegal. We do not have laws about philosophy. He is an ordinary criminal.

  (Pause.

  The radio commentary has continued softly. But in this pause it changes pitch. It is clear to ANDERSON, and to us, that something particular has occurred in the match. MAN 6 is listening.)

  (In English.) Penalty. (He listens for a moment.) For us, I’m afraid.

  ANDERSON: Yes, I can hear.

  (This is because it is clear from the crowd noise that it’s a penalty for the home side. MAN 6 listens again.)

  MAN 6: (In English) Broadbent—a bad tackle when Deml had a certain goal… a what you call it?—a necessary foul.

  ANDERSON: A professional foul.

  MAN 6: Yes.

  (On the radio the goal is scored. This is perfectly clear from the the crowd reaction.)

  Not good for you.

  (MAN 6 turns off the radio. Pause. MAN 6 considers ANDERSON.) So you have had a philosophical discussion with Hollar.

  ANDERSON: I believe you implied that I was free to go. (He stands up.) I am quite sure you know that Hollar visited me at my hotel last night. It was a social call, which I was returning when I walked into this. And furthermore, I understood nothing about being a witness—I was prevented from leaving. I only came to say hello, and meet Pavel’s wife, on my way to the football—

  MAN 6: (With surprise) So you came to Czechoslovakia to go to the football match, Professor?

  (This rattles ANDERSON.)

  ANDERSON: Certainly not. Well, the afternoon of the Colloquium was devoted to—well, it was not a condition of my invitation that I should attend all the sessions. (Pause.) I was invited to speak, not to listen. I am speaking tomorrow morning.

  MAN 6: Why should I know Hollar visited you at the hotel?

  ANDERSON: He told me he was often followed.

  MAN 6: Well, when a man is known to be engaged in meeting foreigners to buy currency—

  ANDERSON: I don’t believe any of that—he was being harassed because of his letter to Husak—

  MAN 6: A letter to President Husak? What sort of letter?

  ANDERSON: (Flustered) Your people knew about it—

  MAN 6: It is not a crime to write to the President—

  ANDERSON: No doubt that depends on what is written.

  MAN 6: You mean he wrote some kind of slander?

  ANDERSON: (Heatedly) I insist on leaving now.

  MAN 6: Of course. You know, your taxi driver has made a complaint against you.

  ANDERSON: What are you talking about?

  MAN 6: He never got paid.

  ANDERSON: Yes, I’m sorry but—

  MAN 6: You are not to blame. My officer told him to go.

  ANDERSON: Yes, that’s right.

  MAN 6: Still, he is very unhappy. You told him you would be five minutes you were delivering something—

  ANDERSON: How could I have told him that? I don’t speak Czech.

  MAN 6: You showed him five on your watch, and you did all the things people do when they talk to each other without a language. He was quite certain you were delivering something in your briefcase.

  (Pause.)

  ANDERSON: Yes. All right. But it was not money.

  MAN 6: Of course not. You are not a criminal.

  ANDERSON: Quite so. I promised to bring Pavel one or two of the Colloquium papers. He naturally has an interest in philosophy and I assume it is not illegal.

  MAN 6: Naturally not. Then you won’t mind showing me.

  (ANDERSON hesitates then opens the briefcase and takes out MCKENDRICK’s paper and his own and passes them over. MAN 6 takes them and reads their English titles.)

  ‘Ethical Fictions as Ethical Foundations’ … ‘Philosophy and the Catastrophe Theory’.

  (MAN 6 gives the papers back to ANDERSON.)

  MAN 6: You wish to go to the football match? You will see twenty minutes, perhaps more.

  ANDERSON: No. I’m going back to the university, to the Colloquium.

  MRS HOLLAR: (In Czech) Is he leaving?

  MAN 6: Mrs Hollar would like you to remain.

  ANDERSON: (To MRS HOLLAR) No, I’m sorry. (A thought strikes him.) If you spoke to the taxi driver you would have known perfectly well I was going to the England match.

  (MAN 6 doesn’t reply to this either in word or expression.

  ANDERSON closes his briefcase.

  The doorbell rings and MAN 3 goes to open the door.

  From the bedroom MAN 5 enters with a small parcel wrapped in old newspaper.)

  MAN 5: (In Czech) I found this, Chief, under the floorboards.

  (MAN 5 gives the parcel to MAN 6 who unwraps it to reveal a bundle of American dollars.

  MRS HOLLAR watches this with disbelief and there is an outburst.)

  MRS HOLLAR: (In Czech) He’s lying! (To ANDE
RSON.) It’s a lie—The door reopens for MAN 3. SACHA HOLLAR, aged ten, comes in with him. He is rather a tough little boy. He runs across to his mother, who is crying and shouting, and embraces her. It is rather as though he were a small adult comforting her.)

  ANDERSON: Oh my God … Mrs Hollar …

  (ANDERSON, out of his depth and afraid, decides abruptly to leave and does so. MAN 3 isn’t sure whether to let him go but MAN 6 nods at him and ANDERSON leaves.)

  7. INT. HOTEL CORRIDOR. EVENING

  ANDERSON approaches his room. He is worn out. When he gets to his door and fumbles with his key he realizes that he can hear a voice in the room next door to his. He puts his ear to this other door.

  GRAYSON: (Inside) Yes, a new top for the running piece—O.K.—Prague, Saturday.

  (GRAYSON speaks not particularly slowly but with great deliberation enunciating every consonant and splitting syllables up where necessary for clarity. He is, of course, dictating to a fast typist.)

  There’ll be Czechs bouncing in the streets of Prague tonight as bankruptcy stares English football in the face, stop, new par.

  (ANDERSON knocks on the door.)

  (Inside.) It’s open!

  (ANDERSON opens the door and looks into the room.

  Interior room. It is of course a room very like ANDERSON’s own room, if not identical. Its occupant, the man we had seen leave the room earlier is GRAYSON, a sports reporter from England. He is on the telephone as ANDERSON cautiously enters the room.) Make no mistake, comma, the four-goal credit which these slick Slovaks netted here this afternoon will keep them in the black through the second leg of the World Cup Eliminator at Wembley next month, stop. New par— (To ANDERSON.) Yes? (Into phone.) You can bank on it.

  ANDERSON: I’m next door.

  GRAYSON: (Into phone) —bank on it. New par— (To ANDERSON.) Look, can you come back? (Into phone.) But for some determined saving by third-choice Jim Bart in the injury hyphen jinxed England goal, we would have been overdrawn by four more when the books were closed, stop. Maybe Napoleon was wrong when he said we were a nation of shopkeepers, stop. Today England looked like a nation of goalkeepers, stop. Davey, Petherbridge and Shell all made saves on the line. New par.

  ANDERSON: Do you mind if I listen—I missed the match.

  (GRAYSON waves him to a chair. ANDERSON sits on a chair next to a door which is in fact a connecting door into the next room. Not ANDERSON’s own room but the room on the other side of GRAYSON’s room.)

  GRAYSON: (Into phone) Dickenson and Pratt were mostly left standing by Wolker, with a W, and Deml, D dog, E Edward, M mother, L London—who could go round the halls as a telepathy act, stop. Only Crisp looked as if he had a future outside Madame Tussaud’s—a.u.d.s.—stop. He laid on the two best chances, comma, both wasted by Pratt who skied one and stubbed his toe on the other, stop. Crisp’s, apostrophe s. comment from where I was sitting looked salt and vinegar flavoured …

  (ANDERSON has become aware that another voice is cutting in from the next room. The door between the two rooms is not quite closed. During GRAYSON’s last speech ANDERSON gently pushes open the door and looks behind him and realizes that a colleague of GRAYSON’s is also dictating in the next room.

  ANDERSON stands up and looks into the next room and is drawn into it by the rival report. This room belongs to CHAMBERLAIN.

  Interior CHAMBERLAIN’s room. CHAMBERLAIN on phone.)

  CHAMBERLAIN: Wilson, who would like to be thought the big bad man of the English defence merely looked slow-footed and slow-witted stop. Deml—D.E.M. mother L.—Deml got round him five times on the trot, bracket, literally, close bracket, using the same swerve, comma, making Wilson look elephantine in everything but memory, stop. On the fifth occasion there was nothing to prevent Deml scoring except what Broadbent took it on himself to do, which was to scythe Deml down from behind, stop. Halas scored from the penalty, stop.

  (ANDERSON sighs and sits down on the equivalent chair in CHAMBERLAIN’s room, CHAMBERLAIN sees him.)

  Can I help you—?

  ANDERSON: Sorry—I’m from next door.

  CHAMBERLAIN: (Into phone) New paragraph— (To ANDERSON.) I won’t be long— (Into phone.) This goal emboldened the Czechs to move Bartok, like the composer, forward and risk the consequences, stop. Ten minutes later, just before half time, comma, he was the man left over to collect a short corner from Halas and it was his chip which Jirasek rose to meet for a simple goal at the far post—

  ANDERSON: I knew it!

  (CHAMBERLAIN turns to look at him.)

  CHAMBERLAIN: (Into phone) New paragraph. As with tragic opera, things got worse after the interval…

  (ANDERSON has stood up to leave. He leaves through GRAYSON’s room. GRAYSON is on the phone saying:)

  GRAYSON: (Into the phone) … Jirasek, unmarked at the far post, flapped into the air like a great stork, and rising a yard higher than Bart’s outstretched hands, he put Czechoslovakia on the road to victory.

  (ANDERSON leaves the room without looking at GRAYSON or being noticed.)

  8. INT. HOTEL DINING ROOM

  The cut is to gay Czech music.

  The dining room has a stage. A small group of Czech musicians and singers in the tourist version of peasant costume is performing. It is evening. At one of the tables STONE, the American, and a FRENCHMAN are sitting next to each other and sharing the table are ANDERSON, MCKENDRICK and CHETWYN. The three of them are, for different reasons, subdued. STONE is unsubdued. They are reaching the end of the meal.

  STONE: Hell’s bells. Don’t you understand English? When I say to you, ‘Tell me what you mean,’ you can only reply, ‘I would wish to say so and so.’ ‘Never mind what you would wish to say,’ I reply. ‘Tell me what you mean’.

  FRENCHMAN: Mais oui, but if you ask me in French, you must say, ‘Qu’est-ce que vous voulez dire?’—‘What is that which you wish to say?’ Naturellement, it is in order for me to reply, ‘Je veux dire etcetera.’

  STONE: (Excitedly) But you are making my point—don’t you see?

  MCKENDRICK: What do you think the chances are of meeting a free and easy woman in a place like this?

  STONE: I can’t ask you in French.

  MCKENDRICK: I don’t mean free, necessarily.

  FRENCHMAN: Pourquoi non? Qu’est-ce que vous voulez dire? Voila!—now I have asked you.

  CHETWYN: You don’t often see goose on an English menu.

  (CHETWYN is the last to finish his main course. They have all eaten the main course. There are drinks and cups of coffee on the table.)

  STONE: The French have no verb meaning ‘I mean’.

  CHETWYN: Why’s that I wonder.

  STONE: They just don’t.

  CHETWYN: People are always eating goose in Dickens.

  MCKENDRICK: Do you think it will be safe?

  FRENCHMAN: Par exemple. Je vous dis, ‘Qu’est-ce que vous voulez dire?’

  MCKENDRICK: I mean one wouldn’t want to be photographed through a two-way mirror.

  STONE: I don’t want to ask you what you would wish to say. I want to ask you what you mean. Let’s assume there is a difference.

  ANDERSON: We do have goose liver. What do they do with the rest of the goose?

  STONE: Now assume that you say one but mean the other.

  FRENCHMAN: Je dis quelque chose, mais je veux dire—

  STONE: Right.

  MCKENDRICK: (To STONE) Excuse me, Brad.

  STONE: Yes?

  MCKENDRICK: You eat well but you’re a lousy eater.

  (This is a fair comment. STONE has spoken with his mouth full of bread, cake, coffee, etc., and he is generally messy about it. STONE smiles forgivingly but hardly pauses.)

  STONE: Excuse us.

  FRENCHMAN: A bientôt.

  (STONE and the FRENCHMAN get up to leave.)

  STONE: (Leaving) You see, what you’ve got is an incorrect statement which when corrected looks like itself.

  (There is a pause.)

  MCKENDRICK: Did you have
a chance to read my paper?

  ANDERSON: I only had time to glance at it. I look forward to reading it carefully.

  CHETWYN: I read it.

  ANDERSON: Weren’t you there for it?

  MCKENDRICK: No, he sloped off for the afternoon.

  ANDERSON: Well, you sly devil, Chetwyn. I bet you had a depressing afternoon. It makes the heart sick, doesn’t it.

  CHETWYN: Yes, it does rather. We don’t know we’ve been born.

  MCKENDRICK: He wasn’t at the football match.

  CHETWYN: Oh—is that where you were?

  ANDERSON: No, I got distracted.

  MCKENDRICK: He’s being mysterious. I think it’s a woman.

  ANDERSON: (To CHETWYN) What were you doing?

  CHETWYN: I was meeting some friends.

  MCKENDRICK: He’s being mysterious. I don’t think it’s a woman.

  CHETWYN: I have friends here, that’s all.

  ANDERSON: (To MCKENDRICK) Was your paper well received?

  MCKENDRICK: No. They didn’t get it. I could tell from the questions that there’d been some kind of communications failure.

  ANDERSON: The translation phones?

  MCKENDRICK: No, no—they simply didn’t understand the line of argument. Most of them had never heard of catastrophe theory, so they weren’t ready for what is admittedly an audacious application of it.

  ANDERSON: I must admit I’m not absolutely clear about it.

  MCKENDRICK: It’s like a reverse gear—no—it’s like a breaking point. The mistake that people make is, they think a moral principle is indefinitely extendible, that it holds good for any situation, a straight line cutting across the graph of our actual situation—here you are, you see— (He uses a knife to score a line in front of him straight across the table cloth, left to right in front of him.) ‘Morality’ down there; running parallel to ‘Immorality’ up here— (He scores a parallel line.) —and never the twain shall meet. They think that is what a principle means.

  ANDERSON: And isn’t it?

  MCKENDRICK: No. The two lines are on the same plane. (He holds out his flat hand, palm down, above the scored lines.) They’re the edges of the same plane—it’s in three dimensions, you see—and if you twist the plane in a certain way, into what we call the catastrophe curve, you get a model of the sort of behaviour we find in the real world. There’s a point—the catastrophe point—where your progress along one line of behaviour jumps you into the opposite line; the principle reverses itself at the point where a rational man would abandon it.