by Martin Crimp
It’s not about the poor but I want to reassure you about the poor. The poor people are doing fine. Yes. You don’t have to worry. They’ve got shoes. They’ve got some quite nice jeans. They’re doing fine. Click on the poor and you’ll see they’ve got their own street – not bad, having your own street. If you want to buy a used toy rabbit or a cooking ladle, this is the place to come. There’s a man here wears a silver cowboy-hat. Quick: close him.
*
I have seen God.
Let’s get that out of the way too.
Because ha ha ha, you are thinking – not true.
But it is a fact that I’ve seen God. I’ve seen him in my kitchen. And I’ve see him in my entrance hall.
Back in the day: back in the day, I mean, of kitchens and of entrance halls – before the valley, before the sheep.
Yes the light here is great – I’ve said it: great great light – but the light then – the light in my kitchen then – oh – miraculous! And the way God crawled – yes the way God crawled under my kitchen table to escape the miraculous light and whimpered as if he was ashamed!
Come out, I said, come out – and poked him with a stick.
Since God was a him alright!
There was the old man’s arse, and there – look – were the white-haired balls since God – fact – God was naked.
Yes there were the white-haired balls – but where was his face?
I wanted him to turn.
I wanted to see God’s face.
But there was a bag, and the bag stayed over his head.
Ha ha ha, you are thinking – ha ha ha – not true. But the plastic bag stayed – yes it did – at all times over his head.
Oh the way God whimpered!
Oh the way the bag shrank when he inhaled and puffed up when he breathed out again!
Oh, how the white bag crackled!
Had he been at the rubbish?
Had he poked his head into the bag the way a fox might to get at some scrapings, then found he was stuck?
And why – yes why were God’s hands tied behind his back like that with a plastic cable-tie?
I refused to speculate.
I prodded his arse.
I loved him.
Oh how I loved my God! And oh how the same breath that animated – correction – tried to animate – that tried to animate the universe now puffed up then sucked back in the crackling bag!
This was one in the eye for the sceptics. This was one in the eye for the unpickers – and how I hated them! – of human thread.
Yes how I detested the unpickers of human thread poking their needles into the human fabric so that the human fabric came apart – who’d stripped human beings of their thread the way that looters in a war zone strip buildings of their copper wire to sell the copper.
I’d seen them unravel the world.
I’d watched them – oh yes watched them back in the day winding the world’s thread into their own profitable machines – heard them adopt a tone – listened to them sneer plus listened to them ridicule in best-selling paperbacks the idea even of a created world.
But of course you’ll be wondering – sorry – why I had a stick.
I had a stick because I’d been planting out my sweet-peas.
I had a stick because when summer came the pale pink and the pale blue flowers were going to bloom on a black frame of sticks like this one in my hand.
I had a stick because their strong scent was going to perfume one hot corner of my garden until green pods appeared at the heart of the dead petals and grew and grew and filled with next year’s seeds.
I had a stick – but who cares why I had a stick!
I had a stick – fact.
I prodded God’s arse with it – fact.
I said to God come out. I said to God don’t whimper.
I wanted to pull off the bag and see God’s face.
I wanted to know who’d tortured him.
I loved my God but who had tortured him?
Who’d tied up his hands like that and left him naked?
Who’d bruised his arse?
Who’d hung him from a beam till his arms at some point split out of his shoulders?
Was it the angels?
Why were the angels angry?
Why did the angels so suddenly scent blood?
What did they blame him for?
Their own stupidity?
Or was it they blamed him for the whole human disaster?
But what did they expect?
Didn’t they know how hard it was to animate the world?
Didn’t they know how much concentration it took to open just one pink flower?
Hadn’t I had my own plastic cow and got my own plastic milkmaid down on the plastic stool to milk her?
Hadn’t I had my own metal circus and a doll I could make cry?
I’d got the farmer to talk to the chicken and the cat to have a conversation with the duck.
I married the fairy to the beast, forced the pirates to surrender plus re-attached their victims’ heads.
I’d built whole cities in an afternoon, injected the inhabitants and fed them slices of banana. I knew how hard it was.
And if it had been hard to keep my plastic water-skier for example in her blue bikini attached for just five minutes to James Bond 007’s plastic speedboat, then how much more difficult it must be to breathe life as God must eternally – and here he was! – into an expanding universe.
God would not turn.
However hard I prodded him God would not turn.
God would not speak.
I said: God would not speak.
God would not say he loved me.
*
It’s not nice to admit, but I’m afraid I began to eat the sheep. What choice did I have? – I’m human. Yes I am human. I tried not to harm it. I sliced off small pieces at a time and roasted them. I had no choice. I had no choice if I wanted to survive and speak. Each time I cut the sheep it screamed. Necessary – but still pretty horrid. I promised it a trip to the Rijksmuseum to see the Rembrandts, which it only knew from reproductions.
What was I supposed to do? – eat grass?
Don’t look at me like that. I took care. I bound the wound. I washed the rag each morning at the spring and reapplied it. I cleaned the knife. I kept the blade sharp. I said don’t look at me like that: I kept the blade sharp – I tried to avoid the bone.
*
It was on about the thirtieth day – as I was leaving the valley – after stripping the sheep of meat – that the man with the silver cowboy-hat entered my mind. Yes.
Of course I had feared this. I had always feared the man with the silver cowboy-hat. Now here he was, standing quietly in the corner, with his face turned away. ‘How did you get into my mind?’ I said. ‘I selected it,’ said the man with the silver cowboy-hat, ‘and clicked. Don’t worry. I’m just going to stand here. I don’t take up much room. Soon you won’t even notice me.’
And ha ha ha you’re thinking – he’s telling me what to say. But no. Oh no. Not true. It’s me. It’s me that speaks. It’s me that moves. It’s me that thanks you for this opportunity. It’s me that says, ‘I’ll come to the problem later.’ Me who survived. Me who listened to the newest news. Who tripped – who fell – who got to his feet – who smiled. It’s me who entered the valley, befriended the sheep and ate it. Me who saw reflected in the blade of the knife the grey gleam of the sky!
But all the same. Yes all the same he does sometimes ask me questions.
‘Where are the car-keys?’ he might say – or ‘What happened to your kitchen table?’ ‘Whose breath exactly’ – he’ll ask me – ‘filled the crackling bag?’ ‘Are you quite sure you’re alive?’ he sometimes says – ‘and if so, what’s making you live?’
The Iron Rice Bowl
Copyright © Martin Crimp 2011
The Iron Rice Bowl was first performed at the Royal Court Theatre Downstairs on 12 June 2011 as part of an event for Human Rights Wat
ch. The cast included:
Khalid Abdalla, Tunji Lucas, Helen McCrory, Sophie Okonedo
Directed by Simon Godwin
Characters
F1, F2, F3
female
M1, M2, M3
male
M1 A man comes into a room –
F1 Okay –
M1 He caresses a bowl –
F1 Oh?
M1 Yes – caresses an iron bowl –
F1 I see – a man –
M1 Yes.
F1 Does it have to be a man?
M1 What?
F1 I said: why does it always have to be a man?
Pause.
M1 Well. Fine. Over to you.
F1 Thank you.
M1 Over to you – bitch.
F1 I’ll ignore that.
F3 Did you just call her a bitch?
M1 Sure. Yes. Bitch. Yes. Over to you.
Pause.
I said over to you.
F1 A woman comes into a room –
M1 Okay.
M2 Great.
F1 Thank you. She caresses an iron bowl –
M2 Great. But try it with Coke.
F1 Caresses a Coke?
F3 Comes in with a Coke – yes?
F1 Great.
M2 Coke before bowl.
F1 Great.
M2 Happy?
F1 Sure. (Slight pause.) A woman comes into a room with a glass of Coke and caresses an iron bowl.
F3 The weather?
F1 Is warm.
F3 The room?
F1 Is well-lit.
F3 The Coke?
F2 Nice and cold. There’s ice.
M2 Great.
F2 Plus lemon.
M2 Great. Happy?
F1 Sure. Of course she is. She’s got the Coke, she’s got the bowl. She’s got the good vibe in the well-lit room. Sure. Great. Over to you.
M1 To me?
F1 Why not? – Pig.
M1 Don’t call me a pig.
M2 You called her bitch.
M1 But she ignored it.
F3 Hey!
M1 What?
F3 Concentrate.
Pause.
M1 Sure.
F1 Over to you.
M1 Sure.
M2 Happy?
M1 Sure.
F3 Coke before bowl – yes?
M1 Got it.
F3 Great.
M1 Okay. (Slight pause.) A woman comes into a room. She’s holding a glass of Coke. It’s warm in the well-lit room. She caresses an iron bowl, then pings the rim. Smiles – says – ‘Count me out. Hundreds dead – so what? Child skidding on blood – so what?’ Says – ‘Help who, why?’ Says – ‘Help who how for what?’ – or – better – ‘Change what for who where when, bitch? Hands off my bowl.’
F2 (slight pause) Great.
M1 Then dims the light.
F2 Great. Thank you. Question.
F1 Oh?
M1 Sure.
F2 Question about the ping.
M1 Say it.
F2 How does the rim ping?
M1 How does the rim ping? Short.
F1 Short?
M1 Yes it’s a short ping – happy?
F2 And the dim?
M1 What about it?
F2 Is the dim –?
M2 Good question.
F2 – thank you – is the dim short too? Well?
Pause.
M1 Let’s say it’s a long dim.
F3 Great. Contrast. Love it. (Points at M3.) Happy?
M3 Me?
F3 Are you?
M3 Me? Sure.
F3 Great. Just that you’ve not yet spoken.
M3 Me?
F3 No. Why? Why have you not yet spoken? Why aren’t you taking part?
F2 Hey!
F3 What? What? Nobody just says nothing. Or is this a protest? Are you protesting? Well? And if so about what?
F2 Hey!
M3 No.
F3 So you’re not.
M3 No.
F3 Then contribute.
M3 Sure. (Takes time to think, then:) Let’s say … why don’t we say … that this metal bowl … is a crucible of fire.
Pause. The others all stare at M3.
F1 Love it.
M2 Happy?
M3 Sure.
M2 Happy?
M3 Sure.
M2 Happy?
F1 (to M2) Just stop being a dick.
M1 Don’t call him a dick.
F3 You called her bitch, pig.
F2 Hey!
M1 Well, that is my human right.
F2 Hey!
M1 That is my human right – friend.
F2 Great – but – please – stop.
F3 Pig.
F2 Please.
M1 Sure.
F2 Let’s wrap this up now.
M2 Great.
M1 Sure.
F2 Please?
Pause.
Over to you.
F1 Me?
F2 Please. Happy?
F1 Sure.
F3 Short ping – yes?
F1 Got it.
F2 So.
Pause.
F1 A woman comes into a well-lit room. She sips from a glass of Coke, caresses the iron bowl, then pings the rim. Short ping of rim, warm from a low flame. She smiles – says – ‘Listen, count me out. Hundreds dead – so what? Child skidding on blood, man swinging on rope – so what?’ Says – ‘Help who, why?’ Says – ‘Change what for who where how? I’m safe in my bowl.’ She turns up the flame, climbs into the iron bowl and screws shut the lid. Black in the bowl first. Then red heat. Short scream from within. Then white incandescence. (Pause.) Then after the flame ends – well – what? Long dim. Sing-song of the cooling metal.
Vaclav and Amelia
Copyright © Martin Crimp 2009
Vaclav and Amelia, a co-production by Théâtre Garonne de Toulouse and Zoé & Cie, was first performed in a double bill with Harold Pinter’s Ashes to Ashes on 5 May 2009 at Théâtre Garonne de Toulouse. The cast included:
Aurélia Alcaïs, Magne Havard Brakke, Jean-Marc Stehlé
Translated by Louis-Do de Lencquesaing and Gérard Watkins
Directed by Louis-Do de Lencquesaing
Costumes and Set Design by Jean-Marc Stehlé
Lighting by Gilles Gentner
Sound by Quentin Sirjacq
Characters
Amelia
late twenties
Vaclav
her husband
Farmer
an old man
Time
now
Place
remote farm
Interior farm building. Late afternoon. A table.
Amelia alone.
Vaclav enters.
Amelia Well?
Vaclav He’s here.
Amelia Where?
Vaclav Outside.
Amelia What’s he like?
Vaclav Seems kind.
Amelia Kind? (Slight pause.) And he understands you?
Vaclav Yes.
Amelia How do you know?
Vaclav How do I know? I’ve talked to him.
Amelia About what?
Vaclav About the journey. I’ve explained that you’re tired. I’ve explained that it’s a very long journey and that / you’re tired.
Amelia I’m not tired. Why did you say that?
Vaclav You are tired, Amelia. In the taxi you were falling asleep.
Amelia Taxi? It’s a truck.
Vaclav Whatever.
Amelia That … thing is not a taxi, it’s a truck. It’s an animal truck.
Vaclav We won’t argue, Amelia.
Amelia We won’t argue, because it’s a truck. (Slight pause.) Can’t you just give him what he wants.
Vaclav You agreed to talk to him. That’s why we’re here.
Amelia’s attention wanders, then:
Amelia What?
Vaclav That’s why we’re here.
Amelia I can see fields.
Vaclav I�
�m sorry?
Amelia When I shut my eyes.
Vaclav That’s because you’ve been travelling.
Amelia What about you?
Vaclav If I shut my eyes?
Amelia Yes.
He shuts his eyes – concentrates.
Vaclav I see your face.
Amelia Don’t.
Vaclav It’s true.
She lets him take her head in his hands. Then:
Amelia Get him to come in.
Vaclav Mmm?
Amelia I said: get him to come in.
Vaclav goes out and returns with an old man, a Farmer. The Farmer wears a distinctive hat. He remains by the door.
Tell him to come closer. Why is he standing by the door like that? Tell him to come closer.
Vaclav Please. Come in. Come closer.
Farmer approaches the table, stares at Amelia.
Amelia Tell him to take off that hat. I don’t want to see the hat. Take it off.
Slight pause.
Vaclav You can’t ask / him to –
Amelia Tell him to take off his hat.
Vaclav Please – she would like you – if you don’t mind it – to take off your hat.
Farmer takes off hat and steps forward to put it on the table.
Amelia Not on the table.
Vaclav What?
Amelia He’s not to put his hat on the table. Tell him.
Farmer, however, has already got the idea, and remains clutching the hat.
He understands me.
Vaclav Of course he doesn’t understand you.
