Barker, Plays Eight

by Howard Barker

  WIFE: It’s nothing or nothing much

  (The husband is still, and on his side. The woman, unabashed, walks a pace or two, but arrives at the side of the man from which she cannot be seen.)

  Not nothing

  Not nothing

  (She tilts up her chin, folding her hands behind her, girlish, abolishing criticism.)

  Nothing much

  (Because the husband is silent, she walks around him, to be seen. His face is hard against the floor, but his eyes rise. Her mouth opens. She swallows. Not meeting his eyes, she lifts her skirt a few inches. A single breath of hers, audible. He is agonized, then turns over, ridding himself of her sight. A pause, then she sobs, letting go her skirt, her hands hanging at her sides. The husband allows her sobbing to continue, then slowly lifts one arm, the hand outstretched. Her tears cease. She looks at the uplifted arm, its pitiful appeal for reconciliation… something in her resents its innocence… she sits, swiftly, drawing up her knees, and nursing herself, strokes her upper arms, downward and downward again. The arm of the husband does not move or drift…)

  *

  12

  A man goes to perform an act of homage. He walks discreetly, his hands before him, loose and very slightly turning one in the other. His gaze is on the floor. He stops. He removes his hat in a conventional way and holds it against his chest with one hand. After some seconds in this posture of fidelity his head looks surreptitiously from one side to the other. He ascertains he is not observed, and lifting his head addresses the object of his homage.

  MAN: I’m insincere

  (His tongue moistens his lips. Again he ascertains he is alone.)

  I’m insincere

  (His head drops. He is still, then with a decisive movement, he thrusts his hat on his head and turns to go. As he sets off a woman enters swiftly, and collapses at his feet. He stops. He looks at her inert form. He walks round her, dubious, apprehensive. Her continuing immobility suggests she is either dead or ill. Again the man looks swiftly about him. He ascertains he is alone. He kneels. He grabs the hat off his head. He kisses her, lifting her head between both hands, passionate as if they were profoundly known to one another. Then he lays her head softly on the ground. He runs out and runs back, retrieving his hat. He runs out again, without a second glance…)

  *

  13

  A man at the end of his tether. As he walks his arms extend slightly behind him. His fingers reach and close. He stops.

  MAN: I will say it and go

  (His hands reach and close…)

  Say it and go

  (His hands open, stretch and go rigid. He remains fixed in this position, tilted slightly forward. His body sways. A woman enters, wiping her hands incessantly on her skirt, in long, open-handed moves as if shaping her own body. In contradiction to this her moves are light and swift. She repeats a long walk, turning as if gaily at each end. She stops suddenly in mid-movement. She glares at the man.)

  WOMAN: Say it

  (He turns to look at her. His hands are loose. He takes her whole life in his glance. The woman begins wiping her hands again, suffering the pain of his scrutiny, but not removing her eyes from his, a pride and a pain. Her stiffness grows as his subsides.)

  Say it

  (Because he does not say it, her anxious moves slowly decrease until her hands hang loosely at the end of her arms, and her gaze falls. They are both suffused with calm, reassured by the not-saying. They come together, putting one arm round the shoulder of the other, like lovers. They walk slowly out, but his one free hand is stiff, and her one free hand wipes her skirt…)

  *

  14

  A gallery. Some pictures at which three figures look with varying degrees of interest. One, a man, observes another, a woman, with a sidelong glance. The figures change positions, reversing their order. The third, with idle moves, departs. The man and the woman study, apparently absorbed. Now it is the woman whose glance includes the man. They move again, to study other pictures.

  MAN: I am here today but only today

  (The woman does not remove her eyes from the picture. It is as if the man had not spoken. She goes as if to leave but only to stop at a further picture. The man now looks directly at her, ignoring the pictures.)

  Today but only today

  (The woman looks at him. Her look causes him to slowly turn away and examine the picture adjacent to him. She looks again at her picture. They are perfectly still in their imitation of study. Simultaneously they turn to one another. A third party enters, but seems uninterested in either them or the pictures, and leaves again. The couple have not moved or let their eyes wander from the contemplation of each other. At last she looks sideways to see if they are observed, and ascertaining she is safe, draws up her skirt, widening her stance. The man goes to her unhurriedly to take her from the rear, his hand loosening his clothing. He is about to act when the third party returns, with the same anxious movements. He appears not to have discerned their imminent intimacy and leaves. The man goes to act again, his hand to his clothing. Now a further individual enters the scene, with slow, scholarly moves, and engages with the first picture. The woman stamps once on the floor in her frustration, a sign not noticed by him. The man, seething, lets his head sink and lifting his hands, nurses his temples, slowly as if to relax his taut nerves. He removes himself a little from the woman and pretends to observe the picture closest to them. The woman disdains to let fall her skirt but maintains a defiant immobility. The scholar’s intense concentration prevents the slightest activity on his part. Time hurts the unfulfilled lovers. The man looks at the scholar with the most intense hatred, as if to wither his existence. The woman, staring at the floor, becomes yet more determined to maintain her pose, a contest with the world which takes on a terrible tenacity. The man, observing her, is troubled by the extent of her determination. He looks around him, his courage falters, his hands twitch, he suffers the cruel and deflating sense the woman is mad. With glances in several directions he departs. After some time, the scholar moves to the next picture…)

  WOMAN: I am here today but only today

  (The scholar seems not to have heard. The woman with infinite sadness lets fall her skirt. She puts her fingertips together. She lowers her face to them. She resumes her relations with reality…)

  *

  15

  A bed containing a stricken man. A woman enters. The man’s head turns on the pillow to observe her. For a long time she looks at him, her hands loose at her sides. In her look there is pity for lost years. He succeeds in lifting his fingers from the blanket, an affirmation. She does not alter her own position as a youth enters, his limbs too active, his hands alive with impertinence. He prowls, impatient, in short moves behind her. The woman lifts her hand to assent. He pulls away her coat, and with swift and clumsy moves, takes her from behind. The woman’s gaze remains on the man, even as she is rocked by the youth’s aggression. Her cry comes reluctantly, half-smothered by one hand. Completed, the youth sits on the floor, his knees drawn up, rubbing his cheeks, combing his hair with his hands as if he still possessed super-abundant energy. Suddenly the woman weeps, pitifully trying to wipe away her tears with the back of her hand. The youth frets, repelled by the sound, and unable to tolerate his relative immobility, jumps to his feet and runs, first one way, then another. The woman’s tears cease, and with a forlorn gesture she lies on the bed, grasping the man’s hand with her own and using it to stroke her head again and again as if it might wear her away…

  *

  16

  A sick man, stooping but unwilling to yield, approaches a house once familiar to him. He stands outside. He recovers his strength, his head lifted with an effort to the perpendicular. He knocks. He leans for support on the side of the door. Hearing the occupant approach, he leans off the door. A woman opens the door, sees him, and not certain of her reaction, folds her arms, biting her lip in her anxiety. Her arms fall to her sides. Immediately they fold again. The man simply looks, dog-like. The
woman’s arms fall, hang, then fold again.

  MAN: I’m ill

  (She looks. The remnants of love struggle in her with an instinct for self-preservation.)

  I’m ill

  (Her hands fall again, and hang. Her head hangs.)

  So can I come back?

  (She shakes her head, fast and short.)

  I’m ill

  (She is perfectly still.)

  I’m ill

  (Her mouth takes on a terrible shape as she struggles with her surging tears.)

  So can I come back?

  (She shakes her head slowly, continuously now.)

  I’m ill

  (The movement of her head extends further in each direction, so even her shoulders move with it. A second man appears. He stops. He folds his arms, putting his chin in one hand and looking patiently at the ground. Now the first man withdraws, lifting his head and feigning a confident walk. The woman’s head continues to deny him…)

  *

  17

  A servant holds a mirror, stiffly, her own body composed. A countess in hat, gloves, gown and cape, appears and walks towards the mirror, her eyes fixed, waiting for herself to be focused by it, at which point she stops and gazes at herself critically but without emotion. After some time the servant utters what is evidently a statement reiterated daily, a familiar routine.

  SERVANT: If only he were here

  (A few seconds pass. The countess tilts her head, plucking her veil…)

  Never however

  (The countess looks to the left and right in the mirror.)

  Never will he be here

  (The countess looks at herself, directly, her body lifted, still. The servant imitates loud weeping, convincingly, maintaining her hold on the mirror. The countess puts her gloved hands over her ears, as if she found the sound intolerable. The servant ceases abruptly, turns smartly and leaves with the mirror. The countess remains in this posture. A male servant in an apron enters, wielding a twig broom and sweeping leaves in a practised movement, to left and right. He crosses the stage. The countess is quite still…)

  *

  18

  A man writing at a desk. His shoulders are stooped and he drives the pen from his shoulders as if he had no time in the world to reflect. He fills a page, turns it violently, rearranges his body so as to commit his last energy to complete his task, and with his face only inches from the paper, is an image of twisted concentration. So desperately does he attack his task he is unaware of the entrance of two armed men who observe him patiently from a distance, their weapons hanging loosely in their hands…

  FIRST KILLER: In mid-wickedness…

  (The writer hears and stops. Slowly his head lifts from the page and his eyes meet theirs. No one moves for some time. Then the writer makes a sign with one hand, asking for a fraction of time. His hand stays in the air. Receiving no response, he returns to write the final words of his testament. The only sound is the pen working the paper. But the men are bored and feel insulted. Together they make slow steps towards the writer, who sensing this, writes even quicker, the last words desperately engraved and illegible. As the men come to his shoulder he flings away the pen and making a tight shell of his body, wraps himself about the desk, thereby protecting the book, his chest drowning it and his hands locked to the legs of the desk. The spectacle gives the men pause for thought. They walk silently around the man whose eyes follow them. They are neither amused nor furious. They pass round and round, examining the desperate writer whose energy begins to ebb away. His grip weakens, his face lies on the desk, his hands hang loosely. With a gesture of surrender he lifts his hands and lets them fall again. They swing like a doll’s. Without a word or glance of consultation the men walk away again. Alone, the writer is stiff with disbelief. Only slowly does he recover his position at the desk, and his head turns fearfully in the direction of the intruders. Silently, he lifts himself off his chair. His eyes return to the book. He is afraid of it, sensing its lethal burden. He ponders leaving it behind but cannot. He stretches out his hands and lifts it off the desk in both, unnecessary given its insignificant weight. He extends it in front of him and starts to move away. Suddenly he drops it. It makes a sharp sound in the silence. He freezes. His eyes swivel in his anxiety, but no one appears. With infinite care he stoops to retrieve it. His body aches with tension. He starts to move away again but is stopped by a thought…)

  WRITER: ‘In mid-wickedness…’

  (The title appeals to him. He continues his way…)

  *

  19

  A park bench. Seated and stooping forward so his chin rests on his hands, his hands themselves folded on his stick, an old man, hatted and grubby. He stares into the distance. A model and a photographer enter, thrilled to be alive and conscious of their beauty. The model, a woman in her thirties, is hatted and high-heeled. The photographer snaps her even as she walks. She observes the old man and on an inspiration, sits next to him, her right leg drawn up, her left extended long in front of her. She tosses back her head as if laughing. The photographer captures her joie de vivre. She shifts to a new pose and he snaps her again. She jumps off the bench and goes behind it, posing behind the old man, drawing her dress from her breast. The old man ignores all that goes on around him. The photographer snaps the model’s every pose, lying on the ground to achieve effects, putting the old man’s decayed face into the same frame as the model’s perfect body. The model, inebriated with her own divinity, places a long white hand against the old man’s cheek. He is uncomplaining. The photographer moves in. They try one pose after another, without discussion. Now the model draws the old man back in the bench and turning, lifts her skirt so her stockinged thigh is adjacent to his head. She looks down at him as the photographer focuses the lens. He snaps. The model does not proceed to a new pose but is still as if she were herself a photograph. The photographer, kneeling, waits. The model is pained. Her hand lifts, her fingers move together, active with a growing feeling of sexual arousement. She places one hand on the old man’s cheek and draws his head round so he can kiss her naked thigh. As he does so she thrusts her other hand into her mouth. She shudders in her ecstasy. The photographer fails to capture her beauty but stands, the camera idly at his side, his face twisted by dismay… no longer in control of her self the model kisses the old man with a longing that causes her eyes to widen with disbelief… her shoulders rise and fall… rise and fall… the old man’s stick falls at last with a clatter. The model drags herself away from the embrace, and stands staring and biting her lip. The old man leans forward to retrieve his stick, but it is impossible for him. His hand gropes the air. The photographer picks up the stick and with a massive surge of energy, flings it far away. The old man remains fixed for a little time, then comes up, and folding his hands in front of him, waits, his eyes on the ground. All three are motionless for a little while, the photographer staring bitterly at his model. He suddenly walks away. The model fails to suppress a rising despair. She weeps. At last her weeping ceases. She gathers herself, swiftly examining her face in a compact mirror. She adjusts a stray hair, shuts the compact with a characteristic click and walks smartly away. The old man lifts his gaze from the ground. Now he weeps, he wails, he utters a curse and a prayer in the same breath, he beats himself with the flat of his hand, first on one shoulder, then the other…

  *

  20

  An official waits, walking slowly up and down with his hands behind his back. Every so often he stops, looks at his watch, looks for the one he is expecting, continues to walk. He is suffused by an air of confidence. At last, seeing the other party to the rendezvous, he stops walking, folds his hands in front of him, and waits. A second man, lame and unkempt, half-walks, half-staggers towards him. His eyes remain on the ground until he arrives in front of the official. He stops, lifts his head and extends a hand, a formal greeting. The official disdains to shake hands, but remains upright, stiff and resolute. The second man allows his hand to fall to his side. The official tur
ns and makes a slight sign to two others. These enter and unhurriedly advance with handcuffs. The second man, seeing their intention, throws back his chin contemptuously and folds his arms on his chest, an image of defiance. The two look at the official for instructions. The official nods once. The two advance on the second man to pinion him. Instantly the second man reveals a power of activity not discernible on his entrance, crouching and extending his hands, as if to grapple with his antagonists. The official looks fatigued.

  OFFICIAL: It’s all over can’t you see it’s all over?

  All over?

  All over?

  (He takes out a handkerchief, white and immaculate, and blows his nose. The second man manoeuvres, shadowed by the two men. The official tucks the handkerchief away. Suddenly, as swiftly as he began, the second man relaxes, renouncing his defiance and with a grin, extends his hands to his captors. With a visible relief, they fix him, one man to each wrist. The official looks into the distance, as if observing a more interesting event, his fingers idly twirling behind his back. At his own convenience he turns to the waiting men and instructs them with the identical dip of his head. The two go to lead the prisoner away, but he is rigid, as if fixed to the ground, his eyes downcast with determination. The chains are taut and bear on his wrists. The two men look at the official…)