by Tom Stoppard
MAX Eleanor. Um, why did he ask you, the eucalyptuslozenge man?
ELEANOR You weren’t here.
MAX Why would I be here?
ELEANOR Oh, and someone from BBC Radio—
MAX I’d be in College.
ELEANOR The Czechs have agreed to a temporary occupation, and did you want to comment et cetera?
MAX (laughs) I bet they have.
ELEANOR Anyway, I said no, you didn’t.
MAX I wouldn’t have minded.
ELEANOR You would. Max Morrow putting the other side … it’d be Christmas come early for every ex-Communist who dreams about you.
Doorbell.
ELEANOR (cont.) That’s her.
MAX Esme’s there.
Faint music—the Rolling Stones’ High Tide and Green Grass album.
MAX (cont.) The ‘other side’ needs putting. You can’t teach the West anything about occupation.
ELEANOR That’s a bit subtle for some—tanks is tanks and it’s on TV, so just do what you did last time when they occupied Hungary.
MAX What did I do?
ELEANOR Ate shit and shut up.
ESME (distant) Mum!
ELEANOR (bawls) I know! (to Max) I’m a frightened woman. That’s all it is. I’m sorry.
ESME (closer) Mum … !
ELEANOR (calls) All right! (to Max) It’s my Sappho tutorial. Do you mind?
Esme pops in and straight out, wearing a red-leather bomber jacket.
ESME (voice down) Lezzie lesson …
ELEANOR (calls after her) In here!
Remind me to clout her. Do I look all right?
MAX (looks) All present and correct.
ELEANOR I mean my face—
MAX (Oh …)
ELEANOR —do I look as if I’ve been crying?
MAX No. Sorry, I’m (sorry)—(lettinggo, angrily) I’m down to one belief, that between theory and practice there’s a decent fit—not perfect but decent: ideology and a sensible fair society, it’s my double helix and I won’t be talked out of it or done out of it or shamed out of it. We just have to be better.
GILLIAN, a student who dresses ‘sensibly’, carrying books, etc., comes into the garden uncertainly. Max ignores her, goes past her into the house. Eleanor greets Gillian and smiles her into the second chair.
A door slams: Max leaving the house.
Esme’s music becomes louder. Eleanor excuses herself and goes into the house. Gillian puts on her glasses and gets out her essay.
Esme’s music cuts out.
Eleanor and Esme are heard rowing briefly.
Eleanor returns to her place.
ELEANOR Right. Off you go.
GILLIAN It’s Fragment 130.
ELEANOR Eros the knee-trembler.
GILLIAN (reads) ‘Eros deute m’o lusimeles donei glukupikron amachanon orpeton …’ ‘Eros, once more, loosens my limbs, stirs me, bitter-sweet naughty boy—’
ELEANOR (Naughty?)
GILLIAN ‘—he steals in.’
ELEANOR And why not ‘sweet-bitter’?
GILLIAN ‘The interesting word here is Sappho’s invention glukupikron, sweet-bitter, with no known …’
ELEANOR Really, Gillian? It’s a nice compound, but the interesting word here is amachanon. Naughty doesn’t get near it. What’s the root?
GILLIAN I … Machan …?
ELEANOR Right. Machan. Think ‘machine’ …
GILLIAN (confused) (Think-machine?)
ELEANOR … contrivance, device, instrument, in a word, technology. So, a-machanon—un-machine, non-machine. Eros is amachanon, he’s spirit as opposed to machinery, Sappho is making the distinction. He’s not naughty, he’s—what? Uncontrollable. Uncageable.
GILLIAN (bursts out) But I think I’ve found a precedent for glukupikron!
ELEANOR (pause) Really? Try me.
GILLIAN (gathers herself) ‘… Sappho’s invention glukupikron, sweet-bitter, with no known precedent. Or is there? The lacuna in front of pikros, Fragment 88a, line 19, is suggestive—’
ELEANOR Have you been to look?
GILLIAN Look?
ELEANOR At the papyrus. It’s in Oxford in the Ashmolean.
GILLIAN No.
ELEANOR Well, I have. If that’s a lacuna I’m a monkey’s uncle—
But Gillian has broken—she gathers up her stuff in a rush, failing to keep back her tears, and leaves the way she came … passing Esme entering.
ESME (reproaching Eleanor) Mum …!
ELEANOR There isn’t time …!
Blackout and ‘It’s All Over Now’ by the Rolling Stones.
A smash cut to:
Prague. Office interior. A table, two chairs, a coffee cup, a plate of biscuits.
Jan sits facing his INTERROGATOR, a youngish middle-ranking bureaucrat.
The Interrogator has files to refer to.
INTERROGATOR So, Doctor … Have a biscuit. They tell me your luggage consisted entirely—I mean entirely—of socially negative music.
JAN Yes, I’m thinking of writing an article on socially negative music.
INTERROGATOR (deadpan) Really? When our allies answered our call for fraternal assistance to save socialism in this country, thousands of Czechs and Slovaks who happened to be in the West decided to stay there. You, on the other hand, whom we requested to remain in Cambridge for Professor Morrow’s … ‘summer—’ what?
JAN ‘Teach-in’.
INTERROGATOR ‘Summer titchin’, you rushed back to Prague. Why did you come home?
JAN To save socialism.
INTERROGATOR I’m afraid you’re not taking us seriously. You have one doctorate from Charles University and nearly a doctorate from Cambridge University, so you’re thinking two doctors must be cleverer than one official in the Ministry of the Interior. I take it you’re Jewish.
JAN No, that’s not what—What?
INTERROGATOR (referring to a file) You left Czechoslovakia just before the Occupation.
JAN No, in April, for the summer term.
INTERROGATOR The Occupation. The Nazis. Hitler.
JAN Oh! Yes. Yes. The Occupation. Sorry.
INTERROGATOR Because you were Jewish.
JAN So it seemed.
INTERROGATOR Well, are you or aren’t you?
JAN Yes.
INTERROGATOR Right. I don’t know why you make such a thing about it. So, a babe in arms, you left with your parents and spent the war in England.
JAN Yes.
INTERROGATOR And you came back here … with your mother in January 1948.
JAN Yes. My father was killed in the war. My mother is still alive, in Gottwaldov.
INTERROGATOR Strange for you, coming back. A little English schoolboy.
JAN We always spoke Czech at home in England. And ate spanelske ptacky, knedliky, buchty …
INTERROGATOR But you haven’t had a biscuit! Help yourself.
JAN Thanks. Actually, I won’t have one.
INTERROGATOR You won’t have one?
JAN I mean, I don’t want one, thank you.
INTERROGATOR Go on, have a biscuit, there’s plenty.
JAN It’s all right.
INTERROGATOR So have one.
Jan takes a biscuit.
The Interrogator watches him eat it, smiling encouragingly.
INTERROGATOR (cont.) Good?
JAN Lovely.
INTERROGATOR Lovely? It’s only a biscuit. They’re a bit stale, actually, don’t you think?
JAN A bit.
INTERROGATOR Lovely and stale, then, would you say?
JAN If you like.
INTERROGATOR There you are. It’s amazing. I can apparently make you do and say anything I want—yet when it comes to something simple, my failure … (He lifts and lets fall the thin file.)… is complete. It wasn’t much to ask in exchange for the privilege we allowed you … to establish friendly relations with your professor …
JAN (I did that.)
INTERROGATOR (ignoring) … and make a report on his connections �
�
JAN I understand why you’re disappointed, but, you know, Cambridge is, well, it’s Cambridge, nothing happens there.
INTERROGATOR How can you say that?
He picks up the thickest file.
INTERROGATOR (cont.) Look at this.
JAN Well … what is it?
INTERROGATOR The file on you in Cambridge.
JAN The file on me?
INTERROGATOR (opening the file) For example, there was a guest lecture by Professor Vitak from Bratislava, and afterwards a small group adjourned to Professor Morrow’s house to continue the discussion.
JAN I put that in.
INTERROGATOR But not what was said.
JAN It wasn’t interesting.
INTERROGATOR What is interesting is not for you to decide. Here’s another one—a reception at the Cambridge Union Labour Club: evidently you thought it wasn’t interesting that a young woman, a Czech student of philology, made negative remarks about our policemen. (He opens the thin file.) So what do I read in your report? ‘Party for socialist students at Labour Club. Many toasts to fraternal solidarity.’
JAN Well—okay—yes—but there was an ethical problem. Well, I’d been sleeping with her … I couldn’t possibly … she would have been called home before her finals.
INTERROGATOR Unless she was following instructions.
JAN Lenka? You’re kidding.
INTERROGATOR Who knows? But you’d think that two or even one and a half doctors of philosophy would consider the possibility, (closing the file) You’re not clever, you’re simple. And if you’re not simple you’re complicated. We’re supposed to know what’s going on inside people. That’s why it’s the Ministry of the Interior. Are you simple or complicated? Have another biscuit.
JAN Excuse me, but—
He stops and takes a biscuit, holds it.
JAN (cont.) Thank you. Excuse me, but when will I get my records back?
INTERROGATOR That’s what we’re here to talk about.
Blackout and ‘All Over Now’ by the Plastic People of the Universe.
Optional: projections of photos of the Plastic People.
Smash cut to:
Prague. April 1969. Jan’s living room.
Jan is busying himself, putting beer on the table, looking through his record albums.
Jan’s record player is playing ‘Venus in Furs’ by the Velvet Underground.
A lavatory flushes. FERDINAND, a young man about the same age as Jan, enters.
FERDINAND That’s better.
JAN How were the Beach Boys? Did they do ‘God Only Knows’?
FERDINAND They did everything. What’s that?
JAN Velvet Underground. ‘Venus in Furs’. What do you think?
FERDINAND I don’t get it.
JAN It’s okay. I’ll…
Jan takes off the record and puts it reverently into its sleeve, which has a picture of a banana. Ferdinand looks through the other sleeves.
JAN (cont.) Got given it by a girl in Cambridge last year. Andy Warhol did the banana.
FERDINAND (enviously) You bastard … Sergeant Pepper, Cream, the Kinks …
JAN You’re welcome to come and make tapes any time.
FERDINAND (for the beer) Thanks.
JAN So, how were the Beach Boys?
FERDINAND I have to say they were great. They dress like the children of apparatchiks but when they play you can’t argue with it. They dedicated ‘Break Away’ to Dubcek. He was in the audience.
JAN Dubcek was in the audience?!
FERDINAND Well, he’s got nothing else to do now Husák’s taken his job. The Beach Boys live at the Lucerna! It’s a historic moment.
JAN I suppose so. (takes his beer) Cheers.
FERDINAND Cheers. The Beach Boys.
JAN The Mothers of Invention. Cheers.
FERDINAND The Stones.
JAN The Rolling Stones live at the Lucerna.
FERDINAND At Strahov!
JAN (in pain) Stop, stop. Should I put on a record?
FERDINAND Why not?
JAN So … why, erm … what are you up to, Ferdinand?
FERDINAND Right now? Actually, I’m collecting signatures.
Ferdinand produces a single page. Jan reads it. It’s brief.
JAN Right.
Jan gives it back and resumes choosing a record.
JAN (cont.) Fugs or Doors?
FERDINAND What?
JAN Fugs or Doors?
FERDINAND I don’t care.
JAN Right.
FERDINAND Dubcek was shunted aside still telling us the reforms are on track. He said it again last week. Are you listening?
JAN Yes.
FERDINAND And now they’re stalling on the censorship thing just like they stalled on the trade (union thing) …
A blast of music obliterates Ferdinand. He jumps up and stops the record.
FERDINAND (cont.) What are you doing?
JAN Listening to the Doors—what are you doing?
FERDINAND Well, forget the Doors for a minute. This concerns you. You’re a journalist.
JAN I’m a university lecturer. I just write articles.
FERDINAND That means you’re a journalist.
JAN Okay, I’m a journalist, but nobody’s censoring me.
FERDINAND Not up front, and that’ll be next.
JAN You’re such a defeatist!
FERDINAND I’m a defeatist?
JAN You can’t face life without a guarantee. So you convince yourself everything’s going to end badly. But look—when the Russians invaded, you would have bet on mass arrests, the government in gaol, everything banned, reformers
thrown out of their jobs, out of the universities, the whole Soviet thing, with accordion bands playing Beatles songs. I thought the same thing. I came back to save Rock ‘n’ Roll, and my mother actually. But none of it happened. My mum’s okay, and there’s new bands ripping off Hendrix and Jethro Tull on equipment held together with spit. I was in the Music F Club where they had this amateur rock competition. The Plastic People of the Universe played ‘Venus in Furs’ from Velvet Underground, and I knew everything was basically okay.
FERDINAND What the fuck are you (talking about)—?
JAN I’m trying to tell you. For once this country found the best in itself. We’ve been done over by big powerful nations for hundreds of years but this time we refused our destiny.
FERDINAND It’s not destiny, you moron, it’s the neighbours worrying about their slaves revolting if we get away with it.
JAN Yes, and we scared the shit out of them—they thought they’d started World War Three. Because instead of some Czech stooge ready to take over like in Hungary in ’56, all there was was a handful of Stalinists in hiding from a reform movement that refused to roll over. Now they’re looking for the exit, and we’re still in charge of creating socialism with a human face.
FERDINAND Except for Dubcek, you mean.
JAN Dubcek’s a nice guy, but basically Cliff Richard—he had to go. Husák’ll keep the hardliners on the B side.
FERDINAND I’m a bit—I feel a bit (dazed)—Let me tell you about defeatism. Defeatism is turning disaster into a moral victory.
JAN (getting angry) Can’t you function unless you’re losing? Czechoslovakia is now showing the way—a Communist society with proper trade unions, legal system, no censorship—progressive rock …
FERDINAND They closed down your paper!
JAN And we protested, and now we’re publishing again.
FERDINAND With conditions.
JAN (dismissively) That’s only about not being rude to the Russians—Husák’s a realist, keep them off our backs.
FERDINAND So you won’t sign.
JAN No.
Jan restarts the Velvet Underground record on the track ‘Waiting for the Man’. As Ferdinand walks out without a word …
JAN (cont.) (shouts) What you need to do, Ferdinand, is cheer up.
Blackout and ‘Waiting for the Man’ continuing through am
ps.
Smash cut to:
Exterior. Evening. February 1971.
A man dressed for February, fur-capped and mufflered into anonymity, carrying a plastic bag, stands waiting.
Jan in cold-weather gear enters in haste.
JAN I am so sorry! It started late, and—anyway, here I am—how are you? You should have waited inside! Come in—come in—it’s upstairs—
He talks through the light change into his flat, where they remove their outer clothes, caps, scarves, gloves, Jan helping the man, who is revealed to be Max.
JAN (cont.) Is it warm enough? I went to a lecture. On Andy Warhol. Well, to be frank, the lecture was illustrated, you might say, with Rock ‘n’ Roll. How was the …? What—anniversary thing?
MAX Somebody giving a speech for the so-many-years of…
JAN Of what?
MAX I forget. I didn’t go. With these jamborees, if you want to know the score, it’s best to skip the official programme.
JAN So now you know the score.
MAX Yes.
He looks Jan over.
MAX (cont.) You look all right. But you’re not teaching any more.
JAN No.
MAX Serves you right.
Jan laughs.
MAX (cont.) How do you illustrate a lecture on Andy Warhol with Rock ‘n’ Roll?
JAN It’s a little complicated. There’s this band I like, the Plastic People of the Universe, last year they lost their professional licence—undesirable elements, you know …
MAX Undesirable how?
JAN Their songs are morbid, they dress weird, they look like they’re on drugs, and one time they sacrificed a chicken on stage, but otherwise it’s a mystery. So now it’s illegal for them to make a living from concert bookings. But Jirous, he’s like their artistic director, he’s legally an art historian, so he booked the Music F Club for a lecture on Andy Warhol, but—(He plays air-guitar.)—illustrated.
Max laughs.
JAN (cont.) Thank you for, you know, finding me.
MAX (holds up the bag) I promised Esme.
Max gives the bag to Jan, then goes to his stuff and takes a bottle from his topcoat pocket.
JAN (investigates the bag) Oh … thank you! And Eleanor … is she …?
MAX She’s… doing fine. Glasses.
JAN Good!
Jan goes for two glasses.
JAN (cont.) Please tell her, from my heart, and to Esme also. How is Esme?
MAX Nineteen and pregnant, and living in a commune.
JAN Oh. But a Communist!
