Fragile! (NHB Modern Plays)

by Tena Štivičić

  Tena Štivičić

  FRAGILE!

  NICK HERN BOOKS

  London

  www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Original Production

  Dedication

  Preface

  Characters

  Fragile!

  About the Author

  Copyright and Performing Rights Information

  Fragile! was produced by Cherub Company and first performed at the Arcola Theatre, London, on 4 September 2007. The cast was as follows:

  TIASHA

  Catherine Cusack

  MARKO

  Joseph Garton

  GAYLE

  Georgiana James

  ERIK

  Edward Kingham

  MILA

  Rayisa Kondracki

  MARTA

  Stella Maris

  MICHI

  John Moraitis

  Director

  Michael Gieleta

  Designer

  James Macnamara

  Lighting Designer

  John Terry

  Sound Designer

  Christopher James

  Musical Supervision

  Russell Hepplewhite

  Voice Work

  William Trotter

  Thanks to Serge, Nino and Siv

  for their stories

  Preface

  ‘Life is about moments. It’s a mistake to think you can stretch them into a constant.’

  I met Tena long ago, when we both lived Over There, At Home. She lived in Croatia, I in Serbia. Very close and yet a long dark tunnel apart. Between our two countries, a war had just ended. Or so they claimed. We both wrote plays, each on our own side of the border, while somewhere in the space between her and me, people kept killing and getting killed. Somewhere around, not so far from where we lived, there was a market where one could buy a woman. Also a colour telly, stolen cars, fake Marlboro, all kinds of drugs, heavy weaponry, if you really want to know, but also a real live woman. Once she is bought, for a few hundred dollars, she is the buyer’s property and the seller refuses any further responsibility for the sold goods.

  And the world around us, where we lived, was loaded with stereotypes. A woman should be stupid, and if she isn’t she’d better not be pretty, and if she is she’d better be a whore, and if she isn’t she’d better not be sensible, and if she is she’d better be evil, and if she isn’t she’d better be stupid. You understand?

  Life and death happen at great speed Over There, in our former countries. And so many of us go into hiding and isolation until That is over and the real life finally begins. But when That comes to an end and the real life still somehow fails to appear, when you try to glue the moments together and stretch them into a constant and even then it snaps, people run.

  People run from the evil committed in their names, from watching it, from taking part or not taking part, from allowing it, from the shame, from the complicity. They tried to escape in different ways, to different places. As they run, they run into each other, somewhere in the big wide world, always carrying with them their indestructable emotional baggage. The load that follows you around everywhere you go and inhabits the faraway cities, and Tena’s writing, for instance. The ones that can’t escape the violence, even if they move thousands of miles; the ones that get stabbed and all they want is to call home, call their mum and make it better, but there isn’t enough credit on the phone; the ones that have nowhere to take shelter – they live in Tena’s world, the same world that I grew up in, the same world I started to write in. Because when you try to run away from who you are and who people think you are, from the ‘better stupid than good’ rule, you can’t easily get very far.

  When you leave Back There and arrive Over Here, you find yourself confronted with yet more stereotypes. A young artist from Over There is expected to embody the exotic Eastern European idea, or as Mila says in Fragile!:

  ‘All the time I felt like they keep expecting me to do something unpredictable and wild, preferably sexual. Like I was some kind of an exotic eastern specimen that’s, you know, got a trauma but shags like an animal.’

  The concept is not very different to that market, although the approach is more subtle. Tena has the capacity to resist that, she writes great drama that magnificently reconstructs the vanished lives and never falls into the trap of the anecdote. She creates a world of her own, where people are both good and bad, guilty and confused, the destroyed and the survived, and destroyers of their own and other people’s emotions.

  Her world I recognise as my own, not only as my background and origin, but also as something I still have to live through. We both left Back There, we live divided by another border again, a real tunnel this time.

  Like the boys in the play who are refused an entry visa because they didn’t serve in the army (which is only necessary precisely because of those that did serve in the army), I have trouble getting into London from Paris.

  So, although we sometimes see each other Over Here At Mine, our life is in the words, the letters, the plays we write.

  She knows my world better than I know it myself, she knows that city that is my real city:

  ‘Will you take me to Belgrade one time. Be-o-grad. White city. Beautiful.’

  Biljana Srbljanovic, August 2007

  Characters

  TIASHA, mid-twenties, Eastern European

  ERIK, mid-thirties, Norwegian

  MARKO, late twenties, Serbian

  MILA, late twenties, Croatian

  GAYLE, late twenties, New Zealander

  MICHI, fifty, Bulgarian

  MARTA, fifty, Eastern European

  The play takes place in present-day London.

  Scene One

  A barstool centre stage. A spotlight lights on MILA, a pretty young woman in her late twenties. She is wearing a tight masculine striped shirt, a necktie and a pair of black trousers.

  MARKO, a man about the same age, enters quietly. MILA doesn’t notice him.

  MILA. Good evening. It’s such a thrill to see so many of you here tonight. I’ve been away a long time and I must say I was a little nervous back in the dressing room. I thought, what if I go out there and the hall is empty. My ex-flatmates and some of those people that won the tickets when they bought an extra packet of tampons.

  MARKO laughs quietly. She doesn’t notice him.

  I’d like to dedicate this first song tonight to all my student years of dreaming and dreaming in this city.

  MILA sings. It’s a slow bluesy song. She notices MARKO and stops singing.

  I thought I was alone.

  MARKO. You are good.

  MILA. Yeah, well . . .

  She’s embarrassed. Therefore defensive.

  MARKO. And you’re funny.

  MILA. You think? Oh, good.

  MARKO. No, I mean it was funny. The joke about tickets.

  MILA. Yeah, tampon jokes, I don’t know . . . We are not open yet.

  MARKO. I know. I wanted to speak to your boss.

  MILA. Michi? You a friend of his?

  MARKO. Not really. I’m looking for a job.

  MILA. Oh. Well, we can always use a bouncer.

  MARKO. I was hoping for something less . . . rough.

  MILA. Yeah, well, weren’t we all. No, I’m joking, it’s not that rough. It’s just sometimes, usually the Serbs, get drunk and emotional and, well, what’s a better way to show emotions than pick a fight or smash a mirror.

  MARKO. I’m a Serb.

  Beat.

  MILA. Super, ja sam iz Hrvatske. [Great. I’m from Croatia.]

  MARKO (cheerfully). Sestro! [Sister!]

  MILA (coldly). Easy.

 
MARKO. Ja sam Marko. [I’m Marko.]

  MILA. Mila.

  MARKO. Are you? [a play on words – Mila means ‘dear’ or ‘kind’]

  MILA. Cute.

  MARKO. Otkad si tu? [How long have you been here?]

  MILA. Look, I prefer English.

  MARKO. Zašto? [Why?]

  MILA. Because: a) you need to practise, you don’t want your accent to precede you.

  MARKO. What?

  MILA. Precede. Bolje ti je da odma ne skuže po naglasku. [Don’t want them to see through your accent right away.]

  MARKO. Aha. Okay.

  MILA. b) you don’t wanna get stuck with your community. There’s no moving forward there.

  MARKO. Right. Is that why you work in this place?

  MILA. That’s temporary.

  MICHI walks in. He turns the lights on. They reveal a bar to the left. This place is not a complete dump but it is one of those underground clubs that can never be properly aired and hosts people from countries where non-smokers are not to be trusted.

  MICHI is a stubby, rough-looking man. He is essentially rude and uncultured, but has adopted certain manners of the rich western world that he can apply if he sees fit. He is the kind of man that leaves the impression of never listening to what other people are saying, but in fact has the memory of an elephant.

  MICHI. What is that? We open in half one hour. Go dress yourself.

  MILA. I’m dressed.

  MICHI. What, this?

  MILA. Yeah, something wrong?

  MICHI. No, it’s beautiful. For a funeral.

  MILA. Oh, please –

  MICHI. How many times do I tell you – a little breast, a little thigh.

  MILA. I’m not a chicken.

  MICHI. You’re not funny either.

  MILA. Less is more, even you should know that.

  MICHI. Yes, less dress, more skin.

  MILA. I’m not trying to turn this into a concert hall. But a touch of, you know, class –

  MICHI. Mila, you are performer. Like . . . plumber. Or . . . bricklayer. I am architect. You are bricklayer.

  MILA. You should count your blessings to have a proper singer here.

  MICHI. I light a candle every Sunday – thank you Lord for Mila. My clients is complaining. Too serious for them. People come here, they want to have fun. Fun is what makes money. If you want them cry, play their music so they cry for their mother, bottle of vodka, for their childhood, bottle of finest Merlot . . . You know our people. Eastern European soul, always bloody bleeding. You play that Brazilian shit, and jazz and soul, and my God, musicals – no bottles, no clients, no Michi’s!

  MARKO. It sounds great to me.

  MICHI had noticed MARKO but thought him less significant than the matter of MILA’s wardrobe. Now he turns to MARKO with a ‘Now I’ll deal with you’ expression.

  MICHI. Yes. And you are?

  MARKO. Hi. I’m . . . My name is Marko. I’m looking for a job.

  MICHI. Yes? What can you do?

  MARKO. I’m a comedian. A stand-up comedian.

  MILA. Well, you’ve come to the right place.

  She exits. MICHI sits at a bar stool, his legs wide, he takes out a Davidoff cigarette and lights it. A heavy exhale.

  MICHI. Such cheek. Drive me crazy. (Beat.) Everybody is comedian here.

  MARKO. But I’m good.

  MICHI. Comedian, I have no use. Look at her, burst you laughing. No, thank you, bye bye.

  MARKO. I’ll do whatever. I can mix drinks. I can . . . Whatever you want. I’m not from here, I’m new –

  MICHI. I would never guess.

  MARKO. Vurzela said to contact you when I come to London. He said you will have a job for me. Or you will have someone who will have a job for me.

  MICHI (suddenly intrigued). How do you know Vurzela? You are not Bulgarian.

  MARKO. I’m Serbian. He used to be my father’s supplier back in the –

  MICHI. Ah, the good old days.

  MARKO. – Communism.

  MICHI. All days are good for people with positive thinking.

  MARKO (unconvinced). Yes.

  MICHI. Your father is big shot?

  MARKO. My father is . . . He was a politician.

  MICHI. But he was client of Vurzela. What, drugs?

  MARKO. Oh, no. No drugs. Furs, leather. Jack Daniels, cigars, everything.

  MICHI. Everything you need for decent living, yes?

  MARKO. Yes, I suppose.

  MICHI. And now?

  MARKO. Oh, uh . . . he’s retired.

  MICHI. And Vurzela is businessman. How the wheel turns, no?

  MARKO. Yes.

  MICHI. And you – run away? Get yourself in trouble? Protest against government?

  MARKO. No. I mean, yes, but that I . . . I just want a new start.

  MICHI. Okay, Michi don’t wanna know. In Michi’s – discretion is important. Vurzela wants Michi to find you a job, Michi will find you a job.You say you can mix drink? You have experience?

  MARKO. I worked in a cocktail bar.

  MICHI. A cocktail bar in Serbia. What is world coming to?

  MARKO. I know a few things about wine and brandy. And beer, of course. I see you serve Czech beer.

  MICHI. We offer wide range of nostalgia.

  MARKO. Think about expanding? Maybe a shooting range?

  MICHI (smiles). Smart-ass. Let’s see you make a Bloody Mary.

  MARKO. Now?

  MICHI. The floor is yours.

  MARKO goes behind the bar and starts making a drink. MILA comes back in wearing a slightly more revealing dress.

  It’s not a shit, but a dog’s poo.

  MILA (annoyed). Look –

  MICHI. You think when you get into your precious musical you won’t have to show skin.

  MILA. That is different.

  MICHI. What do you say, Marko, if you were a customer here and you were sitting down, having lovely drink, maybe little lonely, what you want to look at?

  MARKO. I say, I want to look at a pretty woman. When she sings, even if it’s ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’, I want to feel like she is singing it just for me. I want to feel like she doesn’t notice there is anyone else in this room. Only me.

  MILA looks at him, ready to protest.

  MICHI. You don’t want to see a little breast, a little thigh?

  MARKO. If she’s a good cook as well, I’ll consider I am very lucky.

  MILA smiles. MARKO hands MICHI a Bloody Mary.

  MICHI. You two . . . I’ve been in this business long enough. You two are both fancy-schmancy. Tell me, Marko, how many steps you had to come down in here?

  MARKO (puzzled). How many steps? I don’t know, maybe fifteen?

  MICHI. Twenty-two. Twenty-two steps down. Let me tell you, there is no fancy-schmancy twenty steps below the ground level.

  MILA and MARKO look at each other considering this piece of wisdom.

  But because I am having a very good Bloody Mary which always brings sun to my sky, I will give you no breast, little thigh tonight.

  MILA rolls her eyes, but knows that discussion is over. She pulls her dress up a little, letting the cut reveal a little more of her leg.

  (To MARKO.) And you . . . smart-ass . . . I will have to ring Vurzela.

  MARKO. No problem.

  MICHI (exiting). Hm . . . shooting range . . . Cynical is for staying home, not starting new.

  MILA and MARKO look at each other. They smile.

  Scene Two

  A refugee hostel in London. A shabby office room.

  TIASHA is sitting in the office, waiting. She is a pretty, but jaded young woman dressed in simple clothes. She is looking around in discomfort, then leans over to inspect papers on the table, stopping to listen if somebody’s coming. She goes over to a cabinet and looks at pictures and postcards displayed above it. The door abruptly opens and a small, elderly, chubby woman, MARTA, comes in. TIASHA looks caught in the act. MARTA speaks in a strong rough accent that doesn’t reveal her origin. TIA
SHA’s accent is closest to Russian but her English is surprisingly good.

  MARTA. Ah.

  TIASHA looks at her with discomfort.

  New girl?

  TIASHA. Yes.

  MARTA. Turn. Let me look you.

  TIASHA doesn’t know what to make of this woman but in the meantime obeys.

  Pretty girl. Nice bum, not grow any more.

  TIASHA. What?

  MARTA. ‘What?’ Who brings you up, wolfs? You say – ‘Sorry’.

  TIASHA. They told me to come here at four o’clock. To see Gayle?

  MARTA. Ah. Yes. Gayle. Pretty girl – no boyfriend, unhappy. Young weeman – no man – go crazy.

  TIASHA (doesn’t understand). Yes. Are you a psycholog?

  MARTA. You want to talk, talk to Marta.

  GAYLE walks in. GAYLE is in her late twenties, rather plain looking, her clothes are colourful and all about layers. She speaks with a New Zealand accent.

  TIASHA pulls further back, almost hides behind the cabinet. GAYLE is carrying an armful of items that she puts down on the table.

  GAYLE. Ah, Marta. There you are.

  MARTA. You call?

  GAYLE. Yes, I need to talk to you.

  MARTA. I must work.

  GAYLE. No. Later. Marta, you know what this is?

  GAYLE points to the pile of items on the table. A wooden shoe-size box, filled with items, a pair of glasses, a tin can, a pencil sharpener, some crumpled paper, some cotton wool.

  MARTA. Yes.

  GAYLE. What?

  MARTA. Your box.

  GAYLE. Yes. My box. And why is my box important to me?

  MARTA. Ah, it is art, you say.

  GAYLE. Well . . . yes. I mean, it’s my work and I’ve asked you several times not to treat it as rubbish. So why is it that I find it in the rubbish bin again?

  MARTA. It look like rubbish.

  GAYLE (trying to keep her cool). That is not for you to decide, thank you. I have an exhibition in two months and it’s really really important that . . . Please, when anything looks to you like it could belong to my boxes, leave it as it is. Now . . . I’ve been doing the inspection today.