Martin Crimp, Plays 3

by Martin Crimp

  liberate and overthrow the state shit

  so that when a banker got shot say

  taking his kids to school

  or if an army officer

  burned alive in a nightclub explosion

  or if some boy

  some soldier even younger than they were

  who had been defending their right

  to despise their expensive education

  came home on TV in a body-bag

  that didn’t even contain his whole body

  they’d find that oh yes they’d find that not just

  acceptable

  but exhilarating.

  So what if Robert never grew up?

  What if he’d cut his hair and taken that job

  out of perversity?

  What if for him this word ‘humane’

  was a sick joke?

  (Smiles.) Tell me I’m wrong.

  Tell me he didn’t calculate that one day

  he would make me responsible for treating my husband

  like a monkey in an experiment.

  Housekeeper Well of course you’re wrong.

  Amelia What time is it?

  Physiotherapist Nine.

  Amelia Who’s called? Has anyone called?

  Housekeeper You’re tired. You’re imagining things.

  Amelia Oh am I?

  Housekeeper Of course you are.

  Amelia You see that is exactly what I would expect to be told by a person with no imagination.

  James Nice dress, Mum.

  Amelia Jamie?

  James has appeared, holding the pillow he took when he left: now dirty and torn. Amelia puts her arms round him. James does not respond.

  (Smiles.) Look at you. I thought you were your father.

  James No Mum, I’m not my father.

  Amelia Don’t you think? Doesn’t he look exactly like / his father?

  Housekeeper Where is your father, Jamie?

  James Delayed. (Grins.)

  Slight pause.

  Shall we eat something?

  Amelia I’m sorry?

  James I said shall we eat something, Mum—I’m / hungry.

  Amelia What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with your eyes?

  James I’m hungry. I’ve been travelling. I’d like to eat. Nothing’s wrong with my eyes—I’m just tired and hungry. (Grins.) Nice dress.

  Slight pause.

  Amelia You just / said that.

  James Maybe a bit tight.

  Amelia What?

  James Tight. Maybe a / bit tight.

  Amelia That’s the style. It’s a tight style.

  James It’s a tight style.

  Amelia Yes.

  James Wine?

  Amelia What?

  James Wine?

  Amelia Yes please.

  He pours Amelia a glass of wine.

  James Well, come on, Mum—drink it.

  Amelia Aren’t you having any?

  James Come on.

  Housekeeper Ignore him, Amelia.

  James I beg your pardon?

  Beautician Leave your mum alone, James.

  James Fuck off, bitch.

  Amelia Jamie?

  James Don’t you tell me what to do in my own house. I want all three of you out of this room now and I want you to take that pillow and I want you to fucking clean it. Go on—out. Drink the wine, Mum. (She begins to drink.) All of it.

  As Housekeeper, Physiotherapist and Beautician leave the room, Amelia drinks the glass of wine. James immediately refills it.

  Well don’t you want to hear about Africa?

  Amelia Of course I do—how was / Africa?

  James Africa? Africa was great, Mum. On Sunday mornings the church bells ring and all the Africans get into their African jeeps and drive to church under the autumn leaves.

  Amelia Oh?

  James And in the afternoons—what?—does that surprise you?—because in the afternoons, while their parents are assembling flat-pack African furniture with hexagonal keys, the kids hang out in the Mexican restaurants or experiment with sex or with rocket-propelled grenades—more wine, Mum?

  Slight pause.

  Amelia I didn’t realise that they—

  James That they what, Mum? Had Mexican food?

  Amelia Had autumn—had autumn leaves.

  James You see, at first I blamed the Mexican cuisine. Because I wake up and I can hear Dad vomiting in the bathroom and naturally I think it’s the Mexican cuisine, Mum—that Tex-Mex African pizza—that snake-meat enchilada dished up at the victory celebration in the officers’ canteen—but no. No, Mum—it’s not the food—that’s not why my father—who can walk into fire, remember—walk into fire to drag out a wounded soldier and walk with that wounded soldier on his back for ten hours across sand—that’s not why my father is in that bathroom gripping both sides of the sink the way an old man trying to get to the post office holds on to his walking-frame. That’s not why he’s sucking in air—sucking and sucking in the air, Mum, like he’s drowning in his own spit.

  And there’s this thing on his back, Mum—no—not on his back but under it—this thing under his skin—like an animal under his skin—it’s crawling—it’s crawling under his skin—like an animal, Mum, trying to slide out from underneath—which is the chemical—the animal under the skin—the pain—the chemical—the thing your friend brought—the gift—the gift / your friend brought—

  Amelia He’s not my friend. / Stop this.

  James —the gift of pain—the chemical—your chemical under the skin. (Slight pause.) And when he turns round it’s his eyes—it’s worked its way up his spine and into his eyes—he’s got these eyes like a cat in the sun—pin-point eyes—he isn’t human, Mum—that’s what you and your friend have done to him—

  Amelia Stop it.

  James —not even human. Which is why when he talks to me—when he says ‘It’s going dark: give me your hand’—when he says ‘Help me, help me, give me your fucking hand’ there is no way I am going to let this person—no—sorry—thing—no way I am going to let this thing with the pin-point fucking eyes that used to be my dad even touch me.

  Then it’s TV drama, Mum. It’s straight-to-video medical-emergency bullshit:

  ‘Chemical attack’ blah blah blah.

  ‘Atropine ten milligrams.’

  ‘Oxygen.’

  ‘Ventilate.’ (He grins.)

  So perhaps you would like to finish this glass of wine and explain to me why you have killed my father.

  He pours wine into her glass, making it overflow. Amelia tries to stop him. The glasses smash.

  Laughter: Housekeeper, Physiotherapist and Beautician, dressed up for an evening out, can be seen leaving the house.

  Beautician (calls) ’Night, Amelia! ’Night, Jamie!

  Housekeeper (calls) Back door’s locked. Remember those children are still watching TV. Amelia?

  Beautician Don’t bother—she’s not listening.

  Physiotherapist Love those shoes.

  Beautician Found them in her wardrobe—don’t / tell anyone.

  Housekeeper (calls) Make sure those children / get to bed.

  Physiotherapist Let’s just get out of here. Come on. Sweet dreams, Jamie.

  Beautician Shh. Stop it.

  Laughing and joking, the three women leave. Pause. James continues to stare at Amelia.

  Amelia (softly) Nicola? Rachel? (louder) Rachel? I want you.

  James They’ve gone, Mum.

  Amelia (calls out) I want this mess cleared up. I want these things put away immediately. Rachel! Cathy!

  James There’s nobody here—they all / went out.

  Amelia (calls out) Nicola! Rachel! Clear up this mess!

  James They’ve left, Mum. There’s nobody here. I am waiting for your / explanation.

  Amelia Africa sounds lovely. I hope you took photographs. I’d love to see those leaves—and all the restaurants—I’d no idea—I thought it was all idleness and destruction—(Calls.) Laela?r />
  James You know nothing, Mum: and that is because your life is entirely devoid of content. You don’t even leave / the house.

  Amelia (calls) Laela!

  James It’s like you live in a / bunker.

  Amelia Laela! Turn off that / television and come in here!

  James Africa? It’s not Africa that’s idle and destructive, Mum, it’s you. Don’t you understand / what you’ve done?

  Amelia (smiles) Sweetheart. There you are. I’d like you to meet my son.

  Laela has appeared. Slight pause.

  Well, come on. Come on, Laela: meet my son.

  She grips Laela’s hand and pulls her into the room.

  Laela, this is James. Jamie, this is Laela. What d’you think, James? As a man. Is she worth it? You don’t need to look so blank—I’m asking you if she’s worth it—well?

  James You’re hurting her.

  Amelia Is that right? Am I hurting you, sweetheart?

  Laela No.

  Amelia You see: Laela says no. Laela’s used to pain. She’s used to dismemberment and death. Laela doesn’t need you to explain to me how Laela feels. Do you, Laela?

  Laela No.

  Amelia How d’you feel, Laela?

  Slight pause.

  Laela I feel good.

  Amelia You see: Laela feels good. So what d’you say, Jamie? Worth it? Come on. You’re a man. You can judge. How many people would you kill?

  James I don’t understand. Who are you? What’s she doing / in the house?

  Amelia Don’t you? Don’t you? Well maybe you’re not a man at all then. What do you say, Laela? Is this a man? Is it? A person who thinks it’s—what?—brave is it, to come here and terrorise his mother? A person who is too frightened—by his own admission—Laela—is too frightened to take his own dying father’s hand?

  James backs away.

  No—Jamie—I’m sorry—I’m very very sorry—please—please—that was wrong of me—please.

  James goes out. In the silence, a plane passes. Then:

  Laela I turned off the TV.

  Amelia Mmm?

  Laela I turned off / the TV.

  Amelia Thank you, Laela.

  Laela I’m sorry about the drawer.

  Amelia The drawer doesn’t matter.

  Laela I will punish the boy.

  Amelia Did he eat his yoghurt?

  Laela Yes, but he spit out the fruit.

  Amelia Spat, Laela—spat out the fruit.

  Pause.

  Can you drive a car?

  Laela Can I …?

  Amelia Drive. Can you drive a car?

  Laela No.

  Amelia Neither can I. If we could drive a car, we could drive to the airport. We could go shopping at the airport. What d’you think?

  Laela Buy shoes.

  Amelia We could buy shoes. We could buy luggage on wheels.

  Pause.

  What have I done, Laela?

  Laela What have you …?

  Amelia DONE. WHAT HAVE I DONE?

  Pause.

  Laela Can we really go to the airport?

  Amelia Of course we can, sweetheart. But first you’re going to pour me a glass of wine. Let’s have a glass of wine together, shall we? Then what we’ll do is we’ll take the General’s car and we’ll drive to the airport and meet the General—yes? The two wives will drive to the airport in their husband’s car to collect their husband from the airport—what d’you think? Good idea? Everybody drives—it can’t be / difficult.

  Laela It’s broken.

  Amelia Even really stupid stupid people drive a car—what?

  Laela These glasses / are broken.

  Amelia Then fetch some more.

  Laela goes out.

  I know what we can do, Laela:

  how about we put ourselves—mmm?—

  through the machines—

  what d’you say?

  How about we lie down on the rubber track

  and ask to be X-rayed

  because obviously

  there’s obviously something inside of us

  Laela

  some sharp object

  some spike

  something inside of us

  a prohibited object we didn’t know about

  but that will show up on the screen close

  because I think it must be very close to our hearts

  —don’t you think?—that spike?

  So they’ll ask us to strip.

  And when we’ve stripped

  (which I hope we will do like grown-ups without complaining)

  one of those women with a rubber-glove

  will push her hand

  like a midwife Laela

  will push her hand deeper and deeper into us

  until the tip of her finger rests

  just so

  on the spike.

  Laela reappears, holding glasses.

  And she’ll say

  ‘I suspect you of terror.

  You have a concealed weapon.

  I can feel it next to your heart.’

  ‘Oh really?’ I’ll say ‘D’you mean love?’And she’ll say ‘Not love

  no

  I’m talking about this spike.

  Have you concealed this spike deliberately?

  Or could it have been placed there

  without your knowledge?’

  And I’ll lie to her

  I’ll say ‘Deliberately of course.’

  Because otherwise

  I could be mistaken for a victim

  and that’s not a part

  Laela

  that I’m prepared to play.

  Amelia clenches her fist around one of the shattered wine-glasses and squeezes as hard as she can. When she finally opens it, some of the glass drops out, some remains sticking to her hand.

  (Smiles.) Let’s look for the car keys. We’re driving to the airport.

  Part Three

  A month later. Saturday morning.

  Beauty treatment: the Housekeeper is having the fingernails of her right hand painted by the Beautician, while the Physiotherapist sits apart, leafing through a women’s magazine.

  There’s a new object in the room: a small stainless-steel trolley containing items (cotton-wool pads, bottle of alcohol, medication, towels, thermometer, plastic gloves etc.) to care for an invalid. There may also be a wheelchair, and perhaps a bowl of fruit.

  Housekeeper

  Hairbrush.

  Lamp.

  Light-switch.

  Doors—naturally.

  The bed.

  Bathroom mirror.

  Bathroom sink.

  Bathroom towels.

  Telephone.

  Medicine cabinet and all inside the medicine cabinet—naturally.

  Beautician (faint laugh) That’s revolting.

  Housekeeper

  Well, you asked.

  Jewellery box.

  Beautician Don’t.

  Housekeeper

  Jewellery box.

  Toothbrush.

  Physiotherapist Toothbrush?

  Housekeeper

  Toothbrush: that’s what I said.

  Toothbrush.

  Hairbrush.

  The bed.

  The pillow.

  Nightdress under the pillow—pure silk—ruined.

  Oh, and underwear.

  The underwear drawer.

  Edge of the kitchen table.

  Wall of the passageway.

  Door—naturally—door to the garage.

  Garage light-switch.

  Wall around the light-switch.

  Car windscreen.

  The inside as well as the outside of the glass.

  Car keys.

  Mirror.

  Pause. She examines her free hand.

  What are these ridges in my fingernails?

  Beautician Stress does that. They grow out.

  Housekeeper I hope so.

  Physiotherapist So you had to clear it all up?

  Housekeepe
r What? The blood? No. That’s what I’m saying. They told me to leave it. ‘Don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.’

  Physiotherapist Even the toothbrush?

  Housekeeper Well exactly—it’s not a crime to brush your teeth—it’s not a crime to be broken-hearted. Is it?

  Beautician Keep your hand still.

  Housekeeper Well, is it? And they’re asking me where I’ve been—why wasn’t I in the house? And I say, ‘Well it’s my night off.’ And they go, ‘Just tell us where you’ve been.’ So I tell them where I’ve been: I’ve been to the Star of Izmir. ‘What’s that?’ So I explain it’s an all-night Turkish restaurant close to the North Terminal, hotbed of international terrorism.

  Physiotherapist (laughs) You didn’t.

  Housekeeper I most certainly did, Cathy—because these people are starting to make me very angry. They’re all over the house like flies on a plate of ham, and of course I’ve got Jamie acting more like a six-year-old than an adult, blaming himself as if that that was any use because they’d had some kind of argument about the thing that happened to his father and he’d stormed out apparently and left her. Is this finished? (i.e. nails)

  Beautician Uh-hu.

  Housekeeper (getting up and admiring her fingernails) Because he’s the one you see who saw the light on in the garage windows—I really like this colour: thank you—he saw the light on but it wasn’t until he realised she was running the engine that it dawned on him what might be happening. And by the time he’d got the doors open, it was too late. There she was—hair all brushed—curled up on the back seat like a baby.

  Slight pause.

  What is this colour called?

  Beautician Spangled Night.

  Housekeeper It’s lovely.

  Physiotherapist He looks nice in a suit, though.

  Housekeeper I’m sorry?

  Physiotherapist Jamie—looks really nice in / a suit.

  Housekeeper He’s certainly had some growing up to do, if that’s what you mean.

  Beautician So what is it they’re talking about in there?

  Housekeeper (lowers voice) What they’re talking about is responsibility. Not about suits, Cathy, but about assuming responsibility. (softer and softer) And I would ask both you girls to remember that as far as we are concerned … this is a perfectly normal day. Understood?