Martin Crimp, Plays 3

by Martin Crimp

  Clair Oh?

  Jenny Of course not.

  Chris Then why have you—?

  Jenny Yes?

  Chris Then why have you—?

  Jenny Yes? Come? Why have I come?

  Chris Exactly.

  Clair To talk to me.

  Chris Mmm?

  Clair To talk to me.

  Jenny That’s right.

  Chris I’ll take your coat.

  Jenny No. Keep away.

  Chris I’m sorry?

  Jenny I said: keep away from me.

  She smiles. Slight pause. To Clair:

  Let me explain. I work hard. I get tired. I’m finding it difficult to sleep. My husband’s gone to war. Not to kill. Of course not. He’s a doctor. He has a gun—because all soldiers have guns—but you’d laugh if you saw the tiny tiny gun they give to doctors—no use at all for killing people—not the large numbers of people you have to kill in a war. It’s a secret war. I can’t tell you where it is, or I’d be putting lives at risk. But I can tell you that what they’re doing now, in the secret war, is they’re attacking a city—pulverising it, in fact—yes—turning this city—the squares, the shops, the parks, the leisure centres and the schools—turning the whole thing into a fine grey dust. Because—and I have my husband’s word for this—everybody in that city has to be killed. Not by him. Of course not. He’s a doctor. But all the same the city has to be pulverised so that the boys—our boys—can safely go in and kill the people who are left—the people, I mean, still clinging on to life. (Slight pause.) Because it’s amazing how people can cling on to life—I’m a nurse—I see it every day—I see people cling on to life almost every day—and it’s the same—according to my husband—in this city: people in all sorts of unexpected places, clinging on to life. So the boys—what the boys have to do is they have to go in and kill the people clinging on to life. And just to make things clear, they’ve got blue cards, and on the cards, that’s what it says: kill. And I know what you’re thinking: you’re thinking it must be pretty easy to kill people who are simply clinging on to life—any fool could do that, you’re thinking—it must be like—what?—going round your house before you go away on holiday—pulling the plugs out. But no—ah—well—no—because—you see—and I have my husband’s word for this—the people clinging on to life are the most dangerous people of all. (Slight pause.) Say you’re one of the boys—and you’re patrolling a street and you notice an open hatch—and the hatch leads to a drain—so you go into the drain—you go into the drain because you think: hmm—perhaps there’s life in this drain—perhaps there are people clinging on to life in this drain. And yes—listen—sounds—scratching—sucking sounds—signs of life in the dark—because it’s pretty dark—of course it is—down there—deep under the city—in the drain. So you drop your goggles over your eyes and you can see—yes—actually see—according to my husband—in the dark—you can see the whole grey-green world of the drain using your goggles in the dark. (Slight pause.) And yes—look—here are the signs—here are the signs of people clinging on to life: rags, blood, coffee cups—and the stink of course—I’m a nurse—I smell it every day—the particular stink people make when they’re clinging and clinging on to life. And there they are! ‘Suddenly’, like it says in a book, there they are: a bright green woman with a bright grey baby at her breast—right there at the end of the drain—sucking—that was the sound you heard—a woman giving suck. (Slight pause.) So the boy thinks: (without characterising) ‘Hmm, fuck this, fuck this you bitch. I can’t just—well—kill. I can’t kill a woman with a baby at her breast you cunt, you fucking bitch. Hmm, I know what I’ll do: I’ll get out my blue card and I’ll check the rules, I’ll see what it says about this, about mothers and their babies, in the rules.’ So he reaches for his blue card to check the rules and that’s when they’re on him. Angry fuckers clinging to life in the drain. Angry and unscrupulous perpetrators of terror who’ll stop at nothing to stay alive—use a mother and her baby simply to stay alive. A brick splits the soldier’s skull. And the last thing the baby sees as its mother uses her finger to slip its mouth off her nipple is a serrated kitchen knife—and I have my husband’s word for this—a small knife with a stainless serrated blade being used to cut the soldier’s heart out—d’you see? (Slight pause.) I said: d’you see?

  Clair Well …

  Jenny Do you?

  Clair Yes—of course—well no—see what?

  Chris See what exactly?

  Jenny I’m not talking to you. Keep out of it.

  Clair See what, Jenny?

  Jenny How difficult it is to sleep.

  Clair Oh?

  Jenny How difficult it is—yes—for me to sleep in the daytime with all this on my mind when your children are running up and down shouting and screaming. D’you see?

  Clair (faint laugh) What—d’you want me to lock them indoors?

  Jenny Would you?

  Clair What?

  Jenny Would you lock them indoors?

  Clair Of course not. Of course we wouldn’t lock our children indoors. Would we?

  Chris Of course not.

  Jenny Where are they now then?

  Chris They’re playing. They’re playing in the playroom.

  Clair That’s right: they’re playing in the playroom.

  Jenny Locked in?

  Clair No.

  Jenny Locked in the playroom?

  Clair No.

  Slight pause. Clair and Chris exchange a glance and chuckle. Softly:

  What makes you think we lock our children in the playroom, Jenny? The playroom doesn’t even have a key.

  Chris It doesn’t have a lock, let alone a key.

  Clair I think it has a lock.

  Chris Does it?

  Clair I think it does—yes—have a lock. But the point is—Jenny—

  Chris I’ll go and look.

  Clair What?

  Chris You’ve made me curious. I’ll go and look.

  He goes. Slight pause.

  Clair (lowering voice) I’m afraid he’s got like this since he lost his job. He’s bored and he’s always looking for things to do. That’s why he wanted to take your coat. To feel useful. And when he brought it back to you, he wouldn’t’ve just handed you the coat—oh no—he’s started holding my coat up and expecting me to slip my arm gratefully into the sleeve, like some character out of those old films you talked about. (Smiles.) And of course being a man he makes them play these games—these horrible noisy games—makes them scream—shout out—shriek—tosses them into the air—pretends—I hate it—I can’t watch—to drop them on their heads—when they’d rather—obviously—watch TV or a blackbird—well, wouldn’t you?—building its nest. You’re right, Jenny—we’re women—we don’t have to bang our fists on the table to make a point and the point you’re making is a fair one. And the fact that summer’s coming—obviously—makes it even worse. Because if you shut your windows, you won’t be able to breathe, and if you open them—because I do understand this—even when the shouting and screaming stops—if it stops—instead of going to sleep, you’ll lie there waiting and waiting for it to start again, even if it never does—a kind of torture, really. (Smiles.) I don’t know what the solution is, Jenny. I can ask my husband—what—to cut his toenails—I can turn away my head if I don’t want to be kissed (although of course that’s more dangerous)—but what I can’t do—Jenny—is ask him not to play with his own children—in the daytime—when he has no job—in his own garden.

  Jenny What then?

  Clair Mmm?

  Jenny What can you do?

  Clair There’s nothing I can do. I’m very sorry.

  Chris comes back, laughing.

  Chris Incredible.

  Clair What is?

  Chris They are locked in.

  Clair What d’you mean?

  Chris You were right: there is a lock—they’ve locked themselves in—they’ve found a key.

  Clair What key?

  Chris Well they mu
st’ve found one.

  Clair What did you say to them?

  Chris Well I told them to unlock the door immediately.

  Jenny They’ve found a key?

  Chris I can only think it was under the carpet. They must’ve pulled up the carpet and found a key—yes.

  Jenny (laughs) Devils.

  Chris Yes.

  Clair What did you say to them?

  Chris I’ve told you: I asked them to come out. I asked them what they thought they were playing at. I asked them if they realised just how dangerous it was to pull up a carpet and lock themselves in a room. Because now, I said to them, now, even if you get the door unlocked, there’s no guarantee that you’ll be able get the door open, because it will jam against the carpet. You’ll be trapped, I said, you’ll be trapped in that playroom, and if either of you has an accident in there—cuts yourself, for example, and starts losing blood—then how will Mummy and Daddy be able to help you?

  Slight pause.

  Clair What did they say?

  Chris Nothing.

  Clair You’re sure they’re in there?

  Chris Well of course they’re in there. The door’s locked.

  Jenny She means maybe they’ve locked the door from the outside then run away.

  Chris I know exactly what she means—I don’t need you to explain to me what she means—but the fact is, is I heard their voices and if they haven’t unlocked that door in another—(Looks at watch.) what shall we say?—forty-five seconds?—

  He concentrates on his watch. The two women look at him. Ten seconds of this.

  Scene III

  Chris exactly as he was, concentrating on his watch. After ten seconds, Clair appears, in a light summer dress.

  Clair You look funny. What’re you doing?

  Chris Mmm? (Looks up.)

  Clair What’re you doing?

  Chris Funny?

  Clair Yes. What’re you doing?

  Chris (smiles) You’ve been on that phone for over an hour.

  Clair Have I? Sorry. I’ve been talking to one of my writers. He’s inviting me to Lisbon. In October. Did you want to use the phone then?

  Chris October.

  Clair Yes—well—I say one of my writers, but it’s the same writer—the one I met at the train station—Mohamed?—remember?—he’d lost his child? Anyway he’s organising a conference—a conference about translation—and he’s asked me to give a paper.

  Chris Mohamed.

  Clair Yes—don’t you remember—last Christmas—he’d lost his little girl.

  Slight pause.

  Chris Won’t it be hot?

  Clair I like the heat. You mean in Lisbon?

  Chris Yes.

  Clair I like the heat. You know that. (Slight pause.) Is something funny?

  Chris No.

  Clair Then what does that look mean?

  Chris It simply means I suddenly realise how much I love you.

  Clair Oh?

  Chris Yes.

  Clair You suddenly realise?

  Chris Yes.

  Clair Fuck off.

  Chris What?

  Clair I said: fuck off. You’re only saying you love me because you feel bad about yourself and you hope that saying you love me will make you feel like a better person than you really are.

  Chris On the contrary: I’m saying I love you because I feel good about myself. I have some very good news.

  Clair Oh?

  Chris Yes.

  Clair Is it about work?

  Chris Yes.

  Clair You’ve found a job.

  Chris Yes. (Slight pause.) I’ve found a job. Aren’t you happy for me?

  Clair I’m very happy for you. (Slight pause.) What’s wrong?

  Chris Kiss me.

  Clair No.

  Chris Hold my hand.

  Clair No—why?—not now. (Slight pause.) It’s hot. (Slight pause, smiles.) Well anyway how did this happen?

  Chris Won’t you kiss me?

  Clair Not now. Not when it’s hot.

  Chris I thought you liked the heat.

  Clair What? I do like the heat. Of course I like the heat. But not being kissed in it, that’s all.

  Chris In which case I’m sorry.

  Clair Don’t apologise. Impose your will.

  Chris What?

  Clair Impose your will.

  Slight pause.

  Chris You mean force you to kiss me?

  Clair (laughs) How could you force me to kiss you?

  Chris I could come over to you. I could force you.

  Clair Oh?

  Chris Yes.

  Clair How will you do that?

  Chris I’ll show you. I’ll come over to you. I’ll make you. It’s simple.

  Clair Is it?

  Chris It’s really very simple: I’ll come over to you and I’ll force you to kiss me.

  Clair Go on then.

  Chris If that’s what you want.

  Clair Go on then.

  Chris Is that what you want?

  Clair Why should I want that? What kind of woman would want that?

  He doesn’t move.

  Jeanette?

  Chris Who?

  Clair Jeanette?

  Slight pause.

  Chris Is that what you want?

  Clair It’s no good asking me what I want, you have to impose your will. You have to impose your will or you’ll be (snaps fingers) out, you’ll be (snaps fingers) out of that plate-glass door before you’ve even arranged our photos on your desk. Because the world has changed—oh yes—and you’ll have to be much stronger than this.

  Chris I am much stronger than this.

  Clair Then prove it.

  A slight pause. He goes over to her. He touches her face, touches her hair. She doesn’t react but she doesn’t resist. At the last moment he goes to kiss her, but she twists her head violently away.

  No! (Smiles.) And anyway how did this happen, how did all of this happen? How did you come to get this job or whatever it is—mmm?

  Chris It’s quite a long story, as a matter of fact. And I can’t remember if I told you what happened at the end of last year but at the end of last year when the restructuring began, Jeanette got herself voted onto the board and the first thing she did in her new capacity as executive member was to quite unexpectedly force Bobby Williams—I think I told you this—to resign. And early in the New Year perhaps I didn’t mention that Bobby was found dead in a hotel room in Paris where he’d told his family he was going for a job interview.

  Well soon after the funeral in—hmm, when was that?—March?—I’d gone down to the supermarket one evening to buy meat and because I couldn’t find the quantity of meat I wanted in the pre-packed section—I mean in the plastic boxes where they put the meat on the little absorbent mats—I had to go to the meat counter and there was something very familiar about the man behind the meat counter and it turned out we’d been at school together. I know—yes—incredible. I didn’t know who he was, but he recognised me straight away, he said, ‘I can see you don’t remember me, but I know who you are, I recognised you straight away, you’re Christopher, we went to the same school, it’s the hat.’ I said, ‘How d’you mean—the hat?’ He said, ‘No one recognises me in this hat.’ So he took off the hat—one of those white muslin trilby things they make them wear in the supermarket and I concentrated on his eyes and I realised there was in fact something really familiar about this person’s eyes. So I said to him, ‘Yes, you’re right, I do remember you, but I’m sorry, even without the hat I don’t remember your name.’ So he goes, ‘You don’t have to remember it: my name’s right here.’ And what he meant of course was he was wearing a name badge and on the badge was ‘Sam’. Of course. Sam. Sam from school. Jesus Christ. So I asked him how things were going—how life was treating him—which was really stupid because I could see that life was treating him like shit: wearing a badge, dressed in a stupid hat—but no—oh no—life was treating him well, he said—the pay and conditions were well ab
ove average—there was a friendly atmosphere and generous discounts for staff—job security—good prospects—he’d no complaints—what about myself? So I explained to him that I was … well … what’s the word … (Bows head.) Hmm.

  Slight pause. Lifts head.

  He’s changed into this navy-blue tracksuit and we’re sitting in this pub and he buys me a drink and he says, ‘You probably don’t remember the day you spat on me—spat all over my clothes—spat all over my face—cornered me in the classroom with that friend of yours and spat on me. You probably don’t remember that, Christopher. You probably don’t remember spitting on my hair. Cheers.’ (Bows head.)

  Slight pause. Head still bowed.

  We’re sitting in the pub, we’ve had a few drinks, there’s me, there’s Sam, and now there’s Sam’s friend Phil who works in the warehouse, drives a fork-lift. Who’s your friend, says Phil. This, says Sam, is my old friend Christopher from school, done very well for himself, lost his job, arsehole, scuse my French. Oh, says Phil, sorry to hear it mate, seen Indy? Not here yet? Maybe it’s the flight, says Sam, maybe there’s fog, where’s she coming from? Abu Dhabi, says Phil, fucked if there’s fog there, what’s she playing at? Give her a chance, says Sam, beautiful girl like that.