Martin Crimp, Plays 3
Page 11
Slight pause. Lifts head.
Okay—listen—I’m on my own—I’m in the pub—I’ve had a few drinks—Indy walks in—I know it’s her from the logo on her jacket—the skirt—the works—the little bag on wheels—Indy, I say to her, Phil’s gone—I’m really sorry but he wouldn’t wait. Beg your pardon? says Indy—who are you? where’s Phil? what’s going on? So I try to explain—about the meat—about Sam from school—his eyes—the white hat—treating him well—no complaints—and she’s looking at me—that’s right—like that—the way you’re looking at me now—the same disdain—this girl Indy—the same disdain—the way she looks at the men in business class when they order champagne—touch her arm and order champagne for the girls they’ve left their wives for—silver-haired men watching the rivers turn to threads—cities to maps—whole oceans to a field of sparks—utter contempt—yes—like that—like you—that look—BECAUSE WHAT IS IT EXACTLY YOU’RE TRYING TO SAY TO ME?
Silence.
Clair Look. I’m just going to Lisbon for a few days. It won’t be till October. I don’t despise you. Of course I don’t. And why should you care about the opinion of a complete stranger in a pub? It’s not as if you’ll ever see her again.
Chris No.
Clair Is it?
Chris No.
Clair Will you?
Chris No. (Slight pause.) Jesus Christ, no, I hope not.
Clair (smiles) Then stop thinking about it.
Chris I’m not thinking about it.
Clair Good—because you should stop thinking about it.
Chris Well I’m not.
Slight pause.
Clair I’m so happy for you.
Chris Oh?
Clair It’s such wonderful news.
Chris Yes.
Clair You’ve changed completely.
Chris Yes. What? Have I?
Clair Yes, you’ve completely changed. You’re much more …
Chris Am I?
Clair Of course you are.
Chris More what?
Clair More confident.
Chris Am I?
Clair Of course you are. Look at you.
Chris More confident.
Clair Yes. Look at you. Much more confident. You’re a different man.
Slight pause: he bows his head.
Well don’t you feel like a completely different man?
Chris Yes.
Clair Your whole attitude’s changed.
Chris Yes.
Clair Even the way you’re standing.
Chris Yes.
Pause. His head remains bowed.
Yes I suppose you’re / right.
Clair Because let’s face it: you’ve been impossible. You’ve stormed round this house shouting and slamming doors ever since Christmas. I close all the windows, but even then—well as you know, even then the neighbours turn up here complaining they can’t sleep—and I can see them looking at the children, wondering if there are bruises under their dressing-up clothes. When I’ve tried to work you’ve sat at the other end of the table writing shopping lists, or stood behind me, criticising my choice of words. You’ve almost stopped being interested in sex—and when you have been interested, it’s felt like a business opportunity, or a bank loan—forgive me—arranged over the phone. But now—
Chris Yes.
Clair But now—
Chris You’re right.
Clair But now—
Chris Now what?
Clair Because I’d been dreading summer, but now your whole attitude’s changed.
Chris Even the way I’m standing.
Clair Yes.
Chris Even the way the trees look. Even the roses have changed.
Clair Yes. Even the forget-me-nots.
Chris You know what we ought to do.
Clair What’s that?
Chris We ought to celebrate. We ought to all get in the car and celebrate. We ought to all drive up the motorway into the oncoming traffic and celebrate. Don’t you think? Or I know what: invite someone round.
Clair Who?
Chris People—people we know—friends. Bobby for example.
Clair What d’you mean: Bobby?
Chris Bobby—Bobby Williams—invite him round to celebrate—eh? Get him to bring Jeanette.
Slight pause.
Clair (laughs) I don’t think that’s funny.
Chris He’s a friend. He’s someone we know.
Clair (laughs) Stop it.
Chris Because there are a number of things, sweetheart, I don’t quite understand—and some of them are things I’ll never understand—and I’m quite happy for there to be some things I’ll never understand—but one of the things I don’t understand but that I really would like to understand is why you say that it’s hot. Because—well—what with the trees and so on—what with the shade and the air—because I can feel it—moving through the house—see what I mean? (Slight pause.) You see what I mean about the heat? You see what I mean about not wanting to be kissed?
Clair (laughs) Who doesn’t want to be kissed?
Chris You don’t.
Clair (laughs) What makes you say that?
Chris Well do you?
Clair (laughs) What? Want to be kissed?
Chris Do you?
Clair It’s no good asking.
Chris Mmm?
Clair It’s no good asking me. (Slight pause.) It’s no good asking a woman if she wants / to be kissed.
Chris Well shall I assume that you do, then? Shall I come over to you? Shall I assume—mmm?—that that’s what you want? (Slight pause.) Listen: I’m going to assume that that’s what you want.
Clair Go on then.
Chris I’m going—you’re right—to impose my will.
Clair Go on then.
He doesn’t move. Slight pause.
Chris Are you crying? Why are you crying? Don’t cry. Why are you crying?
Clair BECAUSE I AM ANGRY.
On this line, music in the distance from Jenny’s flat: Schubert, ‘Moments Musicaux’, No. 3 in F minor. Pause. The music plays.
Chris I don’t understand. You were laughing. Just a moment ago you were laughing (Slight pause.) Bruises? Why did you say that? Why would anyone think we’d harm our children? We love our children—love’s what brought them into the world. Well didn’t it—didn’t it?
Pause. Music continues.
You’re being unreasonable.
Clair (wiping her eyes) Where’re you going?
Chris I’m going to watch TV.
Clair I thought you wanted to celebrate.
Chris I’m going to hoover then I’m going to watch TV.
Clair But you haven’t even told me what the job is.
He looks back at her for a moment, then goes, leaving her alone. A few more seconds and the piece of music, which has begun in the minor, comes to an end in the major.
Scene IV
Chris is listening to a girl of what? 9 or 10? reciting poems. The girl wears a coat over a nurse’s uniform, exactly like Jenny in Scene ii.
On stage is a concert grand piano, with the lid closed.
Pause.
Chris (smiles) Go on.
Girl
There once was a pianist called Jo
Who played every piece far too slow.
When she got to the end
She would turn to a friend
And say: ‘You don’t have to tell me. I know.’
Pause.
Chris Go on.
Girl
There once was a girl called Jo Gupta
Who slept with a famous conductor.
But her friends were naive
And just wouldn’t believe
A famous conductor had fucked her.
Pause.
Chris Go on.
Girl
There once was a child in a drain
Who longed for the sound of the rain.
But when the storm broke
The poor child awoke
In a str
eam of unbearable pain.
Slight pause. Chris chuckles. Girl smiles.
Chris Who taught you that?
Girl Mummy did.
Slight pause.
Chris Take off your coat, sweetheart. You look hot. You can’t play the piano with your coat on.
Girl I’m not going to play the piano.
Chris Yes you are. You’re going to let me hear the piece you’re going to play Mummy when she comes home. Take off your coat. Come on.
She unbuttons her coat. He takes it and holds it. Her uniform, though tiny, is not a ‘play’ uniform but a precise copy of that worn by Jenny.
How are those patients today? How’s Charlie?
Girl Charlie’s lost a lot of blood.
Chris I hope not.
Girl Now he’s on a drip.
Chris I hope it’s not all over the playroom carpet, sweetheart, like it was last time. (Slight pause.) Why are you wearing a coat anyway?
Girl We were outside.
Chris Oh?
Girl Yes, we were watching a blackbird build its nest.
Chris That’s nice.
Girl It sang to us.
Chris That’s very nice, only I don’t think you were watching a blackbird build its nest. I don’t think blackbirds make nests—sweetheart—in October. I think they perch on TV aerials—I think they hop across the grass keeping their legs together and stand suddenly very still, with their heads tipped to the side—but I don’t think they make nests.
Girl We saw it. We both saw it. It had moss in its beak.
Chris Then how did it sing? (Slight pause.) October is when the leaves change colour, not when birds build their nests—mmm? Aren’t you collecting pretty leaves at school? Aren’t you getting out nice bright paints and printing leaf-shapes onto sheets of white paper? Eh? (Smiles.) Aren’t your teachers explaining about the seasons? Haven’t they told you how the earth leans away from the sun? (Slight pause.) What about conkers? When I was your age my coat pockets were full of them—but yours—well …
He’s still holding her coat. He reaches towards one of the pockets. She makes a tiny move as if to stop him, then checks herself. He notices this, meets her eyes for a moment, smiles, then pushes his hand into the pocket.
What’s this, sweetheart? What’s this in your pocket?
He withdraws his hand: there’s a red sticky substance on his fingers. He lifts his fingers to his nose and sniffs—or perhaps tastes.
Girl It was Charlie.
Chris What was Charlie?
Girl The blood. It was Charlie.
Chris It’s no good blaming Charlie. Charlie is too small.
Girl He’s not too small to be bad. You should punish him.
Chris He’s not bad.
Girl Hit him.
Chris Don’t talk like that.
Girl Punish him. Hit him.
Chris Hey hey hey—I said I don’t want to hear you talk like that. Understood?
He wipes his fingers on the coat and drops the coat on the ground.
Let me hear your piece, sweetheart.
Girl And he opens doors.
Chris Does what?
Girl He is bad. He opens doors. He found Mummy’s writing.
Chris You mean her work. Well I hope you’ve made it tidy.
Girl Not work—writing. She’s been writing in a secret diary. He opened her wardrobe and he found a secret diary under her shoes.
Slight pause.
Chris Well I hope you haven’t been reading it.
Girl Charlie can’t read.
Chris I’m not talking about Charlie. (Slight pause.) You do know that it’s wrong to read somebody’s secret diary. (Slight pause.) Think how you’d feel if somebody read your secret diary.
Girl If I had a secret diary no one would ever find it.
Chris But what if they did find it? What if they read your secret thoughts.
Girl I don’t have any secret thoughts. (Slight pause.) I want my coat.
Chris Mmm?
Girl I want my coat back.
Chris Your coat is dirty, sweetheart. Look at it.
Girl I want it back. I’m cold.
Chris You can’t be cold. You’re indoors. It’s October and the heating’s on. (Slight pause.) Look, if I let you wear your coat, will you play your piece for Mummy when she wakes up?
Girl Mummy’s not here. Mummy’s at a conference.
Chris Will you?
Girl Mummy’s not here.
The girl hesitates, then takes a step towards the coat.
Chris (stopping her verbally.) Uh-uh. (Smiles.)
He picks up the coat himself and holds it up for her to put on. She comes over, tries to get her arm in the sleeve, but gets in a muddle.
(Smiles.) Wrong arm, sweetheart.
They try again and again get in a muddle.
Girl I can’t get my arm in.
Chris What’s wrong?
Girl I can’t get my arm in the right place.
Chris What?—come on—you’re / not trying.
Girl I can’t get my arm into the sleeve. It’s the way you’re / holding it.
Chris Alright, alright, just do it yourself. JUST DO THE FUCKING THING YOURSELF.
He moves away, turns his back. The girl calmly puts on the coat and calmly buttons it. Then:
Girl Daddy?
Chris What?
Girl Shall I play you my piece now?
Chris (begins very soft and fast) Listen, sweetheart, there’s something you ought to know: Mummy came home last night—she came home from Lisbon in the middle of the night—well—like it says in a book—‘unexpectedly’—and went straight to bed. She’s here now—yes—that’s right—in the house—but I’ve left her asleep because she was so tired. (Laughs.) You should’ve seen her. She was so worn out that she didn’t even go into your room, she didn’t even have the strength (she said) to push the hair back behind your ear and kiss you, the way she normally does. Not because she was unhappy—you’re not to think that Mummy was unhappy—because—well—in fact she was laughing. That’s how I knew she was home. I heard Mummy laughing out in the street—and there she was—under the street-lamp—sharing a joke—something about crocodiles—with the taxi driver out in the street. (Laughs.) Oh, it was windy! You should’ve seen all the leaves swirling round the shiny black taxi under the orange light. And when she came through the front door—still laughing, by the way—guess what: two enormous chestnut leaves followed her right into the house. (Laughs.) I said ‘Well this is a surprise: I didn’t expect you back till the middle of next week!’
Girl And what did Mummy say to that?
Chris Mmm?
Girl And what did Mummy say to that?
Chris I’ve told you, sweetheart: Mummy was tired—she didn’t say anything.
Girl Not even when the leaves came in?
Chris What leaves?
Girl You said two enormous leaves came into the house.
Chris Well yes they did—two enormous leaves did come into the house—but Mummy didn’t even see them, sweetheart, because of the way she was clinging on to me.
Girl Was she afraid?
Chris (laughs) Of course she wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t that kind of clinging.
Girl Maybe she was afraid that someone would find her secret diary, and that’s why she came back home.
Slight pause. In the distance an alarm clock starts ringing.
Chris Why don’t you run off and play.
Girl That’s Mummy’s clock.
Chris I know it’s Mummy’s clock—and that’s why I want you to run off and play.
Girl I want to see her.
Chris You can see her after we’ve talked.
Girl What are you going to talk about?
Chris We won’t know, sweetheart, what we’re going to talk about until we start talking. Now off you go.
Girl The diary?
Chris Of course not the diary. The diary—remember?—is a secret. Kiss?
He bends down.
She kisses his cheek.
Good girl.
Girl What about the piano?
Chris The piano can wait. Now off you go.
The girl runs off. The alarm clock gets louder and after a few moments Clair appears, holding the clock, which is still ringing. She puts it down on the piano, which makes the sound even louder, and watches it until the ringing stops.
Clair (turns to him) Thank you.
Chris Oh?
Clair Thank you—yes—for letting me sleep.
Slight pause.
Chris So how was your conference?
Clair Mmm?
Chris The conference—in Lisbon—how was it?
Clair Oh it was a marvellous conference. People from all over the world converged on Lisbon to talk about books. Can you imagine? Authors read passages from their books and talked about what had inspired them. And the translators talked about the authors and how hard it was to translate the authors and the authors spoke very highly of the translators and were even, some of them, translators themselves, which meant that they had interesting things to say not just about writing but about translating too. And after lunch we’d all go off into little rooms—split up I mean—and go off into little rooms—those funny little rooms they have in Lisbon—take some particular topic—poetry—politics—and really pull it apart—really examine poetry or politics under the knife—put these things really and truly under the knife—just five or six of us in a little room really concentrating—I can’t explain what it was like.
Chris You’ve just told me what it was like.
Clair (smiles) No. Because it wasn’t like that at all, you see.
Pause.
And my paper went well.
Chris Good.
Clair Went really well. My hand shook at the beginning, but everybody paid attention—even laughed at my jokes.