by Martin Crimp
Chris You? Jokes?
Clair Yes—because I was nervous—obviously—about the jokes—but the jokes worked.
Chris What jokes? Tell me one.
Clair What?
Chris Tell me a joke.
Clair Not that kind of joke—not a joke you ‘tell’—just ways of putting things—phrasing things—and Mohamed was pleased—he came up to me afterwards—in fact he sought me out—
Chris Oh?
Clair Yes—sought me out—singled me out I mean in the cafeteria and in front of everyone he knocked me into a table.
Chris Hurt you?
Clair No no—just rushed over to thank me and knocked me backwards into a table. He was so clumsy—this big bear of a man knocking me off my feet—I couldn’t help smiling to myself.
Chris Like you are now?
Clair What?
Chris Like you are now—smiling to yourself like you are now?
Clair Of course I’m not smiling to myself. I’m smiling at you.
Chris Oh? Are you? Why?
Clair Of course I’m smiling at you. You’re my husband. You’re my husband, and—What’re you doing?
Chris Sorry?
Clair You backed away.
Chris I did what?
Clair You backed away.
Chris No.
Clair I stepped towards you and you backed away. You know you did. (Slight pause.) Why did you back away from me?
Pause.
Look. I’m here. I’m home. What more do you want from me? Try to understand. I open my door and what do I see? A man I very much respect. He wants to talk. He says he has a confession to make. What d’you mean, Mohamed, I say, a confession, can’t it wait. No, it can’t wait, he has to talk to me now, right now. Alright, Mohamed, let’s go downstairs, I say, let’s go down to the bar together, let’s talk there. I can’t, says Mohamed, I can’t say what I have to say to you in the bar. So—look—I’m not stupid—I tell Mohamed that in that case he’ll have to wait till morning because it’s late, I’m tired, and I want to go to bed. No, says Mohamed, I have to come in, you have to let me talk, there’s something I need to confess, don’t close the door. So what can I do? D’you see? Mmm? Try to understand. Because this is a man that I very much respect—because of what he’s suffered—and written about. So I let him into my room and he sits down in front of the window which I’ve kept open because of the heat and he says to me my child is dead. I say what d’you mean Mohamed, your child is dead? He says she’s been knocked over by a car, she’s dead, I just had a call from my sister-in-law. You mean the little girl I saw at the station? Yes, he says—Laela—she was crossing the road to post a letter. And he just sits there in front of the window looking down at his hands.
Slight pause.
Chris Waiting for you to comfort him.
Clair What?
Chris He was waiting for you to / comfort him.
Clair Well obviously—yes—I thought—of course I did—thought about going to him—putting my arm around him—thought about attempting to comfort him. But that’s when he looked up at me. He looked up at me and what was strange was that his eyes—which were grey—had always been grey—were grey at the station—were grey in the cafeteria—his eyes had turned—and I don’t mean the light—I mean the eyes themselves—had turned black. His eyes had turned black like the inside of a poppy and he said to me, I still haven’t confessed. I said, look Mohamed, you’re upset, you don’t need to confess, you need to go to your sister-in-law, you need to try and sleep, let’s see if there’s a pharmacy still open. He said to me, no no no I still haven’t confessed. And this time he frightened me.
Chris You should’ve asked him to leave.
Clair Of course, but how? I said, you’ve got nothing to confess, Mohamed, it was an accident. Oh yes, he said, it was an accident, but listen Clair, what you have to know, and what I didn’t tell you when we first met, is why I sent my little girl away. I sent her away because she got under my feet, because she stopped me writing, because she constantly interrupted my work, and sometimes, when I shouted at her, because she had interrupted my work, to ask for a drink, or to be read a story, her small body jerked back, he said, as if hit by a bullet. Me, he said, a writer, refusing my own child a story. Come on, Mohamed, I said, come on, we all get angry with our children, it’s normal. No, said Mohamed, nothing a writer does is normal, and besides that’s not what I’m confessing, because that is, as you say, something that is entirely human and banal. No, what I have to tell you is that the moment I finished speaking to my sister-in-law tonight, and put down the phone, I experienced—and the nearest thing to the word he used is ‘exaltation’—I experienced a secret exaltation, he said, as I realised that what had happened could only enhance my work. My child, you see, is like a log thrown into the fire, making the fire burn, he said, more brightly.
Pause.
Chris Thrown into the fire.
Clair That’s what he said—yes—like a piece of wood. So I was very angry then—with Mohamed. I told him I didn’t care how many people he’d killed in his neverending fight for freedom and democracy, or how many days he’d been tortured or how many prizes he’d won for describing it. I told him I was disgusted by what he called his exhilaration or his exaltation or whatever the fuck it was and I wanted him out—I wanted him to GET OUT OF MY ROOM.
Chris And did he?
Clair I’m sorry?
Chris Did he get out of your room?
Pause. She looks away.
So you believed him.
Clair Yes. No. Of course I did. Believed what?
Chris That his child was dead.
Clair Laela. Yes. He told me.
Chris So she won’t be needing the diary then.
Pause. She meets his eyes. He smiles at her.
Scene V
Jenny alone, wearing pink jeans and high-heeled shoes. She takes out a mirror and inspects her face. She puts away the mirror. She looks at the piano, whose lid is now up. She runs her fingers over the keyboard without making any sound.
Clair enters.
Jenny It’s very nice here. I had no idea—to be honest—it would be so nice inside your house. It’s warm—and surprisingly peaceful. You have such lovely things, like this piano. And I’ve just realised that now the leaves have gone, I can see my own windows. (Slight pause.) Oh—and this is for you.
She hands Clair a small parcel, which Clair begins to unwrap.
Clair You’re right. It’s a nice house. It’s warm in every sense. We’re very happy here.
Pause.
Jenny How’re your children?
Clair Mmm?
Jenny How’re your children?
Clair They’re not bothering you, are they?
Jenny What?
Clair I said: they’re not bothering you—not keeping you awake.
Jenny Oh no. I don’t hear them. Or if I do it makes me feel … well … Hmm.
Clair finishes unwrapping the present: a small serrated kitchen knife.
(Smiles.) I hope you like it. I thought it would be useful with small children.
Clair Oh?
Jenny To cut up their food.
Clair You’re right. (Goes to kiss her.) Thank you.
Jenny Careful! (Steps back.)
Clair Mmm?
Jenny The knife.
Clair Of course. Sorry. (Points the knife away or puts it down.) Thank you, Jenny. (Kisses her.)
Slight pause.
Jenny I haven’t seen your children.
Clair Oh they’re probably racing up and down excitedly on their new bikes.
Jenny What, with your husband?
Clair Mmm?
Jenny With your husband?
Clair Oh no—my husband found a job—he’s working.
Jenny What? At Christmas?
Clair You sound surprised, but surely it’s not unusual. It’s not just doctors and soldiers, it’s not just nurses like yourself, Jenny, who work at Christmas-time. Commerce can’
t stop any more than the course—isn’t this right?—of some fatal diseases. And while you and I are sitting in front of the fire like this,* unwrapping our gifts, people still need to buy things.
Pause.
What’s wrong?
Jenny I don’t know. Nothing feels right. Everything—don’t you think?—seems awkward and artificial. I put these shoes on specially—but I’m not really comfortable in them—and if I’m honest, I don’t know why I’m wearing them. Even a normal conversation like this—with a person I like—because I certainly like you—don’t get me wrong—but even this—I don’t know why—seems strained. I don’t really know why I’m here at all.
Clair (smiles) You’re here, Jenny, because I invited you. And if your shoes feel uncomfortable—well—simple—take them off.
Jenny You say your children are out on their bikes—but I can’t hear them—I didn’t see one single child when I walked here from my flat—nobody was out—it was so quiet—it was unnatural.
Clair Christmas is always like that: everyone’s indoors with their families.
Jenny It didn’t feel right. There were no smells in the air. People had wreaths on their front doors, but I couldn’t see anybody through the windows, even though they had lights flashing round the window frames. And before I came out, I spoke to my husband and he just sounded angry.
Clair Maybe he misses you.
Jenny Well that’s not my fault.
Christopher enters. He wears the outfit of a supermarket butcher’s assistant: a white hat with a brim, a white smock, and pinned to the smock a badge with his name: ‘Chris’.
Chris (kisses Clair on the cheek) Hello sweetheart. We have a guest.
Clair This is Jenny.
Chris Jenny. Of course. Hello.
Clair How was work?
Chris Totally mad. Sam’s off sick and Janine can’t tell a pig’s ear from a cow’s arsehole, scuse my French. (Chuckles.) But listen: we know each other.
Jenny Yes.
Chris Don’t we.
Jenny Yes.
Chris Wednesdays.
Jenny That’s right.
Chris Wednesday afternoons: minced steak—two hundred grams.
Jenny Yes.
Chris I find myself asking: who is it who’s eating those two hundred grams of minced steak.
Jenny I am.
Chris Not the dog then.
Jenny I’m sorry?
Chris Because 9 times out of 10 it’s the dog. Guaranteed.
Slight pause.
Clair You should take off your hat.
Chris Mmm?
Clair Take off your hat. And don’t wear your badge indoors. We know who you are.
Chris I’m Christopher. (Grins.)
Clair Exactly. You’re my husband.
Chris I’m Christopher. I’m her husband. And I want my present. I don’t want to take off my hat. I like my hat. I want my present.
Clair What makes you think I’ve got you a present?
Chris Well if she hasn’t got me a present I’ll break her fucking neck. (Chuckles.) Translate that into English—eh?
Clair I’ll go and get it.
She goes. Pause.
Chris How’s the war?
Jenny Mmm?
Chris The war. How’s the war?
Jenny Oh, the war’s fine, thank you.
Chris Going well?
Jenny Mmm?
Chris Going well, is it?
Jenny I think so.
Slight pause.
Chris And the enemy? How’s the enemy?
Jenny Intractable.
Chris Oh?
Jenny Pretty intractable, yes.
Chris Bastards.
Slight pause.
Are you comfortable in those shoes?
Jenny What? Yes, I’m fine.
Chris Because if you’re not comfortable / take them off.
Jenny I’m absolutely fine. Thank you.
Clair enters with gift.
Clair What is it?
Jenny Nothing.
Clair Is something wrong?
Jenny Of course not—no—we were chatting.
Chris What’s this then?
Jenny Just chatting away.
Chris I said what’s this?
Clair Open it.
He takes the present, opens it. It’s the diary from Scene i.
Chris It’s a diary.
Clair Yes.
Chris But it’s been written in.
Clair Yes.
Chris Why’s it been written in?
He flicks through the diary, stops at a page, reads softly.
‘… a different person … to the person who is writing this now …’ Hmm.
He flicks through, reads softly.
‘… then I myself—this is what I imagined—could come
…’ (Peers at word.) What’s this word?
Clair Alive—come alive.
Chris ‘… I myself—this is what I imagined—could come alive.’ Hmm.
Pause. He looks at her.
Clair Go on.
Chris Go on what?
Jenny She means read it—don’t you.
Clair Yes. Read it.
Chris reads softly, finding the words not always easy to decipher, following them with his finger. He’s not a ‘good’ reader. He seems generally oblivious to the sense of what he’s reading.
Chris ‘When I was young—much younger than now—a different person you might even say—to the person who is writing this now—and before I began to make my living from translation—taking refuge in it as one writer says “the way an alcoholic takes refuge in alcoholism”—before that I truly believed there was …’ (Peers at word.) Can’t read it.
Clair A city.
Chris A what?
Clair A city.
Chris ‘… truly believed there was’—that’s right—‘a city inside of me—a huge and varied city full of green squares, shops and churches, secret streets, and hidden doors leading to staircases that climbed to rooms full of light where there would be drops of rain on the windows, and where in each small drop the whole city would be seen, upside down. There would be industrial zones where elevated trains ran past the windows of factories and conference centres. There would be schools where, when there was a lull in the traffic, you could hear children playing. The seasons in the city would be distinct: hot summer nights when everyone slept with their windows open, or sat out on their balconies in their underwear, drinking beer from the fridge—and in winter, very cold mornings when snow had settled in courtyards and they showed the snow on TV and the snow on TV was the same snow out in the street, shovelled to the side to enable the inhabitants to get to work. And I was convinced that in this city of mine I would find an inex …’ (Peers at word.)
Clair Inexhaustible.
Chris ‘… an inexhaustible source of characters and stories for my writing. I was convinced that in order to be a writer I’d simply have to travel to this city—the one inside of me—and write down what I discovered there.’
Slight pause.
Clair Go on.
Chris ‘I knew it would be difficult to reach this city. It wouldn’t be like going on a plane to Marrakech, say, or Lisbon. I knew the journey could take days or even years quite possibly. But I knew that if I could find life in my city, and be able to describe life, the stories and characters of life, then I myself—this is what I imagined—could come alive. And I did reach my city. Yes. Oh yes. But when I reached it found it had been destroyed. The houses had been destroyed, and so had the shops. Minarets lay on the ground next to church steeples. What … balconies’? (Momentarily confused.) ‘What balconies there were had dropped to the pavement. There were no children in the playgrounds, only coloured lines. I looked for inhabitants to write about, but there were no inhabitants, just dust. I looked for the people still clinging on to life—what stories they could tell!—but even there—in the drains, the basements—in the underground railway system—there was nothing—nobody—
just dust. And this grey dust, like the ash from a cigarette, was so fine it got into my pen and stopped the ink reaching the page. Could this really be all that was inside of me? I cried at first but then I pulled myself together and tried for a while then to invent. I invented …’ (Peers at word.) What?
Clair Characters.
Chris ‘… characters … invented characters …’ (Loses his place, finds it again.) ‘I invented characters and I put them in my city. The one I called Mohamed. The one I called the nurse—Jenny—she was funny. I invented a child too, I was quite pleased with the child. But it was a struggle. They wouldn’t come alive. They lived a little—but only the way a sick bird tortured by a cat lives in a shoebox. It was hard to make them speak normally—and their stories fell apart even as I was telling them. Sometimes I even …’ (Peers at word.) What’s this?
Clair Dressed them up.
Chris Mmm?
Clair Dressed them—dressed / them up.
Chris ‘Sometimes I even’—okay—‘dressed them up the way I used to dress my dolls when I was little. I put them in funny clothes but then I felt ashamed. And when they looked at me, they looked at me—like it says in a book—“accusingly’’.’
The little girl appears, dressed exactly like Jenny: pink jeans, high-heeled shoes. She sits at the piano.
‘So I gave up on my city. I was no writer—that much was clear. I’d like to say how sad the discovery of my own emptiness made me, but the truth is I feel as I write this down nothing but relief.’
He turns the pages looking for more text, but finds none. He closes the diary and looks at Clair.
What about me?
Clair What about you?
Chris Am I / invented too?
Clair Why don’t you take off your hat now? What?
Chris Me. Am I invented too?
Clair No more than I am, surely. Take off your hat.
Jenny Yes. Go on. Take it off.
Chris Why?
