by J. T. Rogers
(They all look at each other.)
So.
Here we go.
Qurie appears. He and Larsen talk outward, as if on the phone.
QURIE: When we arrive you will meet us personally. No one will touch our passports but you.
(Beilin appears, speaking outward to Larsen as well.)
BEILIN: Israel is not involved in these discussions. Hirschfeld and his associate are speaking only for themselves.
QURIE: While we are there, we are not there.
BEILIN: Terje, you cannot even use the word “negotiations”—or “talks”—or I will pull the plug. Do you understand?
QURIE: Deniability, Mr. Larsen, in all matters.
BEILIN: If word gets out, Terje—
QURIE: If word gets out, Mr. Larsen—
BEILIN: My government will fall.
QURIE: I will be killed. Undoubtedly.
Here, to speak with the devil is to become the devil.
When I arrive, my life will be in your hands.
(Qurie is gone.)
BEILIN: Terje . . . Do you know what I fear most? That we will risk everything to sit across from them, only to find that there is nothing for us to discuss.
(Beilin is gone.)
MONA (To us): Terje made calls.
LARSEN: I can’t give you details but I need to borrow your place, and its staff. They must be sworn to secrecy.
MONA (To us): Borregaard Castle, south of Oslo, far from anywhere.
LARSEN: I beg you, you must tell no one.
MONA (To us): He rented cars. We checked their flights. We rechecked their flights. And then, the night before, disaster.
The stage floods with diplomats and journalists, mikes and cameras in hand.
MONA (To us): An Israeli border guard is murdered and his body mutilated by Palestinians. In retaliation, four hundred Palestinians accused of terrorist links are deported to the freezing rocky ground of southern Lebanon. Where they are abandoned on a hilltop. Without blankets, food, or water.
PALESTINIAN DIPLOMAT: The blood of four hundred will be on the head of Yitzhak Rabin!
ISRAELI DIPLOMAT: Israel will meet peace with peace and violence with violence!
Mona and Larsen in their flat.
MONA: Call it off.
LARSEN: It’s fine. / Everything is fine.
MONA: If you won’t do it, I will. Men have been killed, Terje. People are rioting.
LARSEN: I know, it’s tragic, but these are perfect conditions for progress. The desperation they are feeling, on both sides, this is our ally.
MONA: And when they turn that desperation on us?
LARSEN: Who knows! We will improvise as we go.
MONA: Terje! This is not something you make up as you go along! If this fails: Fafo, the Ministry—our lives—will all be / torn down!
LARSEN: Mona, you must trust me! More than you have ever done before. I know how to do this. I see how to do this.
(They stare at each other. Neither moves. Then:)
MONA: You yourself will play no direct role in these talks.
LARSEN: Of course not. Darling, I told you: my model is the opposite of the / American approach.
MONA: Whatever happens between them, we cannot interfere. Our behavior must be beyond reproach. If we are seen—by anyone—as meddling, as favoring / one side over the other.
LARSEN: Darling, I would never do such a thing.
MONA: Then say it.
You will facilitate, and facilitate only.
Say it.
LARSEN: I will facilitate. Only.
Reception room of Borregaard Estate, outside Sarpsborg, the next morning. Larsen stands in the middle of the well-appointed room. In front of him, Qurie and Hassan Asfour (forties), both in dark suits and ties, stand facing Hirschfeld and a grinning Ron Pundak (thirties), both more casually dressed.
MONA (To us): January 1993. The official opening of the unofficial Oslo Channel. From here on, everything else that happened, everything you will see, took place in only nine months.
LARSEN: Some of us have met, of course, but let us have a proper introduction.
(Gesturing to them) From the Palestine Liberation Organization, Mr. Ahmed Qurie and his associate, Mr. Hassan Asfour . . .
(Gesturing to them) . . . And from the University of Haifa, Professor Yair Hirschfeld and Professor Ron Pundak.
PUNDAK (To Qurie): Hello!
(To Asfour) Hello!
(To them all) Hello!
LARSEN: Gentlemen, this regal and historic guesthouse that we are standing in, it is the very site where eight hundred years ago, Saint Olaf himself erected his castle, stone by stone, as he strove to make Norway into a nation.
ASFOUR: And your Olaf was killed and his castle destroyed in a landslide.
LARSEN: Thank you. So appreciated.
PUNDAK (Boundless cheer): I don’t know about the rest of you but I have never seen so much snow. My God, it’s cold here.
ASFOUR: Not as cold as the rocky ground of southern Lebanon. You should have killed those four hundred. That would have sent us a message. But instead, they shiver on that hilltop and their faces are on every television in the world, and you are condemned.
You do not believe in your cause enough to do what must be done. That is your weakness.
LARSEN: And, again, so appreciated.
(To the group) You are here because you know that your people cannot go on as you have. That whatever you personally feel, you wish to find a way forward. But to overcome hatred and fear, pragmatism is not enough.
Now, Abu Ala, tell us—
QURIE (Taken aback): I am Ahmed Qurie.
LARSEN: But your friends call you Abu Ala, yes?
QURIE: Yes, but—
LARSEN: And here we are all friends.
While we are together, this will be our one unbreakable rule.
(Pointing to a shut door) In that room, when that door is closed, you will converse. Disagree. Worse. But out here we will share our meals, talk of our families, and light the fire.
(To them all) My friends, I must insist upon this rule. For it is only through the sharing of the personal that we can see each other for who we truly are.
(Larsen gestures to the closed door.
Silence.)
HIRSCHFELD: I—we—accept your rule.
(To Qurie and Asfour) And are willing to try.
ASFOUR (To Qurie, in Arabic): [We should leave.]
QURIE (To Asfour, in Arabic): [That is my decision.]
ASFOUR: [He is biased. He is not an honest broker. / This is a mistake. We need to fly home now.]
QURIE: [That’s enough, we are here. We’ve come this far.]
(All look at Qurie. He looks back.)
Between our peoples lies a vast ocean. Upon it, great boats are but skiffs. Those before us have always turned back. Or drowned. Let us be the first to cross and step upon the other’s shore.
(The four men turn to face the door.)
LARSEN: Good luck.
(As he starts to leave, all of them, in alarm:)
QURIE: Where are / you going?
HIRSCHFELD: / Are we not starting?
PUNDAK: We agreed to everything you asked.
LARSEN: It is your ocean to cross, not mine.
HIRSCHFELD: You mean, it is to be just us?
QURIE: With no moderator?
LARSEN: Out here, I will do all you ask. But in there, I cannot help you. Only you, together, can do this.
(The four men look at each other. They walk to the door. A moment, then Pundak steps forward and opens it. The others file in. As Pundak starts to close it behind him, he hesitates, eyes on Larsen, who shoos him in. The door closes. Mona appears, speaking to Larsen as if on the phone.)
MONA: So, what do you think?
LARSEN: If Hassan Asfour does not kill us all in our sleep it will be a miracle.
And, Mona, this Ron Pundak! I mean, Hirschfeld is bad enough—
MONA: I know, but Yossi personally select
ed these men.
LARSEN: Because the rest of his entire country was busy?
The Israelis should worry less about the PLO and more about the judgment of their Deputy Foreign Minister.
(Toril Grandal, the housekeeper, and her husband, Finn, the groundsman, both fifties, enter carrying a heavy armchair and a large rug.)
MONA: Don’t underestimate him. Yossi Beilin does everything for a precise reason.
(Larsen stops as he sees Toril and Finn begin to arrange the furniture in the room.
He moves toward the couple.)
LARSEN: No, no, no!
(Gesturing to move the couch)
They must be facing each other.
FINN (In Norwegian): [Do you want me to bring in any / more furniture?]
LARSEN: English only. We don’t want our guests to think we are keeping secrets.
TORIL (Rough accent): Some English my husband understands, Mr. Larsen, / but he speaks little.
LARSEN: Please: Terje. We are all friends here.
Now, did you get what I asked for?
TORIL: The Johnny Walker Black, yah.
LARSEN: Excellent. How many bottles?
FINN (Holding up fingers): Four.
LARSEN: Get four cases.
(He gestures to Finn. The two of them pick up the new armchair and start to move it.)
TORIL: I will serve herring to start.
LARSEN: Good.
TORIL: A small pasta course.
LARSEN: Excellent.
TORIL: And roasted pork stuffed with sage.
LARSEN (Dropping the chair): No! For God’s sake! Out of the question.
TORIL: But I have already / prepared the dish.
LARSEN: You will serve some fish? Yes? Salmon? Good.
TORIL: Mr. / Larsen—
LARSEN (Cutting her off, snapping): JUST DO IT!
(He starts to exit, then stops. He turns around; all his charm again.)
My friends, you are a vital part of a grand undertaking. I will lean on you. I will rely on you. And I know you will rise to the occasion.
MONA (To us): An hour passed as Terje waited. Then another hour. Then another, as the door stayed closed.
(The door to the room opens. Qurie strides out followed by Hirschfeld.)
QURIE: I must speak with Tunis. I require a phone.
TORIL: Follow me, sir, if you would.
(She leads Qurie off. Finn follows. Hirschfeld watches them go, then pulls Larsen close.)
HIRSCHFELD: They say they will take Gaza.
(Off Larsen’s confusion) They propose Israel withdraw all forces from Gaza. That the territory be turned over to the Palestinians, who will govern it themselves. This is what Peres has been offering for years—years—but the Palestinians have always rebuffed. My God, to be able to pull out of Gaza—that would end the Intifada!
LARSEN: What did you offer in return?
HIRSCHFELD: Nothing! I can offer nothing. We are only / here to listen.
LARSEN: Of course. I understand.
HIRSCHFELD (Pulling closer): They want to go even further. They have brought a draft of a Declaration of Principles.
(Off Larsen’s look) A document that would spell out—precisely—the issues between us that both sides agree to address. They have come with a list of their issues, and they want to hear ours—now. What should I do?
LARSEN: That is not for me to say.
(Cutting him off before he can speak) Yair. Trust that you need no road map. The way will show itself.
HIRSCHFELD (Stares, then): That is completely fucking stupid.
(He goes back into the room.
Mona appears, again on the phone.)
MONA: Terje.
LARSEN (Out to her): I’m not coming back tonight. I have to stay.
MONA: You have a board meeting at Fafo tomorrow.
LARSEN: I don’t have time for trivialities at a moment like this.
MONA: We can’t have Marianne asking questions.
LARSEN: Tell her whatever, darling. You’ll think of something. You always do.
The drawing room after dinner. The men sit by the fire, whiskey tumblers in hand as Larsen refills them. Qurie, tie loosened, sits near Hirschfeld and Pundak.
Asfour sits off to the side, watching, his tie still cinched.
QURIE: Dinner was excellent.
PUNDAK: Fantastic!
HIRSCHFELD: Our compliments to the chef!
LARSEN: But, Hassan, you barely touched your food.
QURIE: Hassan is from Gaza, where they are all fishermen but hate the sight of fish.
(As he shakes his tumbler at Larsen) No more, Larsen, no more.
(Hirschfeld and Pundak laugh—as they shake their tumblers at Larsen as well.)
PUNDAK: Yes, Terje, no more / for me too. Not even a drop.
HIRSCHFELD: I couldn’t possibly have another sip.
(As Larsen elaborately refills their tumblers . . .)
LARSEN: And what about your father, Abu Ala?
PUNDAK: Yes, it’s your turn. Tell us.
QURIE: Ah, now there is a man!
He was born in a village just outside Jerusalem. As a child he would take me to the Old City, where the very stones speak to you. Through the winding streets we would go, until we would emerge, stand before it, and he would say:
(As his father, pointing) “There—there—Ahmed, that is the Aqsa Mosque. The beating heart of Jerusalem. Wherever you go, boy, you must always hold it—and this city—here . . . (Pointing to his heart) . . . for it will always be your home.”
He would sit me by his side and we would eat olives. He would tell stories. Politics. Food. Women.
I hate olives. Like stones in my mouth. But to keep him talking, I would eat and eat.
(They drink. Larsen turns to Asfour.)
LARSEN: And, finally, Hassan.
ASFOUR: The petty bourgeois construct of family does not interest me. The struggle against the Western capitalist behemoth: that is my father.
PUNDAK (Jumping up): That’s it! No more sourpuss from you! (Slapping his hands together) Right. I have a joke.
HIRSCHFELD: Ron.
PUNDAK: No, listen! It’s good, it’s good. Here it is.
Interpol, the CIA, and Mossad are chasing a rabbit. They come to the edge of a forest. Interpol combs the forest; they cannot find the rabbit. The CIA burns down the forest, but still no rabbit. Then Mossad says, “Give us thirty minutes.” They go off. Half hour later, they come back with a grizzly bear in a headlock, with a broken nose and black eye, and the bear is yelling: “Okay, I’m a rabbit! I’m a rabbit!”
(Wagging his finger at Asfour) Ah, Mr. Lenin likes the joke!
QURIE (Rising to his feet): Ah, ah, ah! I will tell a joke!
A man is married forty years. Then, his wife, she dies. After the funeral, after all are gone, he sits alone in his house. The shadow of loneliness falls upon him. In his solitude, he cries out: “I am all alone! What will I do now?”
Again, he cries: “I am all alone! I have no wife! No one to tell me what to do! No one to tell me what to say!”
(Beat. A revelation. Eyes wide, hands in the air) “I am all alone!”(Joyous, to the heavens) “I am all alone!”
(Arms still raised, he bursts into a lumbering jig. All but Asfour clap in time as Qurie yells out in time to his dance:)
“I am all alone! I am all alone! I am all alone! Alone, alone, alone!”
(He ends with a flourish as Pundak thrusts his hands at him, fighting to get his words out as he laughs.)
PUNDAK: He . . . he . . . he looks like Arafat. When he . . . (Mimicking Qurie’s movements) Those crazy Arafat gestures we see on TV.
QURIE: Do not insult the Chairman!
PUNDAK (Shocked): I—I—I / am sorry.
QURIE: You insult the Chairman, you insult us!
PUNDAK: / Abu Ala, I did not mean to offend.
HIRSCHFELD: Ron gets excited. / He was just playing.
LARSEN: My friends, / let us all take a breat
h.
QURIE (Roaring over them): You think we are just here as us? We are the head and arms of him!
ASFOUR (In Arabic): [That is enough!]
QURIE (Turning on him, in Arabic): [Do not interrupt! / I am your superior!]
LARSEN (Over them all): Breathe! All of us!
(As Toril enters with plates of waffles, Qurie advances on Hirschfeld and Pundak.)
QURIE: We will bury you before you take our honor! We will break you!
TORIL: I have brought waffles.
QURIE (To Toril; seamlessly switching gears): Ahhhh! There she is!
The one I love is here!
You spoil us. You are the hostess of all hostess.
LARSEN: Yes. Well. Let’s all try them, shall we?
(He gestures to Toril: “Take the lead—now.”
As Toril passes out plates of waffles to the men . . .)
TORIL: This is the waffle recipe of my mother. Passed on from her mother. It is simple but precise.
To make the batter, first you separate the eggs. Then the yolks must be beaten in a bowl, light and frothy. Then you add vanilla, then sugar, then butter, then buttermilk, then flour, and then the secret, which is the cardamom.
The egg whites are beaten separately and folded in. Then you cook the batter, hot and swift.
(Demonstrating) For the serving, you spread the whip cream . . . and the lingonberry . . . Then . . .
(Gesturing for them to do so) . . . you eat.
(As one, the men do. They chew. Then, as one, they loudly express their pleasure.)
(In Arabic): Shukran. [Thank you.]
(Then to the Israelis, in Hebrew) Toe dah. [Thank you.]
QURIE (To Asfour, in Arabic): [Do you hear this one!]
PUNDAK (To Toril, in Hebrew): [No, thank you!]
HIRSCHFELD (To Toril, in Hebrew): [It is very nice of you.]
(She is gone, taking the merriment with her. Silence. Then . . .)
I propose that we agree that there are certain subjects—people—we do not discuss. Just as . . .
(Pointing to the door) when we are in there.
