Oslo

by J. T. Rogers

  His ways are strange, but through his methods we have begun a true dialogue between our peoples.

  If we are to succeed, it must be he. For this one speaks truth to both sides. He does not lie.

  Do you, Larsen?

  Thank you, Minister Holst. We will meet again.

  Frogner Park, near the Hotel Bristol.

  Larsen and Holst walk alone.

  HOLST: He’s holding something back.

  LARSEN: Johan Jorgen, everything he said is true.

  HOLST: But what did he not say? That’s what concerns me.

  LARSEN: I know this man. He can be trusted.

  HOLST: Terje, he is the Finance Minister of the PLO. If you trust him, or the Israelis, you are an even bigger fool than I thought.

  (They walk on.)

  LARSEN: So, what do you think of all this?

  HOLST: What do I think, Terje?

  I think for months, you have looked Marianne in the face, you have looked me in the face, and you have lied.

  LARSEN: Johan Jorgen, Mona told you why we / could not tell you.

  HOLST: And you convinced a colleague—a trusted colleague—to keep me in the dark.

  I underestimated you, Terje. I won’t make that mistake again.

  (And he’s gone.)

  MONA (To Larsen): What did Holst say?

  LARSEN Totally enthusiastic. Couldn’t be happier.

  Borregaard Estate. Drawing room.

  Larsen seeks to calm a seething, pacing Qurie.

  MONA (To us): Two weeks later. Borregaard Castle.

  QURIE: They have proposed nothing, Larsen.

  In there, for two days and nights, those monkeys have weaved and bobbed and stalled—because they have no authority to propose.

  This entire round, we have moved our document forward not one inch!

  LARSEN: Abu Ala, please. You must go back in. Whatever Yair and Ron have proposed, it cannot be that bad. Trust the process. Move forward.

  QURIE: I have upheld my end of the bargain. I have done as Yossi Beilin asked.

  Now. He. Upgrades.

  (Silence. The two men stare at each other.)

  Upon her soul, you swore, Larsen.

  To break an oath is a sin. For which men are punished.

  Yossi Beilin appears.

  LARSEN: Yossi. I beg you. You must listen to me. Now is the moment for bold and forthright—

  BEILIN: Yeah, fine, I’ll upgrade.

  (Larsen stares at him, stunned.)

  LARSEN: You . . . but . . . you—

  BEILIN: Yair and Ron have taken things as far as they can; now it’s time to make things official.

  LARSEN: This this this is fantastic! Incredible!

  How soon can you come to Oslo?

  BEILIN: It won’t be me. I’m identified too closely with Shimon. If we were ever to get to the point where we had enough to tell Rabin—the fact that it came from Shimon and me? He’ll shut it down, two seconds flat.

  LARSEN: Then who?

  BEILIN: Just get them to agree to another round and we’ll send a senior representative of the Israeli Government.

  But if the Palestinians breathe a word about this—

  LARSEN: Yossi, they will not do such a thing. They are committed to keeping the Channel secret. Arafat told me this, to my face.

  BEILIN: With respect, Terje, put the word of Yasser Arafat in one hand and take a shit in the other, and I think you know which will have more weight.

  Tell them, one word and we are done.

  A cocktail reception.

  Waiters pass champagne to the delegates, diplomats, and journalists. Larsen and Mona are on one side of the room, drinks in hand.

  LARSEN: Mona! The upgrade is happening!

  MONA: I know. I can’t believe it. It’s fantastic.

  (An American Diplomat on the other side of the room spies Larsen and yells across.)

  AMERICAN DIPLOMAT: Terje! (Mispronounces it “TUR-juh”)

  LARSEN (To Mona): So who do you think the Israelis are going to send?

  AMERICAN DIPLOMAT: Hey, Terje! (Mispronounces it again)

  MONA (Realizing; sotto): Terje, I think that’s you.

  LARSEN (Sotto, in turn): Seriously?

  AMERICAN DIPLOMAT: Good to see you here!

  LARSEN (Loudly, waving): And you!

  (To Mona) Who is he?

  AMERICAN DIPLOMAT: How are the secret negotiations going?

  (Silence—a switch flicked—Larsen and Mona are deer in headlights, all eyes on them.)

  LARSEN: Sorry?

  AMERICAN DIPLOMAT: The back channel negotiations. How’er they going? Give me the play-by-play.

  LARSEN: I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to.

  Negotiations? No, I don’t—news to me.

  AMERICAN DIPLOMAT: Ah, come on.

  LARSEN: No, really, it’s just a complete mystery, what you are saying, and I think—ah, yes! There’s my friend. So good to chat. Be well.

  (As Larsen starts to go . . .)

  AMERICAN DIPLOMAT: Larsen.

  I asked you a question.

  Tell me what’s going on.

  Oslo. The Foreign Ministry.

  Holst paces before Egeland, Mona, and Larsen.

  HOLST: How the hell did the Americans find out?!

  MONA: We don’t know. But, clearly, one of the parties involved leaked it. The question is who?

  EGELAND: What if . . .

  What if we leaked it?

  (Holst stops. He turns and looks at Egeland.

  Mona and Terje stare at him as well.)

  I was in Washington, two months ago, at the State Department. I made a casual mention of what we were doing. Slipped it in. Among other remarks. I thought they weren’t paying attention.

  HOLST: You just “slipped it in”?!

  EGELAND: Johan Jorgen, this was what we had decided to do, before you were appointed.

  MONA: What’s important, is that no one higher up on the American side knows. I’ve checked, Johan Jorgen: the information has not been passed up the chain. For now, the leak is contained.

  HOLST: I see. So. Someone in Washington just wants us to know they know. A shot across our bow.

  Put us in our place. Let us know—once again—that they are bigger and better than us.

  Well fuck them. Fuck the State Department, fuck Warren Christopher—I run the foreign policy of this country.

  (Beat. Then) We stay the course. For now.

  But if one more leak is sprung—just one—I will shut this Channel down.

  Larsen and Yossi Beilin face outward.

  BEILIN: Terje, I’ve selected who’s coming.

  LARSEN: Fantastic! Who is it, Yossi?

  (Uri Savir, thirties, appears in a tailored black suit, black shirt, and black sunglasses.)

  BEILIN: Uri Savir.

  Director-General of our Foreign Ministry.

  LARSEN: What kind of man is he?

  BEILIN: He’s the man for the job.

  LARSEN: But is he committed to the Oslo process? Does he understand the delicacy of—

  BEILIN: Terje.

  That’s not your concern.

  (Savir stands still, staring outward, face like stone.)

  Fornebu Airport. The waiting area for international arrivals. Night.

  The lounge teems with passengers traveling to and fro.

  Larsen, Hirschfeld, and Pundak scan the faces of the passengers disembarking.

  Off to the side stand two Norwegian men in dark suits. Savir enters.

  PUNDAK: There he is!

  (Pundak waves. Savir stops walking and “inspects” his watch. Larsen, Hirschfeld, and Pundak cross to Savir, who does not look up.)

  LARSEN: Welcome, / welcome!

  HIRSCHFELD: Such a pleasure to meet you. / An honor. Truly.

  PUNDAK: Nice to have another “professor” with us, anh?

  (All three men extend their hands. Savir doesn’t extend his.)

  SAVIR (To Larsen): Your security detail is cal
ling attention. Send them on ahead.

  (Larsen and the professors look at each other. They withdraw their hands.)

  LARSEN: Of course. As you wish.

  (He nods to the two men in dark suits. They turn and exit. He turns back to Savir.)

  Shall we get your bags?

  SAVIR: I don’t have any bags. I have thirty-six hours.

  HIRSCHFELD: Are there any details you’d like us to brief you on?

  Obviously, a great distance still to go but as you know from Yossi, the progress, it’s been dizzying.

  PUNDAK: We should be sitting down. Ha!

  (Savir stands still, staring at them. Then:)

  SAVIR: I have to take a piss.

  (And Savir is gone.)

  PUNDAK: Terje, what is his problem?

  HIRSCHFELD: Why is he acting / like this?

  LARSEN: My friend. My friends.

  He is nervous, we are nervous; it will all work out.

  Borregaard Estate. Reception area. That night.

  Mona, Hirschfeld, Pundak, Qurie, and Asfour.

  Savir enters with Larsen.

  Silence.

  Qurie and Asfour stare at Savir.

  LARSEN: Well, here we all are, safe and sound.

  (Gesturing to Qurie and Asfour) Uri Savir, meet Abu Ala, terrorist number one, and Hassan Asfour, terrorist number two.

  (To them, gesturing to Savir) And here is the man who wants to kill you.

  (No one laughs. No one moves.)

  MONA: Mr. Savir, it’s a pleasure to meet you, and to have you as our guest. I hope you, like these four gentlemen, will not hesitate to ask for our assistance in any matter, no matter how small.

  (Savir looks at Mona. He takes off his sunglasses.)

  SAVIR: Thank you.

  (Savir turns his head and stares at Qurie and Asfour.)

  I am here at the personal request and as the voice of Shimon Peres.

  (The room absorbs this. Qurie’s gaze stays locked on Savir.)

  QURIE: And I am here at the personal request and as the voice of Yasser Arafat.

  (They stare at each other. No one moves.

  Qurie extends his hand.)

  Welcome to Oslo.

  (Beat. Eyes locked. Savir extends his hand. They shake.)

  MONA (To us): Two men, in a room, extend their hands and history begins to change.

  SAVIR: I have things to say.

  QURIE: As do we.

  SAVIR (Pointing to the door): Let us begin.

  (Savir gestures: “After you.”

  Asfour crosses to the door and opens it. Qurie enters the room; Asfour follows suit.

  Hirschfeld and Pundak enter the room as well.

  Savir crosses to the door, nods at Mona, stares at Larsen . . . then closes it behind him.

  The two dark-suited Norwegian Secret Service Agents from the airport enter.)

  LARSEN: Ah, gentlemen!

  So sorry. If you could, once again, your names?

  TROND: I am Trond.

  THOR: And I am Thor.

  MONA (To us): You cannot make these things up.

  LARSEN: My friends, I wanted to have a moment alone with you, for you are now a vital part of a grand undertaking.

  (The two men stare at Larsen. They say nothing; they don’t move.)

  For you to contribute fully, you must socialize with us.

  You must eat with us. You must drink with us.

  THOR: Yah, / we can do that.

  TROND: That will be fine.

  THOR: One of us on duty, one of us off, at all times.

  LARSEN: Wonderful. Now as you have—undoubtedly—never personally been assigned a mission of this gravity and complexity, allow me to educate you as to who these men are.

  THOR: Ahmed Qurie, born March 26, 1937, near Jerusalem. Reports to Chairman Yasser Arafat, who has ordered multiple assassinations on Norwegian soil, all of which I have personally stopped.

  TROND: Hassan Asfour, studied in Moscow at Patrice Lumumba University, where, according to my personal investigation, he was recruited to spy for the Soviets.

  (Beat. Larsen blinks.)

  THOR: Now, if you will excuse us, we need to reinspect the premises.

  (Thor and Trond are gone.

  Larsen and Mona are alone. As one, they turn and stare at the closed door.)

  MONA (To us): And then we waited.

  (Beat. Again, as one, they look at the door.)

  (To us) And waited.

  LARSEN: Oh, for God’s sake! Are they peeing in their coffee cups? When are they going to—

  (The door opens. Larsen and Mona freeze.

  Qurie, Asfour, and Savir exit the room, followed by the professors. The men all stand still, staring at Larsen.)

  QURIE: It is over. We return to Tunis.

  These meetings, our work, it is erased.

  (Beat. Then, whirling on Larsen) Aaaaah! Got you!

  (All five men who were in the room burst into laughter.)

  (Pointing at Larsen) Look at him! Look at him!

  (To Savir) You were right.

  PUNDAK: Terje! Your face, it was like: “Waaaaah!”

  (Larsen and Mona stare, still digesting.

  Savir turns to Qurie; formal now, with respect.)

  SAVIR: Until tomorrow.

  QURIE: Indeed.

  (Savir walks toward the door. He stops. He turns back.)

  SAVIR (To Larsen and Mona): Are you two coming or not?

  MONA (To us): Terje and I drove him back to Oslo. He was adamant he stay the night at our flat. Convinced he would be recognized at any hotel. Because, as you know, every mid-level Israeli diplomat is a rock star in Norway.

  The Larsen flat. Late that night.

  Savir and Mona and Larsen, half-empty champagne flutes in hand.

  Savir regales them like a man unchained: light on his feet, ebullient, bursting with energy.

  SAVIR: I told everyone in my office, I’m off to Paris for the weekend. I land at de Gaulle, take the car to the hotel, put the do-not-disturb sign on the door, climb out the window, and head back to the airport, incognito.

  And this is the best part: the flight from Paris here to Oslo? Completely packed. With Iranians. Me, the Director-General of the Israeli Foreign Ministry, trapped for two hours with two hundred sons of Persia.

  LARSEN: What did you do?

  SAVIR: What do you think I did? I shit my pants.

  (Raising his glass) This is fantastic, by the way.

  (To Mona) If your husband’s diplomatic skills are half as good as his cellar, you should make him your Foreign Minister.

  MONA: Oh, no, not Terje. He abhors the limelight.

  LARSEN: Well, after all, what is a throne but a stool covered in velvet?

  SAVIR (To him, in French): [Aaaaah. A fellow admirer of Napoleon.

  Have you read his maxims in the original French?]

  LARSEN (In French, halting): [Yes. But. Many. Years ago.]

  MONA: Napoleon.

  SAVIR: Yes, that’s one of his most famous maxims.

  MONA: Terje has always told me it was his.

  SAVIR: Well, you know how men are.

  MONA: Yes, I do.

  SAVIR: My God, this day! Life is nothing if not surprising, eh?

  I mean, here I am with you, and two days ago I knew nothing about any of this, and two weeks ago I was running our consulate in New York.

  (To Mona) Have you been?

  MONA: New York? No, / I’ve not had a chance to go.

  SAVIR: Oh, you must! My God, what a city. I mean, the jazz! The best places to hear it—in the world. Every night, I would go out: jazz, films, dancing—

  (To Mona) Do you dance?

  LARSEN: We both do.

  MONA: Terje taught me.

  SAVIR: Let me guess. The tango.

  LARSEN: Yes, / that’s right.

  MONA: How did you know?

  SAVIR: The hips. They never lie.

  LARSEN: It’s so interesting because, as a young man, I was a competitive / b
allroom dancer.

  SAVIR: You and I, Mona, we will have to dance.

  MONA: You tango as well?

  SAVIR: Promise me a dance, and you’ll see.

  Do you promise?

  MONA: Do you ever take no for an answer?

  SAVIR: Well, as they say, “Fortune is like a woman: only the audacious win her love.”

  LARSEN: Ah, Machiavelli. With my wife. How nice.

  So, Uri, tell us: why did you leave New York?

  SAVIR: Shimon asked me to return to Israel and serve by his side. He called and said—

  (As Peres) “This reminds me of a story. You’ll find it very interesting.”

  That’s how he starts every conversation.

  Shimon Peres is a giant among men. Like a father to me. But, my God, the man takes forever to get to his point!

  Finally he says—

  (As Peres) “Come home, Uri. Your country needs you. I need you.”

  How could I say no?

  And now he has selected me to do this.

  (Slapping his hands together) God, I’m starving!

  No, no, stay. Sit. I’ll rummage. Pour some champagne.

  (As Savir exits, Larsen calls after him:)

  LARSEN: Of course. As you wish!

  (Then, to Mona) I liked him so much better when he wasn’t talking.

  SAVIR (Yelling, from offstage): I’ll tell you a secret. I was nervous as hell to meet those two. The first members of the PLO I’ve ever been face-to-face with.

  LARSEN (Calling off): So what do you think of them?

  SAVIR: Not the demons I was expecting.

  This Ahmed—What do you call him?

  MONA: Abu Ala.

  (Savir enters, eating, more food in hand.)

  SAVIR: I can do business with this man.

  (He stops, shaking his head) My God. You can’t imagine.

  To have someone—finally—we can deal with.

  I have thought of this day for . . . years.

  LARSEN (Raising his glass): A toast then.

  MONA (Raising hers): Yes.

  SAVIR (And he his): Absolutely.

  LARSEN: To the—

  SAVIR: I’m sorry, did you not ask for a toast?

  LARSEN: . . . Pardon?