by J. T. Rogers
SAVIR (Pretend “aside”): Abu Ala, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think that one might be a communist.
QURIE (“Aside” back to him): No, he is a Swedish Norwegian Californian from Tel Aviv. They are far worse.
SINGER (Rolling on): Our people are the worst! Too fucking chickenshit to own up to who we are. “Oh, please, don’t blame us. We didn’t do anything.” Bullshit. We fought wars, and we won wars, and the territory and the consequences are ours!
LARSEN: So you are Sparta and not Athens, Joel?
SAVIR: And there goes Terje, with his charm and his refilling.
HIRSCHFELD: Thank God for his refilling!
PUNDAK: Terje, who do you refill the most? Come on, tell us!
LARSEN: My friends, discretion forbids me from revealing such a thing.
(He points out Savir; all but Savir roar in delight.)
PUNDAK: Ha! It’s so true!
SAVIR: You’re quite the trickster, Terje.
Tell me, does anyone ever trick you?
(Turning to Qurie) This one likes to run his mouth, doesn’t he, Abu Ala?
QURIE: You are right, Uri. This one is talk and talk and nothing else.
LARSEN: Well how fortunate that we are here to talk, yes?
SAVIR: Yes, we are here to talk, but why are you here, Terje?
LARSEN: To be of service, of course, to you all.
SAVIR: Service? Really?
(Leaning in) We see you, Terje. Don’t think we do not.
HIRSCHFELD: Come on! Terje is here for all of us.
SAVIR (Eyes on Larsen): Shut up, Yair.
LARSEN (Beat. Then): My friends, I know we are frayed, but we are all in this together.
SAVIR: No, we are in this; you are watching. So don’t tell us how we should think or act.
QURIE: Who does he think he is, Uri? Telling us what to do. This underwear merchant posing as a diplomat.
Back home, we would chop him in half.
SAVIR: Yes, let us do that, Abu Ala, and we will give the lower half to Mona.
(Larsen and Savir stare at each other. No one moves.)
LARSEN: I will not stand here and be your punching bag.
SAVIR: You will stand here and do whatever we want, because that’s your job.
(To the room) Okay. Enough with him. Now, look, my “Kissinger” is good, right? Right?
But I do this one even better.
(To Qurie and Asfour) With respect, my friends.
(A dramatic pause as he “gets into character”; then, to them all, as Arafat:)
“Ah, welcome to Tunis. I am so honored to have you as my guests.”
(Shock and delight from the others—except for Larsen.
“Arafat” gestures to Ahmed Qurie.)
“This is my esteemed Finance Minister.
Tell us, Abu Ala, how goes the peacemaking?”
QURIE: Ah, Mr. Chairman, these Israelis, they are wily, but we are pinning them down.
SAVIR: “I am so pleased. Now, tell me of the other Grandfather. Is he as charming and beautiful as me?”
HIRSCHFELD: Uri, it’s a little uncanny, / I have to say.
PUNDAK: Go on, go on! Do some more!
SAVIR (Gesturing to Larsen): “I see you there, in the back. Don’t be shy. Here, we are all friends, yes?”
“Ah, look at him: he is afraid of me!”
(Larsen steps forward. Then, in the gravely voice of Yitzhak Rabin:)
LARSEN (As Rabin): “On the contrary, Mr. Chairman, it is you who should be afraid of me.”
(The room explodes with giddiness.)
SAVIR: “Ah, Prime Minster Rabin! How good of you to join us, Your Excellency.”
SINGER: Okay, this is fucking weird.
SAVIR (Eyes on Larsen): “This is a momentous meeting: we Grandfathers, face-to-face.”
LARSEN (Staring back): “Enemy-to-enemy.”
SAVIR: “How true.
So. What do you think of me?”
LARSEN: “That you look like a man I could snap in half.”
(The room is silent—the men glued to their chairs as “Arafat” and “Rabin” face-off.)
SAVIR: “Tell me, Your Excellency, why should I believe you could do that, when you won’t even let your soldiers use real bullets on my people as they fight you in Gaza?”
LARSEN: “But all I need is one bullet, Mr. Chairman. Just for you. You make all the peace you want. But one day, I will come for you.”
HIRSCHFELD (Rising): Okay. Okay.
(Hirschfeld “draws” a line on the floor between Savir and Larsen.)
Red line. Yah? Red. Line.
(Beat. Savir slowly, deliberately, walks over the “line.” He’s face-to-face with Larsen.)
SAVIR: “You’ve dreamed of this moment, haven’t you, Yitzhak?
To have me, inches from you. Me. The One Himself.
What do you want to do?
What do you dare do?”
(Larsen lunges—gripping Savir’s lapels—a spell broken—the men rise to their feet.
Everyone is frozen, a collective breath held.
Larsen slides his hands down to Savir’s shoulders, then slowly leans in and kisses him on one check, then the other.
Larsen walks through the men, and out the door.
No one else moves.
Then—
A phone rings.)
MONA (To us): One week later. Our flat in Oslo. Early Sunday morning.
(Larsen picks up the phone as Beilin appears.)
LARSEN: Al-lo?
BEILIN (Outward): Terje, this is the Son, calling with a message from the Father.
LARSEN: Of course. What does he—
BEILIN: Terje. The Father says you need to assemble your team and fly tomorrow, in secret, to Stockholm, Sweden. Tomorrow night the Father will be attending a state dinner there. After the dinner, the Father will meet your team at the royal guesthouse, and then he will make it.
LARSEN: Sorry, ah, make what?
BEILIN: Peace. With Those Across the Sea.
We are going to finish it, Terje, tomorrow night.
Stockholm. The next night.
The Swedish royal guesthouse for visiting dignitaries.
The guesthouse’s Swedish Hostess stares at Mona and Larsen.
SWEDISH HOSTESS: How long will you be with Mr. Peres tonight?
MONA: As long as Mr. Peres wishes.
SWEDISH HOSTESS: And why are you here to see Mr. Peres?
MONA: Mr. Peres, I’m sure, would like to answer that himself.
(The Hostess stares at Mona and Larsen. They smile. She does not. They wait.)
LARSEN: Perhaps a bit of late supper? Could that be arranged?
SWEDISH HOSTESS: The kitchen is closed.
(They wait.
Shimon Peres enters in a tuxedo.)
Ah, Mr. Foreign Minister. How was your function?
PERES: Long.
SWEDISH HOSTESS: May I get you something from the kitchen?
PERES: No, thank you.
SWEDISH HOSTESS: This couple is not on the official list for the guesthouse.
PERES: Good.
You may leave us.
(She hesitates, stares at Larsen and Mona, then does so.)
Holst is still at the reception, but he is coming.
Let us get started.
(Larsen and Mona look at each other.)
LARSEN: But, ah—
(Looking around) Where are the Palestinians?
PERES: The Palestinians are not coming.
(Larsen gestures to Mona: “What??!!”
She gestures back: “Don’t.”)
LARSEN: Ah. Shimon. Usually, as I know you know, when there are negotiations between two parties, there are two parties.
PERES: We are doing this on the phone.
You will ring Tunis, tell them I am calling, and have them put Arafat on the line.
MONA: Is the PLO leadership expecting your call?
PERES: The PLO leadership has never spoken to the Is
raeli leadership. Ever.
But the Chairman and I are the only ones who can make the necessary and painful final compromises. Since he and I can have no contact—of any kind—we will use Johan Jorgen as our intermediary.
Here is the latest draft of the DOP, with Singer’s markings.
Now, dial Tunis and find Arafat.
The night is not young, my friends, and we have a long way to go.
(He exits.)
LARSEN: Seriously? “Dial Tunis”? Like there’s only one phone number there? This is Arafat! He is unreachable by phone.
MONA: Where is Abu Ala?
LARSEN: I don’t know.
MONA: Is he in Tunis?
LARSEN: I don’t know!
(Mona gets paperwork and goes to the phone.)
What are you doing?
MONA (To Larsen): We’re going to call every possible number where Abu Ala could be staying. He will know how to get to Arafat.
(As Thor enters . . .)
THOR: Terje, the perimeter is secure.
LARSEN: Thank you, Thor.
(As Thor exits, Trond enters . . .)
TROND: Terje, Minister Holst is on his way.
LARSEN: Excellent, Trond.
MONA (To us): Two hours went by. We kept calling. But we could not reach Abu Ala.
Later. Holst is with them now—dressed in a tuxedo, as he paces.
HOLST: Christ, it’s almost midnight. We’re running out of time.
MONA: We’ll find him.
We will, Johan Jorgen.
HOLST: Where’s Shimon?
MONA: He said to wake him when we got Arafat on the line, but not before.
LARSEN: We need more copies of the new DOP.
(The Hostess enters.)
SWEDISH HOSTESS: Mr. Peres has retired for the evening so this office is closed.
MONA: Mr. Peres will be joining us again in a few moments.
May we use your copy machine?
SWEDISH HOSTESS: The copy machine is closed.
(As she pivots, and exits . . .
Qurie, on the phone, facing outward.)
QURIE: Hello? Can you hear me?
LARSEN: Oh, thank God.
QURIE: Can you hear me? This / connection is rubbish.
LARSEN: Yes, yes. Puntoffle. Listen to me.
I am calling for the Father. He is here, with me. He wishes to speak to your Grandfather. Person to person. Through this phone. Through an intermediary.
To finish it. Now. Tonight.
(Silence. Qurie digests this.)
Do you understand what / I am saying?
QURIE: Yes.
I do.
Yes.
(Silence. Then:)
I will call you back.
LARSEN: No! Puntoffle we don’t have time for—
QURIE: Larsen. I will call you back.
(And he’s gone. Larsen turns to Holst and Mona.)
MONA (To us): An hour. Then another.
(Trond enters.)
TROND: Mona, there’s a problem.
I went to make copies of the DOP. No one saw me. But it’s stuck in the copy machine and I can’t get it out.
MONA: Then ask her for help.
TROND: But she said we couldn’t use the machine.
MONA: Trond, do you have your gun?
TROND: Yes.
(She gestures to him: “Then use it!”
As he turns and exits . . .
Qurie reappears, speaking outward.)
QURIE: Larsen, I am here.
LARSEN: Puntoffle! Thank God.
(Larsen gestures to Mona and Holst: “It’s him! Get on the phone now!”
Mona and Holst are on the phone as well now, facing outward, phones gripped.)
QURIE: I am with the Grandfather.
LARSEN: Excellent.
QURIE: And with the entire ruling council.
LARSEN: Puntoffle . . . the entire . . . they are all with you?
QURIE: Here, around a table, yes.
He has just informed them of our Channel and what is to now transpire.
LARSEN: And and the news—my God—how are they taking it?
QURIE: Let us move on.
The Grandfather’s English is not as he wishes. Therefore he asks that I speak for and to him.
LARSEN: I understand. I’m sure that won’t—
QURIE: And I ask that you are the one I speak to.
(Larsen looks at Holst and Mona who stand still, phones to their ears.)
LARSEN (To Qurie): But, ah, ah the intermediary, it is to be—I am sure you know whom I am speaking of, his high official capacity in my country.
QURIE: You are speaking of the one who is the Lord Over Your Wife.
LARSEN: Well. That’s not. The code I would choose, but—
QURIE: Is the Lord Over Your Wife listening?
(Larsen looks to Holst, who gestures “no.”)
LARSEN: Yes.
QURIE: Then the Lord knows the respect that I hold the Lord in. And he will understand that where I am from, what men begin together, men must finish together.
(Qurie waits for an answer.
Holst stares at Larsen. He looks at Mona. Then:)
HOLST: I’ll get Shimon.
(He exits.
Larsen and Qurie do not move. They wait. And wait.)
QURIE: Are you still there?
LARSEN: Yes.
(They do not move. They wait.)
QURIE: Are you / still there?
LARSEN: Yes, I am. Puntoffle. Trust me.
(Peres and Holst enter.)
HOLST (To Peres): It is a total breach of protocol. If you are uneasy with this in anyway, I will instruct Arafat’s intermediary—
PERES: I understand. And it is. But, Johan Jorgen, I think we must acknowledge that now we are all very far beyond the bounds of protocol.
(Peres puts his hand out. Beat. Holst puts the phone in Peres’s hand.)
(To Larsen) Let us begin.
(Larsen faces outward, flanked on each side by the outward-looking Peres and Qurie. Mona speaks to us.)
MONA: Seven hours. Terje, the go-between for both sides.
LARSEN (As if to Peres): The Grandfather says he cannot accept that.
MONA: The final intransigents, on the table.
LARSEN (As if to Qurie): The Father says he is going to bed; call him when you change your mind.
MONA: Argue. Hang up. Call back. Push on.
QURIE: We will accept that their forces be in charge of border security, but our forces must have joint control of all checkpoints.
PERES: Tell him our checkpoints, our soldiers; we will not cede this point.
QURIE: Tell him the Grandfather says, then we will burn this document and wage war upon you until the last days of time. But also that we are open to a counter proposal.
MONA: Nerves frayed. Voices hoarse. But, slowly:
PERES: We will accept . . . that the Palestine Liberation Organization is the official voice of the Palestinian People.
MONA: One after another.
QURIE: We will accept . . . the legitimacy of the State of Israel.
MONA: Hour by hour.
QURIE: Agreed.
MONA: Point by point.
PERES: Agreed.
MONA: Except:
PERES: Jerusalem. Will remain solely the capital of Israel.
QURIE: No!
PERES: Non-negotiable!
(Silence. No one moves.)
QURIE: Larsen. Tell him. This is not the bluffing.
(Silence. All wait.
Larsen lowers his phone, leans in, and starts whispering in Peres’s ear.
Mona and Holst are gesturing wildly to Larsen: “What are you doing?!?”
Peres stands still, listening. Larsen finishes. He pulls back. No one moves. Then:)
PERES: In the name of . . . constructive ambiguity . . . we will accept that in the final stage of further negotiations, the future of Jerusalem will be addressed.
(Silence. Peres, Qurie, and
Larsen stare outward.)
QURIE: We accept this document.
PERES: As do we.
(No one moves. No one can believe it.)
LARSEN: Abu Ala . . . What is that sound?
QURIE (Beat. Then): They are crying.
All of them.
They did not think they would live to see this day.
Washington, DC. The White House. Reception room.
A great murmur of voices offstage. Larsen is busy with the seating arrangements for the post-ceremony reception. Thor and Trond assist him.
MONA (To us): 13 September 1993. Washington, DC. The White House.
(The American Diplomat enters.)
AMERICAN DIPLOMAT: Terje! (Still mispronouncing his name “TUR-juh”) Good to see you.
LARSEN: Ah, yes. It’s been so long.
AMERICAN DIPLOMAT: That’s quite a press corps out there.
LARSEN: They are saying it is unprecedented. From every corner of the world.
AMERICAN DIPLOMAT: Appears we have you to blame for that.
Hope nothing goes wrong. That’d be on you, wouldn’t it?
LARSEN: Ha. Yes. That’s—
(The doors fly open and Qurie and Savir burst through, mid-argument.)
QURIE (Simultaneously): It cannot be changed, it will not be changed, it is as it is, and that is final!
Uri, it is not my decision. And I cannot change it!
SAVIR (Simultaneously): How can you possibly think we would agree to this? Now? / An hour before the fucking thing is unveiled to the world?
LARSEN (To the men): My friends, my friends! Take this somewhere else—please!
(As Mona enters . . .)
QURIE: Mona, you must see the rightness of our cause and help my people.
SAVIR (To Mona): Tell him they cannot alter the treaty sixty minutes before we are signing in front of the world.
QURIE: You are making peace with us, not some pretend foe you can name as you wish!
MONA: What is—Abu Ala—what is going on?
SAVIR: I’ll fucking tell you.
(Pointing at Qurie) They have changed—throughout the document—every time it says “Palestine” to read “PLO.”
QURIE: For that is who we are!
SAVIR: Abu Ala, it cannot happen!
Can you not understand what the word “PLO” means to us?
