by David Lodge
PHILIP: Very nice.
MORRIS: I mean, in the sack.
PHILIP: Very nice.
MORRIS: Hard work, though, isn’t it?
PHILIP: I wouldn’t have said so.
(pause)
MORRIS: Uh, ever get her to, uh, blow you?
PHILIP: No.
MORRIS: (sighs) Neither did I.
(pause)
PHILIP: I never thought of asking.
(pause)
PHILIP sits up suddenly, wide awake.
PHILIP: Did you ever ask Hilary?
MORRIS: Sure.
PHILIP: What happened?
MORRIS: Nothing.
PHILIP relaxes, sinks back on to the bed, closes eyes.
(pause)
MORRIS: She didn’t know what I was talking about.
Cut to:
Interior: hotel room, pink decor—night.
DÉSIRÉE and HILARY asleep in the twin beds. Telephone on bedside table between them. Telephone rings. DÉSIRÉE gropes, picks up receiver.
DÉSIRÉE: (half asleep) Hallo.
Intercut close-ups of MORRIS and DÉSIRÉE.
MORRIS: Hallo, sweetheart.
DÉSIRÉE: (annoyed) What do you want? I was asleep.
MORRIS: Uh… Philip and I were wondering (looks across at PHILIP) if we couldn’t come to some more comfortable arrangement…
DÉSIRÉE: Like what?
MORRIS: Like if one of you girls would like to change places with one of us…
DÉSIRÉE: You mean either of us? With either of you? You don’t have any preference?
MORRIS: (laughs uneasily) We leave it to you.
DÉSIRÉE: You’re despicable. (Puts down receiver)
MORRIS: DÉSIRÉE!
MORRIS rattles the receiver.
(gloomily) Bitch!
Cut to:
Interior: pink hotel room—night.
HILARY: Who was that?
DÉSIRÉE: Morris.
HILARY: What did he want?
DÉSIRÉE: Either of us. He wasn’t fussy.
HILARY: What?
DÉSIRÉE: Philip too. I’m afraid Morris is a bad influence.
HILARY: (sits up) I’d like to talk to Philip.
DÉSIRÉE: Now?
HILARY: I’m wide awake.
DÉSIRÉE: Please yourself. (turns over)
HILARY: Don’t you want to talk to Morris on your own?
DÉSIRÉE: No!
Cut to:
Interior: hotel corridor—night.
HILARY, in dressing-gown, emerges from door on left, leaving it ajar, crosses corridor and knocks on door to right. It opens. HILARY goes in, door shuts. After a short interval, door on right opens and MORRIS, in dressing-gown, comes out, closes door behind him, crosses corridor, enters door left, closes it behind him.
Cut to:
Interior: blue hotel room—night.
HILARY: (nervously) I only came in here to talk, Philip.
Cut to:
Interior: pink hotel room—night. Sound: door clicks shut.
DÉSIRÉE: (levelly) You lay a finger on me, Zapp, and you’ll regret it.
Blackout
Cut to:
Interior: blue room—early morning.
PHILIP and HILARY asleep in each other’s arms in one of the beds.
Cut to:
Interior: pink room—early morning.
Pan slowly round room, which is in a mess—chairs overturned, lamps knocked over, bedclothes ripped from beds etc. There is no sign of MORRIS and DÉSIRÉE until they are discovered on the floor between the two twin beds, naked, tangled together in a heap of pillows and bedclothes. They are fast asleep.
Cut to:
Interior: coffee-shop in hotel—morning.
MORRIS, DÉSIRÉE, PHILIP and HILARY are finishing breakfast. They are sitting in a booth, men on one side of the table, women on the other.
MORRIS: Well, what are we going to do this morning? Shall we show these two hicks the town, DÉSIRÉE?
DÉSIRÉE: It’s gonna be hot. In the nineties, the radio said.
HILARY: Shouldn’t we have a serious talk? I mean, that’s what we’ve come all this way for. What are we going to do? About the future.
MORRIS: Let’s consider the options. Coolly. (prepares to light cigar) First: we could return to our respective homes with our respective spouses.
MORRIS lights cigar, and examines the tip. HILARY looks at PHILIP, PHILIP looks at DÉSIRÉE, DÉSIRÉE looks at MORRIS.
DÉSIRÉE: Next option.
MORRIS: We could all get divorced and remarry each other. If you follow me.
PHILIP: Where would we live?
MORRIS: I could take the Chair at Rummidge, settle down there. I guess you could get a job in Euphoria…
PHILIP: I’m not so sure.
MORRIS: Or you could take DÉSIRÉE to Rummidge, and I’d go back to Euphoria with Hilary.
HILARY rises to her feet.
Where are you going?
HILARY: I don’t wish to listen to this childish conversation.
PHILIP: What’s wrong? You started it.
HILARY: This is not what I meant by a serious talk. You sound like a couple of scriptwriters discussing how to wind up a play.
MORRIS: Hilary, honey! There are choices to be made. We must be aware of all the possibilities.
HILARY: (sitting down) All right, then. Have you considered the possibility that DÉSIRÉE and I might divorce you two and not remarry?
DÉSIRÉE: Right on!
MORRIS: (thoughtfully) True. Another possibility is group marriage. You know? Two couples live together in one house and pool their resources. Everything is common property.
PHILIP: Including, er…
MORRIS: Including that, naturally.
HILARY: What about the children?
MORRIS: It’s great for children. They amuse each other, while the parents…
DÉSIRÉE: Screw each other.
HILARY: I never heard of anything so immoral in my life.
MORRIS: Oh, come on Hilary! The four of us already hold the world record for long-distance wife-swapping. Why not do it under one roof? That way you get domestic stability plus sexual variety. Isn’t that what all of us want? I don’t know how you two made out last night, but DÉSIRÉE and I really had a—
DÉSIRÉE: OK, OK, that’s enough of that.
PHILIP: I must say it’s an intriguing idea.
DÉSIRÉE: In theory I’m sympathetic—I mean as a first step towards getting rid of the nuclear family, it has possibilities. But if Morris is in favour there must be a twist in it somewhere.
HILARY: (sardonically, to MORRIS) As a matter of academic interest: in this so-called group marriage, what happens if the two men both fancy the same woman at the same time?
DÉSIRÉE: Or the two women want to sleep with the same man?
(Pause) MORRIS rubs his chin thoughtfully.
PHILIP: (grins) I know. The one who’s left out watches the other three.
MORRIS and DÉSIRÉE crack up laughing. HILARY joins in despite herself.
HILARY: But can’t we be serious for a moment? Where is this all going to end?
Cut to:
Interior: blue hotel room—afternoon.
The door opens and in come MORRIS, DÉSIRÉE, HILARY and PHILIP. They carry packages and carrier bags with Manhattan store names on them. They look hot and sweaty, but relaxed. They flop down on chairs, beds.
MORRIS: We made it.
DÉSIRÉE: Jesus, I’d forgotten what a New York heatwave was like.
PHILIP: Thank God for air conditioning.
MORRIS: I’ll go get some ice.
MORRIS goes out. PHILIP sits up suddenly.
PHILIP: DÉSIRÉE.
DÉSIRÉE: What?
PHILIP: D’you realize what day this is… The day of the March!
DÉSIRÉE: The march? Oh, yeah, the March.
HILARY: What’s that?
PHILIP: (excitedly) The educational network is carrying it.
PHILIP goes over to TV, turns it on.
DÉSIRÉE: It was this morning, wasn’t it? It’s all over by now.
PHILIP: It’s still morning in Euphoria. Pacific time.
DÉSIRÉE: That’s right! (to HILARY) Have you heard about the trouble at Plotinus? Over the People’s Garden?
HILARY: Oh that. You missed a lot of excitement at Rummidge this term, you know, Philip. The sit-in and everything.
PHILIP: Somehow I can’t think of anything seriously revolutionary happening at Rummidge.
HILARY: I hope you’re not going to turn into one of these violence snobs, who think that nothing’s important unless people are getting killed.
DÉSIRÉE: “Violence snobs,” I like that…
PHILIP: Well, as a matter of fact people could be killed today in Plotinus, quite easily.
DÉSIRÉE: You have to make allowances, Hilary. Philip got very involved with the Garden and all that. He even went to jail.
HILARY: Good God! You never told me, Philip.
PHILIP: (crouching over set as it begins to warm up) It was only for a few hours. I was going to write to you about it but… it was connected with other things.
HILARY: Oh.
A Western film comes up on the TV screen. PHILIP switches channels until he hits the transmission of the Plotinus March.
PHILIP: Ah! (tunes TV. Sound: chanting, cheers, bands etc.)
MORRIS enters with ice and soft drinks.
MORRIS: What’s that?
DÉSIRÉE: The big March at Plotinus.
MORRIS: No kidding?
VOICE OF COMMENTATOR: And it certainly looks as though the great March is going to pass off peacefully after all…
MORRIS watches with interest as he prepares the drinks. Close-up of TV screen. We see the column of marchers passing the fenced-in Garden. It is a warm sunny morning in Plotinus. The crowd is festive, good-humoured. The marchers carry banners, flags, flowers and sod. Inside the fence, National Guardsmen stand at ease. The camera zooms in on various sections of the crowd. We see trucks with rock bands and topless dancers performing on them, people dancing in the spray from hosepipes, marching arm-in-arm etc. We can recognize various familiar faces among the marchers. Over these pictures, the voice of the COMMENTATOR and the comments of MORRIS, PHILIP, HILARY and DÉSIRÉE.
VOICE OF COMMENTATOR: A lot of people feared blood would run in the streets of Plotinus today, but so far the vibrations are good… The marchers are throwing flowers instead of rocks… they’re weaving flowers into the mesh of the hurricane fence… they’re planting sod on the sidewalk outside the Garden… that’s how they’re making their point…
PHILIP: I say, there’s Charles Boon. And Melanie!
MORRIS: Melanie? Where?
DÉSIRÉE: Next to that guy with his arm in plaster.
HILARY: She’s very pretty.
VOICE OF COMMENTATOR: So far, nobody has tried to scale the fence. The guardsmen, as you can see, are standing at ease. Some of them have been waving to the marchers…
PHILIP: And there’s Wily Smith! D’you remember, Hilary, I told you about him. In the corner of the picture in the baseball cap. He was in my writing class. Never wrote me a single word.
VOICE OF COMMENTATOR: Sheriff O’Keene and his men, the blue meanies as the students call them, are well out of sight…
DÉSIRÉE: Hey, look at the topless dancers!
PHILIP: That’s Carol and Deirdre, surely?
DÉSIRÉE: I think you’re right.
VOICE OF COMMENTATOR: The column has been going past for about thirty minutes now, and I still can’t see the end of it.
PHILIP: And there’s the Cowboy and the Confederate Soldier! Everybody in Plotinus must be on this march.
VOICE OF COMMENTATOR: I think these pictures say it all.
HILARY: (a little wistfully) You sound as if you wish you were there yourself, Philip.
DÉSIRÉE: You bet he does.
PHILIP: No, not really.
PHILIP turns down the volume of the TV but leaves the vision on. Draw back to reveal the four of them gathered round the TV, drinks in hand.
PHILIP: “That is no country for old men…”
MORRIS: Come now, Philip, let’s have no defeatism.
PHILIP: I’d be an impostor there.
DÉSIRÉE: Explain yourself.
PHILIP: Those young people (gestures at TV screen) really care about the Garden. It’s like a love affair for them. Take Charles Boon and Melanie. I could never feel like that about any public issue. Sometimes I wish I could. For me, if I’m honest, politics is background, news, almost entertainment. Something you switch on and off, like the TV. What I really worry about, what I can’t switch off at will is, oh, sex, or dying or losing my hair. Private things. We’re private people, aren’t we, our generation? We make a clear distinction between private and public life; and the important things, the things that make us happy or unhappy are private. Love is private. Property is private. Parts are private. That’s why the young radicals call for fucking in the streets. It’s not just a cheap shock-tactic. It’s a serious revolutionary proposition. You know that Beatles’ song, “Let’s Do It In The Road”… ?
DÉSIRÉE: Bullshit.
PHILIP: Eh?
DÉSIRÉE: Absolute bullshit, Philip. You’ve been brainwashed by the Plotinus Underground. You’ve been reading too many copies of Euphoric Times. Who’s going to get fucked in the streets when the revolution comes, tell me that?
PHILIP: Who?
DÉSIRÉE: Women, that’s who, whether they like it or not. Listen, there are girls getting raped every night down at the Garden, only Euphoric Times doesn’t recognize the word rape, so you’d never know it. Any girl who goes down to help with the Garden is caught in a sexual trap. If she won’t put out the men will accuse her of being bourgeois and uptight and if she complains to the cops they’ll tell her she deserves everything she gets by simply being there. And if the girls aren’t being screwed against their will, they’re slaving over the stewpot or washing dishes or looking after kids, while the men sit around rapping about politics. Call that a revolution? Don’t make me laugh.
HILARY: Hear, hear!
PHILIP: Well, you may be right, DÉSIRÉE. All I’m saying is that there is a generation gap, and I think it revolves around this public/private thing. Our generation—we subscribe to the old liberal doctrine of the inviolate self. It’s the great tradition of realistic fiction, it’s what novels are all about. The private life in the foreground, history a distant rumble of gunfire, somewhere offstage. In Jane Austen not even a rumble. Well, the novel is dying, and us with it. No wonder I could never get anything out of my novel-writing class at Euphoric State. It’s an unnatural medium for their experience. Those kids (gestures at screen) are living a film, not a novel.
MORRIS: Oh, come on, Philip! You’ve been listening to Karl Kroop.
PHILIP: Well, he makes a lot of sense.
MORRIS: It’s a very crude kind of historicism he’s peddling, surely? And bad aesthetics.
HILARY: This is all very fascinating, I’m sure, but could we discuss something a little more practical? Like what the four of us are going to do in the immediate future?
DÉSIRÉE: It’s no use, Hilary. Don’t you recognize the sound of men talking?
MORRIS: (To PHILIP) The paradigms of fiction are essentially the same whatever the medium. Words or images, it makes no difference at the structural level.
DÉSIRÉE: “The structural level,” “paradigms.” How they love those abstract words. “Historicism”!
PHILIP: (To MORRIS) I don’t think that’s entirely true. I mean, take the question of endings.
DÉSIRÉE: Yeah, let’s take it!
PHILIP: You remember that passage in Northanger Abbey where Jane Austen says she’s afraid that her readers will have guessed that a happy ending is coming up at any moment.
MORRIS: (nods) Quote, “Seeing in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them that we are all has
tening together to perfect felicity.” Unquote.
PHILIP: That’s it. Well, that’s something the novelist can’t help giving away, isn’t it, that his book is shortly coming to an end? It may not be a happy ending, nowadays, but he can’t disguise the tell-tale compression of the pages.
HILARY and DÉSIRÉE begin to listen to what PHILIP is saying, and he becomes the focal point of attention.
I mean, mentally you brace yourself for the ending of a novel. As you’re reading, you’re aware of the fact that there’s only a page or two left in the book, and you get ready to close it. But with a film there’s no way of telling, especially nowadays, when films are much more loosely structured, much more ambivalent, than they used to be. There’s no way of telling which frame is going to be the last. The film is going along, just as life goes along, people are behaving, doing things, drinking, talking, and we’re watching them, and at any point the director chooses, without warning, without anything being resolved, or explained, or wound up, it can just… end.
PHILIP shrugs. The camera stops, freezing him in mid-gesture.
THE END
SMALL WORLD
AN ACADEMIC ROMANCE
To Mary
With all my love
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Like Changing Places, to which it is a kind of sequel, Small World resembles what is sometimes called the real world, without corresponding exactly to it, and is peopled by figments of the imagination (the name of one of the minor characters has been changed in later editions to avoid misunderstanding on this score). Rummidge is not Birmingham, though it owes something to popular prejudices about that city. There really is an underground chapel at Heathrow and a James Joyce Pub in Zürich, but no universities in Limerick or Darlington; nor, as far as I know, was there ever a British Council representative resident in Genoa. The MLA Convention of 1979 did not take place in New York, though I have drawn on the programme for the 1978 one, which did. And so on.
Special thanks for information received (not to mention many other favours) are due to Donald and Margot Fanger and Susumu Takagi. Most of the books from which I have derived hints, ideas and inspiration for this one are mentioned in the text, but I should acknowledge a debt to two which are not: Inescapable Romance: Studies in the Poetics of a Mode by Patricia A. Parker (Princeton University Press, 1979) and Airport International by Brian Moynahan (Pan Books, 1978).
