CALVIN: Are you serious?
PETERS: Am I serious! —For generations my family were the only chiropractors in Naples! One of them is buried in the marble floor of the cathedral; yes, and a yard away from the king . . . who incidentally had terrible arthritis, so you’d think they’d have buried him in a warmer place.
CALVIN: I’m glad you’re feeling better. Anyway, the Morris family died off and then you had the Depression and where you’re sitting now was a cafeteria through the thirties. The famous Eagle Cafeteria, open twenty-four hours.
PETERS, almost, not quite remembering: Ah yes!—where I’m sitting now. Philosophical Marxist discussions going through the night. Leon Trotsky was supposed to have been a waiter, which I’d like to believe, but who ever heard of a waiter in a cafeteria? Anyway, the dates don’t work out; by the thirties Trotsky was already the head of the Red Army.
CALVIN: So, that’s more or less the history. Was that so bad?
PETERS: No-no, I’m beginning to enjoy it. Why don’t you rest now, you must be pretty old, too, aren’t you?
CALVIN: Me? I stopped getting old a long time ago.
Pause.
PETERS: . . . Stopped getting old, did you say?
Calvin is silent, motionless, stares front.
Something horrifying dawns on Peters. Ohhh . . . Covers his face. Oh my God, yes! —Then where is this? Say, you’re not all dead here, are you?
CALVIN: Don’t let it bother you; life is one to a customer and no returns if you’re not satisfied.
PETERS: Listen, I really have to leave; I don’t belong here! Just because a man decides to buy a pair of quadruple-A shoes . . . is that fair? Struggling to rise. I am leaving!
CALVIN: What will I do with your wife!
PETERS: My wife? Oh God, I don’t know, just . . . just . . . kiss her and tell her . . . to . . . to . . . sadly die.
Peters lies back, falling asleep again.
CALVIN: —It’s important to know that up until the Vietnam War the place was a real money-maker, but those little fellas in their black pajamas killed all the nightclubs.
PETERS: Vietnamese killed the nightclubs?
CALVIN: Destroyed all the optimism. And the pessimism. No optimism, no clubs; no pessimism, no clubs.
PETERS: Then what’s left?
CALVIN: Vacillation, indecision, self-satisfaction, and religion—all enemies of nightclubs. In London, on the other hand . . .
PETERS: Wait! Before you get to London . . . could you give me an idea of the subject.
CALVIN, angrily: I’m explaining—I said I don’t mind.
PETERS, desperately: I know you don’t mind but I am not happy when I don’t know even what the subject is! Shouting: Can’t I have a hint! I ask you . . . a hint! A hint!
CALVIN, frustrated: For God’s sake, man, they have clubs in London that go on for a hundred, two hundred years! Can you imagine anything like that here? Anyway, that’s the history. Peters stands up, peers out in silence. What is this misery of yours?
PETERS, sings softly: “I’ve got a crush on you, sweetie-pie . . . ” Sings another line, then it dies. You’re not from Moscow, by any chance?
CALVIN: Odessa. Name a great violinist and you can bet he came from Odessa. I’m talking Mischa Elman, I’m talking Sasha Schneider, and Mischa Auer . . .
PETERS: Mischa Auer did not come from Odessa, but that’s all right.
CALVIN: Well, the greatest olives in the world come from Odessa.
PETERS: It’s all right, just go on lying, why shouldn’t you? Can I believe that during the war I delivered our P-40 fighter planes to Odessa? I had some great hopes for Russia then, but terribly puritanical—I inadvertently learned you must never get into bed with two Russian women. And incidentally, every adventurous woman I met there carried a bathtub stopper in her purse.
CALVIN: I was never conservative enough to be a Communist. Seriously—soon as a girl joined the party she’d cross her unshaven legs and you might as well go to the library.
PETERS, sits: I think the subject is—humiliation. Give up the gin, then the vermouth, and end up having to explain to a Princeton class which war you were in. Talk about futility. Christ’s sake, behind our propellers we were saving the world! And now, “Which war . . . ” So you end up staring into space, with maybe some woman’s wonderful ass floating by, or a banana split. Remember banana splits; four balls of ice cream on a sliced banana, covered with hand-whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and a maraschino cherry on top . . . for twenty-five cents? That, my friend, was a country, huh? I mean that was a country! —And who ever had a key to their front door?
CALVIN: Unheard of. You said you had a question?
PETERS: A question? Oh yes, yes . . . Takes out a tabloid paper. Why are you so untruthful? Are you trying to destroy the world?
CALVIN: Destroy the world!—I’m just talking!
PETERS, springing up: That’s it!! That’s what I think I’ve been trying to say since I walked in here! —“Just talking” is . . . is . . . There is no subject anymore! Turn on the radio, turn on the television, what is it—just talking! It can sink the ship! Breaks off, bewildered. Gripping his forehead. Something’s happening to me.
CALVIN: Something like what?
PETERS, holds up his paper as though just discovering it in his hand: . . . I found this on the train. Amazing ads; pages and pages . . . look: breast augmentation, $4,400. And guess how much breast reduction is.
CALVIN: How much?
PETERS: Same price. That seem strange to you?
CALVIN: . . . No, seems about right.
PETERS: My father paid five thousand for the eight-room house our whole family lived in for thirty years! And a pair of tits is five thousand?
CALVIN: Yes. But houses are not as important; put a house on one magazine cover and a pair of tits on another, which one’ll sell?
PETERS: And here we have penile augmentation for four thousand dollars and hymen reconstruction for two thousand. I can’t imagine why hymens are cheaper.
CALVIN: There’s not as much to a hymen. And they’re nothing but trouble.
PETERS: Ah! But isn’t it odd that penile augmentation costs four hundred dollars less than breast augmentation.
CALVIN: Well, I wouldn’t take it personally.
PETERS, turning pages: But you have to, don’t you?! I read these ads and I wonder—“Why don’t I understand this?” You see? WHY DON’T I UNDERSTAND THIS! A sudden quizzical expression. Please don’t be offended, but are you asleep?
CALVIN: Me?
Larry reenters.
LARRY: Thanks. If you see her let me know, would you? I’m Larry, in Posito’s near the corner.
CALVIN: What’s she look like?
LARRY: What she looks like? . . . She looks perfect. With a white angora sweater. And pink plastic spike-heel shoes. A little on the pudgy side but not too fat . . . just . . . you know, perfect.
PETERS: What made you think she would be in here?
LARRY, he shrugs: She could be. Nods. She could be anywhere. The neighborhood’s got a lot of Jews, you know. And Koreans now and Chinks.
PETERS, in Italian: E italiani.
LARRY: I’m Italian.
PETERS, in Italian: Certo; non sono sordo? In English: You know, Larry, Italians have always been a tolerant people.
LARRY: Fuck that, sir.
PETERS: Excuse me but fuck that sir is not a way to talk intelligently. Italian tolerance comes from the Roman era when so many different races flooded into the empire . . . Arabs, Gauls, Spanish, Nordics, Russians . . .
CALVIN: Lithuanians.
PETERS, sharply: Not Lithuanians.
LARRY: In March the niggers busted our window, robbed forty-one pairs of shoes.
CALVIN: I heard about that.
LARRY: You heard about it? We’re
fed up. Fed up!
ADELE: Us too.
LARRY: I didn’t hear that. Leaning angrily toward Peters. Fuck the tolerance, sir, that’s all over. Finished! Now we protect ourselves! To Calvin: Thanks. To Peters: Good luck with the shoes. By the way, her name is Cathy; Cathy-May.
PETERS: Yes, I know . . . But is she the same Cathy-May who used to be alive? —I don’t mean “alive” in that sense, I mean . . .
Larry exits.
Peters leans his elbows on his thighs and holds his head in despair.
PETERS: It didn’t used to get to me—but lately . . . almost every time I take my nap . . . it’s like a long icicle slowly stabbing down into my balls.
CALVIN: When I lived in Florence . . .
PETERS, open fury: For God’s sake, don’t say one additional thing, will you?! Eyes shut, hand on forehead. I wonder if I’m eating too much for lunch. Suddenly turning on Adele. Excuse me, but may I ask what you are doing here?
ADELE, puts on a nurse’s cap: Thank you for your interest. With God’s permission I live here. I hope none of you has the idea of tearing this building down.
PETERS: Why are you putting on a nurse’s cap?
ADELE: Could it be I’m a nurse? And before you mock me, be sure you don’t get sick and need my services.
PETERS: I’m not at all mocking you, but a nurse sitting around drinking like that . . .
ADELE: You mock everyone! Look at how you mocked that handsome shoe salesman!
PETERS: But it’s a mistake, she can’t have married a lout like him! She’s not really a common slut, you know—and she’s . . . well I won’t say she’s . . . A choked cry. She’s dead?
A realization: Or not? . . . Not? High hope suddenly. Please! Is she? What is her situation!
ADELE: I’m not a nurse; sorry.
PETERS: Then what are you doing with that cap!
ADELE: I just found it on the sidewalk outside the Lenox Hill Hospital, probably some nurse lost it jumping into a cab to meet her date, probably a well-to-do elderly man who was going to fix her up for life. But if I was a nurse would I have the right to sit around drinking booze?
PETERS: Of course, just as he . . . To Calvin: I’ve forgotten, what was your right . . . ?
Leonard and Rose enter. He carries a guitar case. He is holding her by the elbow.
LEONARD: Excuse me, can she sit down?
CALVIN: We’re closed. We only open the second floor around six-thirty.
LEONARD: She’s pregnant.
CALVIN: Oh! Well, have a chair. They’ve all been re-glued. Leonard and Calvin quickly seat her.
ROSE, sitting: Don’t worry, I’m not having it, I just walked too much.
CALVIN: Relax, we’re all on the side of the pregnant woman. Asking: You’re not the father.
LEONARD: How’d you know!
CALVIN: What’s to know?—nobody’s the father anymore. To Peters: So that’s the history. To Rose: If you need the powder room, it’s straight that way.
ROSE: Thank you, I will in a minute.
LEONARD: I’ve passed this place a hundred times and never knew it was a nightclub . . . it is, isn’t it?
CALVIN: That’s our style, or it was—no sign outside, no advertising; people either want to be here or they don’t. Most didn’t, obviously. To Peters: I’ll be in my office if your wife is interested. Slows beside Rose. I hope you know the father.
ROSE: Of course I know the father!
PETERS: Of course!
CALVIN: Just kidding—it’s only that they used to say—I’m talking forty, fifty years ago—“A man who betrays his wife will betray his country.”
PETERS, simultaneously: “. . . Will betray his country.”
CALVIN: I figured you knew that saying.
PETERS: Haven’t heard it in fifty years, and it’s still idiotic. What has screwing a woman got to do with betraying your country?
CALVIN: Nothing, but nobody even says things like that anymore. To Rose. Morals count, you know, even if you just say them. Making to leave. Excuse me, Professor.
PETERS: How did you know I was a professor?
CALVIN: What else could you be? —I can smell the chalk. Touching his temple. Nobody forgets chalk.
He exits. Peters stares after him, perplexed, deeply curious. Silence. Rose takes out a bottle of Evian and drinks. Finally . . .
PETERS: How old are you people now, if you don’t mind my asking?
LEONARD: I’m twenty-seven.
ROSE: Twenty-eight now.
ADELE, unasked: Thirty-four.
PETERS: And you’re all . . . Embarrassed chuckle. I feel a little funny asking, but . . . you’re all awake, aren’t you.
ROSE: Awake?
PETERS: Forget it. Maybe it’s that I don’t see many young people anymore, so it’s hard to guess their ages. . . . To me, everybody looks about twenty-two. Do you find it hard to follow what people are saying?
LEONARD: Well . . . not really. To Rose: Do we? Before she can answer: Except she never listens anyway.
ROSE: I do listen, but I have my own thoughts and it’s hard to listen while I’m thinking.
PETERS: Let me put it another way—do you find you get sleepy after lunch, or when do you start?
ADELE: Getting sleepy? The minute I wake up.
PETERS: It struck me the other day that everyone I know is sleepy—I wonder if it’s something about the times.
ROSE: Maybe you’re low on potassium. You should eat bananas.
PETERS: I do eat two or three a week for breakfast. Actually I rather like bananas.
ROSE: You should try to love them. Motivation is important in the diet; bananas are there to be loved. Try eating five a week. Seven or eight would be even better. Or ten.
PETERS: Isn’t that quite a lot of bananas?
ROSE, raises one leg in a stretch: You only have enough bananas when one more would make you want to throw up. I know about such things, I’m a dancer, dancers need trace elements for the knees.
PETERS: Trace elements for the knees?
ROSE: They’re tiny but important.
PETERS, nods with a certain alarm: Trace elements for the knees? You see, this is what I mean; when I was young no human being from one end of the United States to the other would have uttered that sentence. For example, my father and grandfather—I don’t recall them ever in the presence of a banana. And they lived into their nineties.
ADELE: Same thing with my mother; she can gross down two, three at a time, a woman over ninety and no bigger than a thimble and still driving an eight-cylinder Buick loaded with extras—air bags, defrosting side mirrors, tinted glass . . . Continues mouthing.
PETERS: In fact, nobody ate bananas when I was young. You make me wonder how we managed.
ADELE: . . . Fifteen-inch wheels, leather trim, non-skid brakes, moon roof, lighted trunk . . . Continues mouthing.
ROSE: People had different thoughts then, and there was nothing around to get them so exhausted.
ADELE: Upholstered armrest, front and rear utility lights, metallic paint . . . V6, three-and-a-half-liter engine, automatic transmission . . . Goes on mouthing.
PETERS, nods in silence for a moment: Please forgive my curiosity, but does this conversation revolve around some . . . subject that I am unaware of?
LEONARD: A subject? I don’t think so . . . To Rose: Does it?
ROSE: What? Excuse me, I was thinking of something.
LEONARD: You know, darling, it’s not very polite to drop out of a conversation without telling anybody.
PETERS: . . . Unless we don’t need a subject anymore . . . They look at him blankly. I mean do you people ever wonder . . . as you’re getting into bed, what you were talking about all day?
LEONARD: I don’t think so. To Rose: Do we?
ROSE: When we’re ge
tting into bed?
PETERS: Or for example, I do enjoy the movies, but every so often I wonder, “What was the subject of the picture?”
ROSE: The subject of a picture?
PETERS: I remember my mother—washing machines were rather rare in those times—and she’d have the maid boil the sheets and the laundry on the stove and lug it all up to the roof of the apartment house to dry. Have you ever heard of that?
ROSE: Boiling sheets?
LEONARD: On a gas stove? That’s a fire hazard!
ROSE: Water is fireproof, Leonard.
PETERS, forcing concentration; peering: No-no, I think what I’m trying to . . . to . . . find my connection with is a . . . what’s the word . . . continuity . . . yes, with the past, perhaps . . . in the hope of finding a . . . yes, a subject. That’s the idea, I think, but I’m exhausted . . .
ROSE: Boiling sheets?
LEONARD: But that’s not really a subject.
ROSE: Well then, going up to the roof?
PETERS: That’s it! Yes! Maybe!
ROSE: But wouldn’t wet sheets weigh a ton?
PETERS: Right! And nobody would do that anymore! So maybe that’s a real subject, because one thing reveals another. What else about that?
ROSE: Maybe that’s why you need more bananas now.
PETERS, to Leonard: Say now! She makes a lot of sense! You’ve relieved me a lot.
ROSE: Really? Why?
PETERS: Because you have added to what I said! Rather than exhausting me by starting a whole new unrelated conversation. That’s really glorious! Thank you so much. Tears flow, he wipes them.
ROSE: Don’t be upset.
PETERS: It’s just that when you’ve flown into hundreds of gorgeous sunsets, you want them to go on forever and ever . . . and hold off the darkness . . .
The trumpet plays a loud blast of “My Blue Heaven.” His anxiety soars.
How like sex the trumpet is—it always leaves you kind of sad when it’s finished. You know, every spring . . . every spring the Polish maids would carry our carpets up to the roof and hang them out on wires, and they’d beat them for hours until their blouses were dark with sweat. When April came and early May, hundreds of rooftops all over the city had those big fair-haired Polish girls walloping clouds of carpet dust to drift out over the avenues.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 131
