Shimon: (A beat. ABU DALO takes the coffee but doesn’t drink.) Please. Drink my coffee. I promise to make it better next time.
Your daughter can stay here as long as you help me finish this book.
Abu Dalo: I detest your pity.
Scene 2
Enter THE CAMEL and THE HOUSE. ALEX and SUHA digging. SUHA can hear THE HOUSE but not ALEX. ALEX and SUHA cannot hear THE CAMEL.
THE CAMEL sings his heart out. Leonard Cohen.
The House: Try it with a bit more longing.
The Camel: This is a complete waste of time.
The House: I need you to sing so the kids can hear.
Suha: The walls are full of mould. You people never took care of this place.
Alex: You and I could clean it up. Together. If you want.
Suha: Screw off.
The Camel: This isn’t helping at all.
The House: The kids will fall in love. They’ll break the impasse between the old men. They’ll live like a family.
They’ll be a family.
(to SUHA) Hello? Excuse me? Hello?
Suha: Who the hell is that?
The House: It’s me. The house.
SUHA stops digging.
Suha: Oh. You talk. I heard about a talking house once. It was in Nablus.
The Israelis bulldozed it, of course.
Suha as Groucho: They like to bulldoze. They’re like little boys with their toys in the sandbox.
SUHA resumes digging.
Suha: They’ll bulldoze you, too.
The Camel: She’s a real sweetheart.
The House: Sing. (to SUHA) You need to stop digging.
Suha: I’m burying my mother. (to ALEX) Dig, kike. (He does.)
Alex: Do you like sandboxes?
Suha: Piss off.
Alex: I used to have a sandbox when I was a kid.
Once I dug so deep I actually made it to China. (a beat)
I’m much stronger than I look.
Suha: You are incredibly annoying.
Alex: You’re annoyingly incredible.
Suha: Shut up and dig!
The Camel: She couldn’t fall in love if you paid her.
The House: When people disagree it means they care. Life!
(to SUHA) This is a house for the living. Burials require special permission.
Suha: (to THE HOUSE) I’m doing this because my mother wanted to be buried here. I wanted to grant her final wish.
The House: Then it’ll cost you.
Suha: How much?
The House: Oh, I sense a negotiation coming. I like a good negotiation.
The Camel: You’re beautiful when you negotiate.
The House: Show me your hands. (She does.) You’ve got the hands of a gardener. I could do with some landscaping.
Suha: I’ve never touched a plant in my life.
The House: Then you’re a cook.
Suha: I hate cooking. I hate food. I hate boys. I hate Jews. I hate fathers. I hate trees I hate Nazis I hate soccer balls I hate high-heeled shoes I hate newspapers. I hate everything.
The Camel: Not good. Not good at all.
The House: (to SUHA) I know what you want.
You want satellite television. A room of your own. A fridge full of orange Tang—
Suha: I don’t want any of that shit. Not in this house. Not with my father. He didn’t even invite me inside, the prick. (to ALEX) Dig, kike!
Alex: This kike is digging with zeal and determination. My pecks are glistening with sweat!
Suha: Your pecks are small and unmanly, just like your shovel.
The Camel: These kids couldn’t live together if their lives depended on it. They’re going to grow up to be just as messed up as their parents. Worse.
The House: (to SUHA) You want to live here.
Suha: No, I want to bury my mother.
The House: You came to Jerusalem because you want to live in this house.
Suha: Absolutely not. (to ALEX) When I’m done burying my mother I’m going right back to Jenin.
Alex: Isn’t Jerusalem nicer?
Suha: At least I know what to expect in Jenin.
The House: (to THE CAMEL) She’d rather live in a refugee camp.
The Camel: She’s right: you can’t love here. Tragedy.
That’s all there is in Jerusalem.
Of course, there’s always Paris.
The House: Paris.
The Camel: Everything is beautiful in Paris.
The House: A house and a camel—in Paris.
The Camel: “Exiles in Paris.”
The House: You just want to sleep with me.
The Camel: No, I want to make love to you. Slowly.
The House: You don’t know the first thing about love. You have to commit to love for it to work. You need to stick around. I’m not coming to Paris.
The Camel: You’re a fool. You wouldn’t know love if it stared you right in the face.
The House: (to SUHA) If you don’t live here you can’t bury her here.
SUHA stops digging.
Suha: (to THE HOUSE) Fine. (to ALEX) Enough. I’m taking my mother back with me.
Alex: But this is where your mother wanted to be.
The House: You just said so yourself.
Suha: I can’t live here.
The House: Sure you can. I might be falling apart but I’m no refugee camp. And a house depends on people to live in it. Not just any people. It has to be the right people—ones who don’t fight and hate each other. Because otherwise a house just falls apart.
Alex: This is where you want your mother to be.
The House: Yuad will like it here. So will you. I promise.
The Camel: Since the beginning of time:
Neighbours, brothers, lovers, nations:
Noise.
That’s what humans are addicted to.
The noise stands in for life.
Humans can’t handle happiness.
They can’t handle peace.
And they sure can’t handle love.
They don’t know what to do with it.
That’s the tragedy.
Taxi!
Scene 3
Time passes. ABU DALO, slightly more sober, typing.
Shimon: What are you writing?
Abu Dalo: I’m writing your biography. The Story of a Nation. And I’m using my writerly flourish.
Shimon: We’re taking the day off.
Abu Dalo: Absolutely not.
Shimon: You’re not in any shape for this; you’re in mourning.
Abu Dalo: I want to work.
Shimon: We can work tomorrow. Be sensible.
Abu Dalo: I am sensible. I am so full of sensibility, I’m hypersensible. And my hypersensible senses are saying: I don’t want to think about my dead wife.
Shimon: (a beat) But I’m not telling you what to write.
Abu Dalo: I know.
Shimon: Read me what you’re writing.
Abu Dalo: (still typing) “The General’s fear was his humanity: but his job demanded he keep it buried, deep within. Hidden. Even from himself.”
Shimon: What do you think you know about me?
Abu Dalo: I’ll read you everything when it’s done.
Shimon: I’d like to hear it now.
Abu Dalo: It’s not finished.
SHIMON picks up the gun.
Put that down.
Shimon: Read to me.
Abu Dalo: No.
Shimon: I want to know what you’re writing.
Abu Dalo: “The General was afraid of the enemy. But he was more afraid of not having an enemy. Because if he started to see the enemy as human then he’d have to put down the gun, and without the gun he’d have to look at his miserable self.”
Shimon: I brought you coffee. I offered your daughter a place to live.
Abu Dalo: Peace is not a fucking cup of coffee.
Shimon: You’re writing lies.
Abu D
alo: No, I’m not writing lies. In fact, I’m avoiding the lies.
Shimon: (a beat) You’re writing your story.
ABU DALO stops typing.
Abu Dalo: You know, we could finally start to talk about peace if you actually acknowledged that I even have a story, that my family’s story in this house is possibly worth writing, that people might want to read it.
Shimon: Are you going to publish this book?
ABU DALO resumes typing.
Abu Dalo: I’m a writer. What do you think I’m going to do?
Shimon: I negotiated with you. I let you stay here. I didn’t have to.
Abu Dalo: You were going to shoot me last week when I knocked on the door. You’re pointing a gun at me right now.
Shimon: I wish I’d shot you last week. I wish I’d taken care of this problem right then. Read to me!
Abu Dalo: Why don’t you just shoot me right now?
SHIMON puts down the gun.
Shimon: That would be too easy.
Abu Dalo: No, just shoot me. Come on, shoot me.
I’ve had enough of this problem. Enough of being the problem. I’ve had enough of this world full of problems.
Shoot me in the fucking eye!
Shimon: No.
Abu Dalo: Shoot me or I’ll shoot myself.
ABU DALO struggles with SHIMON for the gun. ABU DALO grabs it.
Fuck this book. Fuck this house. Fuck these four walls. Fuck my wife fuck my daughter fuck the bathroom fuck the fig tree fuck my great-grandfather. Fuck and fuck and fuck!
Shimon: Abu Dalo, be reasonable—
Abu Dalo: I tried to be reasonable. I tried to be good. But you just took advantage of me. I turned in my own cousin. An entire apartment block in Gaza went down because of me. Five years I worked for you Israelis, for your Shabak. Enough.
When I blast this bullet through the back of my head and my brain splatters like guacamole, I hope the bullet travels to the other side through my eyes and nails you. When we’re both dead, then there’ll be no problem.
Shimon: Put down the gun. You’re being irrational.
Abu Dalo: My wife is dead. This is a perfectly rational response. So please. Fuck off. And good riddance.
ABU DALO cocks the gun and aims it at the back of his head. He shoots. Nothing happens. Again. And again. And again. And again.
Have you been pointing an empty gun at me?
Shimon: Yes.
Abu Dalo: Why would you do that?
Shimon: Sometimes the gun is enough.
Abu Dalo: You inconsiderate asshole.
Shimon: Abu Dalo, you’re right. I do pity you. I pity your desperation. I pity your sadness. I pity your need to self-destruct.
Abu Dalo: What do you want from me?
Shimon: Read me what you wrote. Now.
Scene 4
THE CAMEL is now in Paris, smoking a cigarette and drinking café au lait.
The Camel: Well friends, I’m a sneaky camel. I’ve done it. I made it to Paris.
I’m sure the house understands: I just needed to get away.
I get to enjoy my coffee in peace. Anonymity in a tragic and great city. The Seine at night. A little jazz. The fine derrière of a French woman. (A waitress with a beautiful derrière walks by.)
It occurs to me. Maybe one needs the foreign to become familiar with oneself.
Say. Look over there. That’s the famous Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish. He looks a lot like Abu Dalo. This could be my big break.
THE CAMEL scrambles to put on a pair of Groucho Marx glasses. He grabs a microphone for the interview.
Mr. Darwish, what would it take for Israelis and Palestinians to agree to put down their arms?
Darwish ignores THE CAMEL.
(aside) Hmm. He’s ignoring me. Maybe I need to ask a more original question.
If Israelis and Palestinians can’t even agree on history, then what hope is there for peace?
(aside) No, too academic.
Mr. Darwish, what role do you see outsiders like camels playing in the future Middle East peace talks?
(a beat) No. Not right. Not right at all.
THE CAMEL takes off his glasses.
Mr. Darwish, can the Israeli people change? Can the Palestinians? Can anyone change—for good?
How do you get two people who hate each other to live in the same house?
Is love important in any of this?
Mahmoud Darwish: Love? I don’t want to talk about it. I only want to make it.
He snaps his fingers and leaves with the waitress with the beautiful derrière.
Scene 5
Suha: The House is right. If I’m going to bury her here, I have to live here.
Alex: Of course you can live here. I’ll move out of my room. I’ll sleep on the couch.
Suha: But I can’t live with him. And I can’t live with you, Moses.
Alex: Why not? I could be a Jew. I could be Muslim. Part goat. Part camel. I could be your sister. The great thing is nobody knows who I am. Not even me.
I’m loyal to no one. I have to be good to everyone. I have to save the entire Middle East or else risk complete purposelessness.
Suha: Right.
Do you hate your father?
Alex: Absolutely.
Suha: Why?
Alex: Because nothing he says is true. Do you hate your father?
Suha: Hatred is too soft a word for what I feel about the man who donated his sperm to my mother.
Suha as Groucho: Fathers are like matzo balls.
By the time you’re finished your soup they’re gone.
Alex as Groucho: What was it like to have a mother?
Suha: My mother was screwed up. She used to boil an egg for so long the shell would split and the egg white would get all stringy in the water.
Suha as Groucho: She liked to watch things break.
Alex: Oh.
Suha: When there was a curfew, and the fighting would get so loud you didn’t know who was shooting who, when and if the door would break in, and who would live and who would die, we used to lie together on her bed. She’d hold me. And sing.
Alex: And then what?
Suha: Isn’t that enough?
Alex: What did that do?
Suha: It made me feel that even though I could die at any second, in that moment everything was all right. And that’s all we have. That moment.
Alex: Well I could hold you.
Suha: Why would you do that?
Alex: Because nobody else will.
Suha: But I don’t like you.
Alex: Yeah, but you’re upset.
Suha: I’m not upset. I’m just about to bury my mother.
Alex: That means you’re upset.
Suha: Shut up. You have no idea what I’m talking about. You never had a mother and your father never abandoned you.
(a beat) Shit. What are we doing here? Why are you helping me? My father’s supposed to be here. Where the hell is he now? Why the hell was he never around?
Alex: Are you trying to say I’ve never felt like shit?
Suha: What?
Alex: Yes you are. You’re totally saying that I’ve never felt like shit.
Suha: No I’m not.
Alex: Well of course I’ve felt like shit. My whole life I’ve felt like shit. You had a mother at least. I’m sorry she blew up, but you have memories of her. You did things together. I don’t even have that. I have nothing.
Everything I do is to try and escape the shit that life is, this screwed-up “situation.” When I say I want to hold you, it’s because I’m hoping maybe you in my arms could be something different. Maybe there is a world that isn’t full of shit.
Suha: That’s an interesting thought.
Alex: Yeah well there you go. I’m an interesting human being.
Suha: But I really don’t want you to hold me.
Alex: Fine.
Suha: No offence. We just met.
Alex: I get it.
Suha: I mean, my mother was the on
e who did that, and we’re going to bury her. And I can’t just replace her, you know? (a beat)
Maybe you could do something else instead.
You could do your thing.
Alex: My what?
Suha: Do your thing.
Alex: Down here?
Suha: Yeah. Why not?
Alex: But you have cataplexy.
Suha: I know.
Alex: If I give you cunnilingus, you could faint. If you faint, you could go unconscious. If you go unconscious, you could die.
Suha: So.
Alex: You want to die with me giving you cunnilingus on your mother’s grave?
Suha: No, I don’t want to die. I want to beat death. I want to say, death, get lost. I want to say, give me life. Give me now. Give me you.
She moves toward ALEX. Kisses him abruptly, briefly.
House of Many Tongues Page 6
