by David Ives
KAFKA: Twenty lines of that and I went dry. I got blocked. I felt like I was repeating myself.
MILTON: Do you think that that’s in Hamlet?
KAFKA: I don’t understand what I’m doing here in the first place! I’m not a writer, I’m a monkey! I’m supposed to be swinging on branches and digging up ants, not sitting under fluorescent lights ten hours a day!
MILTON: It sure is a long way home to the gardens of sweet Africa. Where lawns and level downs and flocks grazing the tender herb were sweetly interposèd …
KAFKA: Paradise, wasn’t it?
MILTON: Lost!
SWIFT: Lost!
KAFKA: Lost!
MILTON: I’m trying to deal with some of that in this new piece here, but it’s all still pretty close to the bone.
SWIFT: Just because they can keep us locked up, they think they’re more powerful than we are.
MILTON: They are more powerful than we are.
SWIFT: Just because they control the means of production, they think they can suppress the workers.
MILTON: Things are how they are. What are you going to do?
SWIFT: Hey—how come you’re always so goddamn ready to justify the ways of Rosenbaum to the apes?
MILTON: Do you have a key to that door?
SWIFT: No.
MILTON: Do you have an independent food source?
SWIFT: No.
MILTON: So call me a collaborator. I happen to be a professional. If Rosenbaum wants Hamlet, I’ll give it a shot. Just don’t forget—we’re not astrophysicists. We’re not brain surgeons. We’re chimps. And for apes in captivity, this is not a bad gig.
SWIFT: What’s really frightening is that if we stick around this cage long enough, we’re gonna evolve into Rosenbaum.
KAFKA: Evolve into Rosenbaum?
SWIFT: Brush up your Darwin, baby. We’re more than kin and less than kind.
MILTON: Anybody got a smoke?
KAFKA: I’m all out.
SWIFT: Don’t look at me. I’m not going to satisfy those voyeurs with the old smoking-chimp act. No thank you.
MILTON: Don’t be a sap, Swifty. You gotta use ’em! Use the system!
SWIFT: What do you mean?
MILTON: Watch me, while I put my antic disposition on. (He jumps up onto his chair and scratches his sides, screeches, makes smoking motions, pounds his chest, jumps up and down—and a cigarette descends.) See what I mean? Gauloise, too! My fave. (He settles back to enjoy it.)
SWIFT: They should’ve thrown in a Kewpie doll for that performance.
MILTON: It got results, didn’t it?
SWIFT: Sure. You do your Bonzo routine and get a Gauloise out of it. Last week I totalled a typewriter and got a whole carton of Marlboros.
MILTON: The trouble was, you didn’t smoke ’em, you took a crap on ’em.
SWIFT: It was a political statement.
MILTON: Okay, you made your statement and I got my smoke. All’s well that ends well, right?
KAFKA: It’s the only way we know they’re watching.
MILTON: Huh?
KAFKA: We perform, we break typewriters, we type another page—and a cigarette appears. At least it’s a sign that some-body out there is paying attention.
MILTON: Our resident philosopher.
SWIFT: But what if one of us really does write Hamlet? Here we are, set down to prove the inadvertent virtues of randomness, and to produce something we wouldn’t even recognize if it passed right through our hands—but what if one of us actually does it?
MILTON: Will we really be released?
KAFKA: Will they give us the key to the city and a ticker-tape parade?
SWIFT: Or will they move us on to Ulysses? (They shriek in terror at the thought.) Why did they pick Hamlet in the first place? What’s Hamlet to them or they to Hamlet that we should care? Boy, there’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life! For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely—
MILTON: Hey, Swifty!
SWIFT: —the pangs of despisèd love, the law’s delay—
MILTON: Hey, Swifty! Relax, will you?
KAFKA: Have a banana.
SWIFT: I wish I could get Rosenbaum in here and see how he does at producing Hamlet … That’s it!
KAFKA: What?
SWIFT: That’s it! Forget about this random Hamlet crap. What about revenge?
KAFKA: Revenge? On Rosenbaum?
SWIFT: Who else? Hasn’t he bereft us of our homes and families? Stepped in between us and our expectations?
KAFKA: How would we do it?
SWIFT: Easy. We lure him in here to look at our typewriters, test them out like something’s wrong—but! we poison the typewriter keys!
MILTON: Oh Jesus.
SWIFT: Sure. Some juice of cursèd hebona spread liberally over the keyboard? Ought to work like a charm.
MILTON: Great.
SWIFT: If that doesn’t work, we envenom the tire swing and invite him for a ride. Plus—I challenge him to a duel.
MILTON: Brilliant.
SWIFT: Can’t you see it? In the course of combat, I casually graze my rapier over the poisoned typewriter keys, and (jabs) a hit! A palpable hit! For a reserve, we lay by a cup with some venomous distillment. We’ll put the pellet with the poison in the vessel with the pestle!
MILTON: Listen, I gotta get back to work. The man is gonna want his pages. (He rolls a fresh page into his typewriter.)
KAFKA: It’s not a bad idea, but …
SWIFT: What’s the matter with you guys? I’m onto something here!
KAFKA: I think it’s hopeless, Swifty.
SWIFT: But this is the goods!
MILTON: Where was I … “Bedsocks knockwurst tinkerbelle.”
KAFKA: The readiness is all, I guess.
MILTON: Damn straight. Just let me know when that K-button gives out, honey.
SWIFT: Okay. You two serfs go back to work. I’ll do all the thinking around here. Swifty—revenge! (He paces, deep in thought.)
MILTON: “Tinkerbelle … shtuckelschwanz … hemorrhoid.” Yeah, that’s good. That is good. (Types.) “Shtuckelschwanz …”
KAFKA (types): “Act one, scene one. Elsinore Castle, Denmark …”
MILTON (types): “Hemorrhoid.”
KAFKA (types): “Enter Bernardo and Francisco.”
MILTON (types): “Pomegranate.”
KAFKA (types): “Bernardo says, ‘Who’s there?’ …”
MILTON (types): “Bazooka.”
(KAFKA continues to type Hamlet, as)
THE LIGHTS FADE
THE UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE
This play is for Robert Stanton, the first and perfect Don
The Universal Language received its premiere at Primary Stages (Casey Childs, artistic director) in New York City in December 1993. It was directed by Jason McConnell Buzas; the set design was by Bruce Goodrich; costume design was by Sharon Lynch; lighting design was by Deborah Constantine. The cast was as follows:
DAWN Wendy Lawless
DON Robert Stanton
YOUNG MAN Ted Neustadt
A small rented office set up as a classroom. There is a door to the outside at right, another door at left. In the room are a battered desk; a row of three old chairs; and a blackboard on which is written, in large letters, “HE, SHE, IT” and below that, “ARF.” Around the top of the walls is a set of numerals, one to eight, but instead of being identified in English (“ONE, TWO, THREE,” etc.) we read “WEN, YÜ, FRE, FAL, FYND, IFF, HEVEN, WAITZ.”
At lights up, no one is onstage. We hear a quiet knock at the door right, and it opens to reveal DAWN, late twenties, plainly dressed, with a stutter.
DAWN: H-h-h-h-hello …? (She steps in quietly.) Hello? Is any-b-b-body here? (No response. She sees the blackboard, reads.) “He. She. It. Arf.” (She notices the numbers around the walls, and reads.) “Wen—yü—fre—fal—fynd—iff—heven—waitz.” (Noticing the empty chairs, she practices her greeting, as if there were people sitting
in them.) Hello, my name is Dawn. It’s very nice to meet you. How do you do, my name is Dawn. A pleasure to meet you. Hello. My name is Dawn.
(The door at left opens and DON appears, about thirty, in lab coat and glasses.)
DON: Velcro! [Welcome!]
DAWN: Excuse me?
DON: Velcro! Bell jar, Froyling! Harvardyu? [Welcome. Good day, Miss. How are you?]
DAWN: H-h-h-how do you d-d-d-do, my n-n-name is—(Breaks off.) I’m sorry. (She turns to go.)
DON: Oop, oop, oop! Varta, Froyling! Varta! Varta! [No, no, no! Wait, Miss! Wait!]
DAWN: I’m v-very sorry to b-b-bother you.
DON: Mock—klahtoo boddami nikto! Ventrica! Ventrica, ventrica. Police! [But—you’re not bothering me at all! Enter! Please.]
DAWN: Really—I think I have the wrong place.
DON: Da rrrroongplatz? Oop da-doll! Du doppa da rektplatz! Dameetcha playzeer. Comintern. Police. Plop da chah. [The wrong place? Not at all! You have the right place. Pleased to meet you. Come in. Please. Have a seat.]
DAWN: Well. J-just for a second.
DON (cleaning up papers on the floor): Squeegie la mezza. [Excuse the mess.] (He points to a chair.) Zitz?
DAWN: No thank you. (She sits.)
DON: Argo. [So.] Bell jar, Froyling. Harvardyu?
DAWN: “Bell jar”?
DON: Bell jar. Bell. Jar. Belljar!
DAWN: Is that “good day”?
DON: Ding! [Yes.] “Bell jar” arf “good day.” Epp—[And.] Harvardyu?
DAWN: Harvard University?
DON: Oop! [No.] Harvardyu?
DAWN: Howard Hughes?
DON: Oop. Harvardyu?
DAWN: Oh! “How are you.”
DON: Bleeny, bleeny! Bonanza bleeny! [Good, good, very good.]
DAWN: Is this Thirty East Seventh?
DON: Thirsty oyster heventh. Ding. [Thirty East Seventh. Yes.]
DAWN: Suite 662?
DON: Iff-iff-yü. Anchor ding. [Six-six-two. Right again.]
DAWN: Room B?
DON: Rambeau.
DAWN: The School of Unamunda?
DON: Hets arf dada Unamunda Kaka-daymee. [This is the School of Unamunda.] Epp vot kennedy doopferyu? [And what can I do for you?]
DAWN: Excuse me …?
DON: Vot. Kennedy. Doopferyu?
DAWN: Well. I s-saw an ad in the n-newspaper.
DON: Video da klip enda peeper? Epp? Knish?
DAWN: Well it says—(She takes a newspaper clipping out of her purse. Reads.) “Learn Unamunda, the universal language.”
DON: “Lick Unamunda, da linkwa looniversahl!” (A banner unfurls which says just that. Accent on “sahl,” by the way.)
DAWN: “The language that will unite all humankind.”
DON: “Da linkwa het barf oonidevairsify alla da peepholes enda voooold!” (DAWN raises her hand.) Quisling?
DAWN: Do you speak English?
DON: “English” … ?
DAWN: English.
DON: Ah! Johncleese!
DAWN: Yes. Johncleese.
DON: Johncleese. Squeegie, squeegie. Alaska, iago parladoop johncleese. [Sorry. Unfortunately, I don’t speak English.]
DAWN: No johncleese at all?
DON: One, two, three worlds. “Khello. Goombye. Rice Krispies. Chevrolet.” Et cinema, et cinema. Mock—votsdai beesnest, bella Froyling? [But—what brings you here?]
DAWN: Well I wanted to be the first. Or among the first. To learn this universal language.
DON: Du arf entra di feersta di feersten. [You are among the first of the first.] Corngranulations. Ya kooch di anda. (He kisses her hand.) Epp! Voila-dimir da zamplification forum. (He produces an application form.)
DAWN: Well I’m not sure I’m ready to apply just yet.…
DON: Dai klink, pink dama? [Your name?]
DAWN: “Dai klink …”?
DON: Votsdai klink? Vee klinks du?
DAWN: Um. No nabisco. (As if to say, I don’t understand.)
DON: No nabisco. Klinks du Mary, klinks du Jane, orf Betsy, orf Barbara? Fred?
DAWN: Oh. My name!
DON: Attackly! Mi klink. Echo mi. “Mi klink …”
DAWN: Mi klink.
DON: “Arf.” Parla.
DAWN: Mi klink arf Dawn di-di-di-Vito.
DON: Dawn di-di-di-Vito! Vot’n harmonika klink doppa du! [What a melodious name you have!]
DAWN: Actually, just one d-d-d-“d.”
DON: Ah. Dawn di Vito. Squeegie.
DAWN: I have a s-s-slight s-s—
DON: Stutter.
DAWN: Yes.
DON: Tonguestoppard. Problaymen mit da hoover.
DAWN: Da hoover?
DON (points to his mouth): Da hoover. Da veazle, da nozzle, da volvos, da hoover. Et cinema, et cinema. [Face, nose, lips. Etcetera, etcetera.] Mock! Hets arf blizzardo. Hets arf molto blizzardo! [This is very strange.]
DAWN: Something’s wrong?
DON: Dusa klinks “Dawn.” Iago klink “Don.” Badabba? [Understand?]
DAWN: Um. No.
DON: Dawn-Don. Don-Dawn.
DAWN: Oh—I’m Dawn and you’re Don.
DON: Ding! Arf blizzardo, oop?
DAWN: Arf blizzardo, yes.
DON: Votsdiss minsky? Dis para-dons. Dis co-inki-dance. [What does this mean? This paradox. This coincidence.]
DAWN: Well. Life is very funny sometimes.
DON: Di anda di destiny, dinksdu?
DAWN: Di anda di destiny … ?
DON: Neekolas importantay. Argo. Da binformations. (Back to the application form.) Edge?
DAWN: Twenty-eight.
DON: “Vont-wait.” Slacks?
DAWN: Female.
DON: “Vittamin.”
DAWN: How do you say “male”?
DON: “Aspirin.” Oxipation?
DAWN: I’m a word processor.
DON: “Verboblender.”
DAWN: Is Unamunda very hard to learn?
DON: Eedgy. Egsovereedgy. (He picks up a book.) Da bop.
DAWN: Da bop?
DON: Da bop.
DAWN: Oh. Book!
DON: Da bop. [The room.] Da rhoomba. [The walls.] Da valtz. [The door.] Isadora. [The chair.] Da chah. [Two chairs.] Da chah-chah.
DON & DAWN: Da chah-chah-chah! [Three chairs.]
DON: Braga! Sonia braga! Iago trattoria Shakespeare enda Unamunda.
DAWN: You’re translating Shakespeare into Unamunda?
DON: Forsoot! Nintendo. [Listen.] “Ah Romeo, Romeo, bilko arfst du Romeo?” (Pointing to a rose on the desk.) “Na rosa pollyanna klink voop sent so pink!” Balloontiful, eh?
DAWN: Yes. Bonzo.
DON: Bonanza.
DAWN: Bonanza.
DON: “Mock visp! Vot loomen trip yondra fenstra sheint? Arf den oyster! Epp Juliet arf sonnnng!” Video, Froyling, Unamunda arf da linkwa supreemka di amamor! [You see, Miss, Unamunda is the supreme language of love.]
DAWN: You know, it’s strange how much I understand.
DON: Natooraltissimississippimentay! Linkwa, pink dama, arf armoneea. Moozheek. Rintintintinnabulation! Epp Unamunda arf da melodeea looniversahl! Porky alla da peepholes enda voooold—alla da peepholes enda looniverse cargo a shlong enda hartz. Epp det shlong arf … Unamunda! [Naturally! Language, sweet lady, is harmony. Music. And Unamunda is the universal melody. Because all the people in the world—all the people in the universe carry a song in their heart. And that song is … Unamunda!]
DAWN: So “linkwa” is “language”?
DON: Perzacto. Wen linkwa. (He holds up one finger.) Yü—(Two fingers.)
DAWN: Two—
DON: Linkages. Free—(Three fingers.)
DAWN: Three—
DON: Linguini.
DAWN: I see. And “is” is—?
DON: Arf.
DAWN: “Was” is—?
DON: Wharf.
DAWN: “Had been”—?
DON: Long wharf.
DAWN: And “will be”—?
DON: Barf. Arf, wharf, barf.
Pasta, prison, furniture dances. [Past, present, future tenses.] Clara?
DAWN: Clara.
DON: Schumann. (He adds “WE, YOU, THEY” to the black-board.)
DAWN: Well, Mr.—
DON: Finninneganegan. (Like “Finnegan” slurred. “Finninn-again-again.”)
DAWN: Mr. F-F-F—
DON: Finninneganegan.
DAWN: What kind of name is that?
DON: Fininnish.
DAWN: Mr. F-F-F-F—
DON: Police! Klink mi “Don.”
DAWN: I’d love to learn Unamunda. I mean, if it’s not too expensive.
DON (perfect English): Five hundred dollars.
DAWN: Five hundred dollars?!
DON: Cash.
DAWN: Five hundred dollars is a lot of money.
DON: Kalamari, Froyling! Kalamari! Da payola arf oopsissima importantay! [Be calm, be calm! The money isn’t important!]
DAWN: I don’t have m-much m-m-money.
DON: Oop doppa bonanza geld. Ya badabba. [You don’t have much money. I understand.]
DAWN: And the thing is, I do have this s-s-slight s-s-s—
DON: Stutter. Ya badabba.
DAWN: So it’s always been hard for me to talk to people. In fact, m-most of my life has been a very l-l-ong … (Pause.) … pause.
DON: Joe DiMaggio. Mock no desperanto, Froyling! [That’s too bad. But don’t despair!] Porky mit Unamunda—oop tonguestoppard.
DAWN: I wouldn’t stutter?
DON: Oop.
DAWN: At all?
DON: Absaloopdiloop.
DAWN: The thing is, just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean I have nothing to say.
DON: Off corset!
DAWN: I mean, a tuning fork is silent, until you touch it. But then it gives off a perfect “A.” Tap a single tuning fork and you can start up a whole orchestra. And if you tap it anywhere in the whole world, it still gives off a perfect “A”! Just this little piece of metal, and it’s like there’s all this beautiful sound trapped inside it.
DON: Froyling di Vito, das arf poultry! Du arf ein poultice!
DAWN: But you see, Mr. Finninn—
DON: —Eganegan.
DAWN: I don’t think language is just music. I believe that language is the opposite of loneliness. And if everybody in the world spoke the same language, who would ever be lonely?
DON: Verismo.
DAWN: I just think English isn’t my language. Since it only m-makes p-people laugh at me. And makes me …