by Martin Crimp
Back at the stage door, Colin hands me a copy of the London Evening Standard. Picture of you, he says. In fact, it’s a picture of me and Clair. We’re holding hands at an HIV charity dinner. We both look tremendously famous and happy. The flashlight has detached us from the background, making us look startlingly attractive, capable of anything. We are the embodiment of the word ‘abandon’ or the phrase ‘throw caution to the wind’. My free hand is plucking streamers from my DJ. Clair, similarly draped, is wearing a short stretch dress, and the arbitrary moment of the picture has caught her legs at an odd angle, as if she’s suffered a spinal injury. But did I say smile? No, our mouths are both wide open. We’re positively howling with laughter. Look at us. We’re like two rare nocturnal animals whose antics have triggered a tripwire in a remote clearing.
Some actors are jokers and I’m afraid I’m one of them. Not just offstage (locking fellow actors in their dressing rooms when they’re called, telling Colin that I can smell smoke and making him summon a fire-engine to the Wednesday matinée) but also onstage. At critical moments I’m very fond of whispering comic remarks to the person I’m acting with. Alternatively I play the fool in the wings, the aim being to distract somebody else’s scene. This is perfectly innocent behaviour, and some of the actors find it enormously funny, but there are one or two (you always get one or two) who will no longer speak to me.
After the show I may go to the Safety Curtain, or on to a party, but usually I just walk home. I say that people know my face, but the mere act of walking generally protects me from recognition. In Charing Cross Road for example, I become invisible. This enables me to unwind in the video arcades where I go not as a player, but as a spectator. Our play is a costume piece and the machines are a refreshing reminder of the twentieth century. Some of them simulate driving racing cars or flying a plane – to complete the illusion you climb right into them. After the initial impression of chaos you’re finally overwhelmed here by a sense of order: patterns of light, which appear random, start to repeat themselves, needle-like blips of sound gradually become recognisable as fragments of Mozart, Beethoven etc.
Once I take my turning I’m virtually there. It’s a small street, really a lane, the pavement lined with bollards. I rarely see anyone in this lane, but two incidents stay in my mind. In the first, a young woman with fair hair and a black dress is running towards me. She ducks into a doorway where she changes into a different pair of shoes. She then runs on. In the second, I find myself walking behind a young couple with arms around each other, male and female. The man pulls his free hand out of his trouser pocket, and as he does so a key drops to the ground. I run after them with the key. Oh, says the man, I don’t need that any more. They then walk on.
A plastic card and PIN number give me access to a lobby with exquisitely maintained plants. A private lift takes me directly into my apartment. No one comes here. I sleep deeply. I don’t dream.
Most Sundays I visit my wife. I say ‘my wife’ although – notoriously – we are divorced. I drive down to the coast (my car is surprisingly modest) and if the weather is fine we’ll spend the afternoon in the garden (we both hate the sea) until dark. I often cut the grass with an old hand-mower, feeling thoroughly domestic, before sitting back at the slatted patio table to watch the alternate bands of light and dark with their exaggerated perspective. When I’ve done this it becomes a true seaside garden, bringing to mind miniature golf, speedboat rides, red-and-white lighthouses, the brittle crust of toffee-apples. My wife reminds me that I once said to her: ‘Have you noticed how men leave their wives when they become famous? I’m just waiting to become famous.’ She says this without rancour, as if describing the shape of an afternoon cloud, or the habits of the songbirds she feeds with bacon fat. She’s interested in Stephanie, and asks to look at my teeth. Having done so, she says: It’s strange – you seem to have spent your life growing younger.
Only when it’s completely dark do we go indoors. I’ve been asked to free a jammed cassette. The Sunday supplements seem to like the fact that I began life as a stage manager, and it’s quite true that I have a gift for this kind of work. There’s a green felt noticeboard in the kitchen with the usual papers pinned all over it – this month’s calendar (it’s October), coupons for money-off toothpaste, handy phone numbers (plumber, pizzas, minicab), and among all these I notice that someone – presumably one of the children – has pinned up the photo from the Standard. It seems to have been assigned no particular prominence: indeed, the picture is already half-covered with a final demand for the telephone.
It doesn’t take long to extract the cassette: Schubert’s Piano Sonata in B Flat played on a Viennese piano of 1828, the year of his death. By the time I’ve unearthed the solvent and thoroughly cleaned the heads and pinch-roller with a cotton bud, it’s time to go.
From the front garden the sea is audible. My car stands just outside the gate, in the moonlight. The last thing my wife says to me is, ‘Are you happy?’ to which I reply, ‘Are you?’ In the theatre, these lines could prove unplayable, and I’d suggest a cut.
The moment of the kiss is violent, technical, prolonged. Clair’s character initiates it. I’m playing the kind of part I often seem to be offered nowadays: the older man – solitary, apparently cold – but with an undercurrent of repressed sensuality. And as Clair – or Clair’s character – pulls me down on to the chaise, we must avoid (a) letting the stalls see all the way up her dress (slippery green satin) and (b) crushing her (I’ve recently started to put on weight). At the same time, as I’ve said, it must be forceful and abandoned, and I think we’ve started to achieve that. By pushing one of my knees up between her legs as I fall, we solve the weight-bearing and sight-line problems simultaneously, as well as making it quite clear that sexual intercourse will follow. Even without direction, the kiss at its best can still contain the truth of all the kisses I’ve known: the kisses of the girl who became ‘my wife’ and lives by the sea, the frightening kisses which came outside my marriage and – notoriously – destroyed it, other kisses on stage, kisses on film. How can I regret any of these when each contributes to the work and feeds the intensity of this one stage kiss which night after night shocks a packed house into what the critics quite rightly describe as rapture?
Sometimes, though, just before our lips touch, I’m afraid I can’t resist whispering one of my little comments, the joy being Clair’s extreme susceptibility. Just the movement of an eyebrow is often enough to set her off. As I go down I push my knee into the usual place, but from the way her fingertips dig into me I can tell she’s lost all control. This is why she’s so desperate for my mouth to cover hers. It’s a scream. Her back arches. She’s choking. We kiss.
In the auditorium: silence, rapture, the same, exactly the same. No inkling of deceit.
WRITING FOR THEATRE
Party
Copyright © Martin Crimp 2010
Party was first performed on 23 June 2010 as part of the Royal Court’s post-election Hung-Over event at Theatre Local, Unit 215, Elephant and Castle Shopping Centre, London. The cast included:
Annette Badland, Claudie Blakley, Stephen Boxer,
Charles Mnene, Sophie Okonedo, Ukweli Roach,
Martin Savage, Angela Terence
Directed by Simon Godwin
—— I feel great.
—— I’m feeling good.
—— At last!
—— At last!
—— Yes at last someone’s making a decision. At last a rich person is making a decision.
—— At long last a poor person’s fate is decided by the rich. It’s great.
—— It’s great – I’m really pleased.
—— It’s great to be rich plus really good to be poor if a rich person’s in control.
—— It’s a great time to be poor. It’s a great time to have nothing.
—— Really good for the market.
—— Great for the markets: great to be really poor.
—— Everyone
wins.
—— Great to be rich. Really good to be rich. Great evening to have the top down on your luxury car – great day for bankers!
—— Everyone wins: even the whites, even the blacks win. Even the sexy tots look happy!
—— Oh happy tots! Oh happy Ministers of State for Culture and Rape!
—— Oh beaming Minister for Love My God.
—— I just love my God.
—— Yes so do I! I really love my God – in fact my God is love.
—— Well hey – so ’s mine.
—— Mine too.
—— That’s weird.
—— That’s fucking weird.
—— That’s weird but look – look – look – I really respect your religion.
—— Yes and I respect yours too.
—— I really respect everyone’s religion and especially when it involves a sex-crime – there’s something about that kind of crime that makes good feelings resonate throughout the world.
—— Do what?
—— Resonate.
—— Resonate throughout the world.
—— I want to be there. I want to hold the knife. I want to smear the blood. I want to mix the cum with the blood.
—— Well let me say this to you: you can!
—— I can?
—— You can – yes you can – the knife is yours – and so is the tender victim. Everyone wins.
—— Even the victim wins: it’s that kind of party – it’s the kind of party where even the victim wins.
—— Okay: so when does it start?
—— When does it start? When does it start? It’s started. It’s real. It’s now. It’s happening. It’s cuddly plus it’s violent.
—— You mean like a cat?
—— I mean like a cat or I mean like a violent teddy-bear.
—— You mean like a violent teddy-bear?
—— Yes that is exactly what I mean: I mean like a teddy-bear when you wake up in the night and you find that your teddy has spattered your face with acid. I mean like that.
—— Sounds great!
—— Sounds really great!
—— Yes and when you try to crawl to the bathroom sink you find that your violent teddy or your violent cat – guess what! – has taped your legs to the bed.
—— Oh no!
—— Yes taped up your legs and your face just burns and burns and burns plus you’re now blind.
—— Oh no! It sounds hilarious!
—— It’s really really great – but hey! it’s that kind of party – it’s the kind of party where everyone’s welcome – where the religious observances of white men have been carefully considered and the dietary requirements of white men have been carefully considered and the accessibility issues of able-bodied white men have been very very carefully considered and so have the special needs of each white man’s penis plus all women regardless of race or body-mass will be given the human right to choose whichever hospital they think will best cosmetically restructure their vagina.
—— Really good for the market.
—— Great for the markets – really great news for bankers and for the genitals of bankers’ wives.
—— Great news for teddy-bears.
—— Great great news for sexy tots and for people who have nothing: oh the games they can now play! – the game of Murder for Oil – the game of Murder for Growth.
—— The game of Murder in Palestine.
—— The Let’s Blindfold and Murder the Demented, Shall We game.
—— The hilarious party-game of Assist the Disabled to Go to Switzerland and Pay to Be Killed – all currencies accepted.
—— All languages spoken – except, naturally, Greek – and yes! yes! yes! this is the party where all currencies are accepted and anyone can pick up a scalpel right now and operate –
—— Conjoined twins!
—— Can – yes – not separate, but make right now conjoined twins!
—— – where each human being – and this is new – has the human right (you’re right) right now to be surgically joined to another’s hip or to another’s shit-filled bowel – where we can join right now right here at the party the brain of the screaming columnist to the brain of the abusive priest – where using a monkey’s spine we can cleverly connect the neck of the Minister for Torture and the Arts to the TV commentator’s arsehole not just for the duration of this party but for life – connect the two of them for life. But hey! – it’s messy – watch out for the blood!
—— Attention: slippery floor!
—— Slippery floor – watch out for the bits of jelly.
—— Watch out for the bits of bone, yes, and jelly.
—— Watch out for the slippery cum and the slippery chocolate.
—— Watch out.
—— Watch out.
—— Watch out for the beer and spit.
—— Watch out for the dance-floor fuckers and the fuckers fucking in the toilet.
—— Watch out for the white girls in the pink limo – watch out for those black boys in the bright-blue ties. Mind they don’t slip!
—— Mind no one slips on the slippery floor during the hilarious games. Take care!
—— Take care.
—— Take care.
—— Yes please take very special care not to damage the poor: you will need them to clear up. You will need them to take drugs and murder their babies.
But listen: great party.
—— Thank you.
—— Great party.
—— Thank you.
—— Great party.
—— Thank you. Thank you.
In the Valley
Copyright © Martin Crimp 2013
In the Valley was first performed at the Royal Court Theatre Upstairs as part of its Surprise Theatre season on 16 July 2013.
Performed by Michael Gould
Directed by Katie Mitchell
Well.
Here I am.
I’ve made it: I’ve survived. I speak. I move. It’s great. It’s great to speak.
I’m not sympathetic.
Let’s get that out of the way: let’s put it on the table in front of us – like the car-keys. Not sympathetic.
But look: what car-keys? What table? Good question.
I want to thank you.
I want to thank you for this opportunity.
I want to thank you.
I speak, I move, it’s great, it might not’ve been so great, but it is, it’s really great.
The light is great here.
It’s really good light.
But there is a problem – not with the light – there’s no problem with the light – but there is a problem all the same.
Oh dear my little boy died of cancer. Not true. Oh dear there’s been a terrible accident. Not true. Oh dear a horrid attack by terrorists. Not true, not true. Great light. Really good. Oh no: that little girl was raped. No – not true. Not about that. It’s not about that. That’s not the problem. What problem? I’ll come to that later.
I’m here. I’ve made it. I speak, I move – but very little.
I’ve noticed how little I move. I could be sympathetic but I’m not. It could be about the poor but it’s not. I could be poor but oh dearie me I’m not. But at least I’m here.
I’m here and I’ve survived. It’s a long way. It’s a long walk. I made it. I tripped. I fell. I got to my feet. I smiled. Correction: tried to smile. I got to my feet, I tried to smile. There was a valley. I entered it. I crossed the valley floor. There was a spring. I drank from it. Drank from the spring? I think not. No. Drank from the spring? No.
I heard the news. What news? The new news. I clicked on the news. I listened to the newest news. I watched the news. There was the news: I watched it. The news was great. It was great great news. I tried to smile. I thought of my friend. I clicked on my friend. I looked at my friend. I closed my friend. I closed the news. I clicked on my mind: my mind op
ened. I closed it again.
The valley’s great, the valley’s green. What’s that at the end of the valley? Oh that’s a sheep. A sheep, that’s great, that’s good, it’s good to see a sheep like that in a valley, grazing, I love it. A long walk, a long long walk, then suddenly: the sheep. Quick! Take a photograph! Well no. Obviously not. No battery, no camera.
Me and the sheep we get on really well. Can you believe that? I can hardly believe it myself – but it’s true. The sheep has fine taste in literature and music but is afraid of foxes. Whatever we discuss – Cervantes – the keyboard works of William Byrd – sooner or later the sheep comes back to foxes – ‘Can you smell fox?’ – ‘Look at this fox-bite’ – it’s fox fox fox all day long. ‘There can’t be much to do,’ I say to the sheep, ‘in this valley of yours. You must miss civilisation, and culture.’ ‘Hmm,’ says the sheep, ‘not sure what you mean – you’ll need to define your terms.’ The sheep leads me to the spring. The water is seeping up, making a clear pool in the grass. Oh how the water magnifies the green blades! ‘This is the spring,’ says the sheep, ‘and you’re welcome to drink – but remember: it’s just when your head’s down to drink and you’re enjoying the cold spring water – it’s just then you’re most vulnerable to foxes.’ Yes, me and the sheep could get on really well, if it wasn’t for this fox obsession. I’d like to say can we please please leave foxes out of it, at least for a few hours – but how can I say that? – the sheep is my host – (I can’t believe I’m really saying that, saying the sheep is my host) – I can’t offend it – it could turn nasty. I mean have you looked at its teeth? have you seen the way it stares when it thinks you won’t notice?