The Faculty of Dreams

by Sara Stridsberg

  NARRATOR: Selling intimacy undermines the soul and self-esteem.

  VALERIE: There’s more to intimacy than that. Sex organs. A whore never sells intimacy. She sells a black hole in space. She isn’t there. Cosmo and I dreamed of being America’s first intellectual whores. I always said to her she was the most brilliant whore in America. I sold my pussy all my life, but I never sold my soul. My pussy is not my soul. I never compromised on anything. I have never cared what happened to my cunt. I’ve always hated it. Everyone else has always hated it. I’m going to work now. I need cigarettes. You’ll have to take your questions somewhere else.

  NARRATOR: I have two hundred and fifty thousand credits from university and all I dream of is a faculty like you.

  VALERIE: And I dream of being able to sleep for a while instead of being subjected to these interrogation methods.

  University of Maryland, August 1962

  Marilyn Monroe is dead

  Inside the phone booth in the student dorm during the hot summer of 1962, you call home over and over again to tell Dorothy you have been accepted to do postgraduate research. Some middle-class boy has dropped out at the last minute and you have been given his place. Cosmo is happy and invites you onto the roof for cigars, champagne and marshmallows.

  VALERIE: Valerie Jean Solanas is going to be a university researcher.

  COSMO: Did you get hold of her?

  VALERIE: There’s no answer.

  COSMO: Come and sit here.

  VALERIE: There are only happy endings.

  COSMO: What do you wish for, Valerie?

  VALERIE: I wish I hadn’t gotten this place because a middle-class boy dropped out. I wish I had a hundred thousand Sprague Dawley white rats.

  COSMO: I’m so proud of you. Now you can do what you want. No limits, no compromises.

  VALERIE: It was just a waiting-list place.

  COSMO: That doesn’t matter. You got it because you deserve it.

  VALERIE: I still have to raise my own money.

  COSMO: But you’re the department’s shining star, just as much as ever. Everyone knows that.

  VALERIE: I still have to get myself a pearl necklace for the seminars. And an oh-so-respectable frock.

  *

  The night sky floats above like a black veil. Cosmo holds your hand tightly and you have listened to the ringing tone from the desert for so long it keeps reverberating in your head after you put the receiver down. A single star shoots through the darkness. Cosmo draws her fingers over the sky, as if wanting to drag more stars down for you, but the sky remains black and the darkness arcs gently over the park. The rabbits dash between the trees like white lamps.

  *

  One day Cosmo has arranged for fireworks and a cascade of artificial stars over Laboratory Park and she has promised you a wish for every star. You have wished for the postgraduate admission. You should have wished for Dorothy to figure out how to answer the telephone.

  COSMO: What do you wish for, Valerie?

  VALERIE: I wish that this moment would last forever. You. Your hand. The starry night. The postgrad place. The opportunity.

  COSMO: What did you say?

  VALERIE: I said, I wish for money for the experiment.

  COSMO: You’ll be swimming in money. The others are nothing compared to you. Everyone knows. They know that you know.

  VALERIE: I’ll let them know I’m there.

  Telephone signals, dark, forlorn, across the desert. It is August 4, 1962, and there are headlines and radio broadcasts far and wide: Marilyn Monroe is dead. Marilyn Monroe died on Helena Drive, Brentwood, California. Moran answers, out of breath, and behind you students stamp their feet and eavesdrop while they wait for you to finish your call.

  VALERIE: May I speak to Dorothy, please?

  MORAN: How are you? How’s it g-going at the u-u-u-u- . . .

  VALERIE: UNI-VER-SITY. Fine, thanks. I’ve just been accepted as a postgraduate. Is Dorothy there?

  MORAN: Ah! P-P-Postgraduate. Congratulations, Valerie. We’re always rooting for you, Valerie, you know. We’re always waiting for you to send us a book.

  VALERIE: May I speak to Dorothy?

  MORAN: Dorothy’s asleep. She’s been crying all day over Marilyn.

  She’s had a sleeping tablet now.

  VALERIE: Wake her up.

  *

  Dorothy, streaked with tears, is lying behind the bedroom curtains in her sleeping-pill slumber. She dreams of Marilyn’s blond hair, her tragic childhood. All the letters she wrote to Miss Monroe. Dear, dear Miss Marilyn Monroe, I admire your work, your figure, your blond curls. I’m just Dorothy. A poor babe in the desert with a tragic background. I wish we could meet some time and have a coffee.

  *

  In the desert house the transistor radio is on in the background, news bulletins at full volume. Students walk past all the time in the dorm. You try to stand absolutely still in your clammy summer clothes.

  Then suddenly Dorothy’s voice purrs into the telephone. Fuzzy, gentle. Light me a menthol cigarette, Red. A menthol cigarette so I can concentrate.

  DOROTHY: Hello, Valerie?

  VALERIE: I got a place as a postgraduate.

  DOROTHY: She died of an overdose, little Valerie. It’s so sad.

  VALERIE: I’m going to be a scientist.

  DOROTHY (the hint of a smile in her voice): Ah, Valerie . . .

  VALERIE: It means I’ve been selected. It means I’m going to do research.

  DOROTHY: Ooh! Are you a professor now, Valerie?

  VALERIE: No, I’m going to get a doctorate.

  DOROTHY (screams into the receiver): RED! DID YOU HEAR? RED! OUR VALERIE HAS BEEN MADE A PROFESSOR!

  VALERIE: I’m going to do my doc-tor-ate.

  DOROTHY: Ah. I haven’t read what you sent yet. The doc-u-ment.

  VALERIE: It’s called an essay.

  DOROTHY (in a sleeping-pill voice): Right, the essay. I decided not to read it. I don’t like reading those fluttery sheets of loose paper. But it looked very good. I have it around all the time. Show it to everyone who comes by. Mr Emin, for example. I tell everybody what a genius you are.

  VALERIE (the receiver pressed hard to her ear): A doctorate. It’ll take four years. I got in. There were tons of applicants. Everyone who applied had a degree in psychology.

  DOROTHY (her mother-of-pearl nails pick at the receiver): Well, anyway, Miss Monroe was found dead in her bed. Beauty, success and sudden death. I’ve been at the kitchen table here crying all morning. I’ve burned myself on the candles again. Damn candles.

  VALERIE: Forget Marilyn. I’m a scientist now.

  DOROTHY: Otherwise everything’s as usual. Mr Emin has installed a super-aerial on the roof. Mrs Drake saw a saucer when she was drunk. She’s in town now bragging about it. And as for me, Dolly, I’m not doing anything. A bit of fortune-telling. A bit of sewing . . . Sit arguing with Moran, drinking wine . . . Nothing’s changed. Apart from Marilyn.

  VALERIE: So what do you predict for the future?

  DOROTHY: I predict that you’ll do well. That you’ll be a professor. You’ll be what you want to be. Love is eternal, that’s what I predict. You still sew lucky threads into your petticoats, don’t you, Valerie?

  VALERIE: It’s the ’60s. I don’t wear petticoats anymore. No-one with any self-respect wears petticoats.

  DOROTHY: Well . . . Self-respect and the ’60s . . .

  VALERIE: What are you sewing?

  DOROTHY (mumbles evasively): . . . a little dress for Valerie . . . a little professor’s hat for Valerie . . . a fox-fur handbag for Valerie . . . leopard-skin underpants for Valerie . . .

  VALERIE: That’s nice, Dorothy. I have to go now.

  DOROTHY: A little space-purse for Marilyn . . . a little doctoral cap . . . for Marilyn . . . and a degree for Marilyn Monroe . . .

  VALERIE: Goodbye, Dorothy.

  A Hotel Somewhere in the Tenderloin, Winter 1987, One Year Before Your Death

  On February 20, 1987 Andy ad
mits himself to New York Hospital under the pseudonym Bob Roberts. He would like to register as Barbara, but is not allowed. Dr Denton Cox operates on his gall bladder for hours. Andy keeps his wig on during the operation. The silver glints against his snow-white skin. And under the hospital gown beats his nervous, irregular heart.

  *

  Andy is dreaming about you. The hospital smell has triggered dreams of you again. He dreams you are chasing him through the snow in Central Park. He dreams about his own funeral, about having to lie beside Mama Warhola in the deluxe grave in Pittsburgh. Between the heartbeats, he dreams that guests drop muscle magazines and perfume bottles (preferably Estée Lauder) into his grave.

  *

  Nurse Min Cho keeps an eye on him and on her knitting. Late during the night following the operation he suffers a cardiac arrest. Cause: a surge of adrenalin generated by fear. (Is he thinking of the calamitous year of 1968? Is he thinking of you? A memory of the hospital, the operating smell?) Afterwards Min Cho fills two garbage bags with material soiled by sickness and death and she is later sued by the family for a failure in care. The hospital pays out three million dollars to the Warhol family in compensation for his death.

  *

  The Village Voice calls you in the Tenderloin to inform you of the news. You have one year left to live and you answer in your lacy undies with your persistent cough, and as you reach for the telephone a mug of coffee falls to the floor. Being born is like being kidnapped and then being sold as a slave.

  ULTRA VIOLET: Valerie Solanas?

  VALERIE: Yes?

  ULTRA VIOLET: How’s life?

  VALERIE (laughs): Fine, thanks . . . sunny . . . Who’s speaking?

  ULTRA VIOLET: Ultra Violet at The Village Voice.

  VALERIE: Right.

  ULTRA VIOLET: Tell me about your life.

  VALERIE: I always walk on the sunny side. I always have lucky threads of gold and silver in my coats.

  ULTRA VIOLET: And how are things with S.C.U.M.? Anything going on?

  VALERIE: Not much.

  *

  Not much. You are shooting heroin again, have covered every public wall with notes and jottings. S.C.U.M. never existed, never will. It was just you. It was not even you. It was a hypothesis, a dream, a fantasy; what does it matter now?

  ULTRA VIOLET: How many members do you have today?

  VALERIE: Don’t know.

  ULTRA VIOLET: Andy Warhol is dead.

  *

  Faint sunshine through the window, smeary windows, the smell of smoke and sun. The smell of the ocean, maybe, and another time. Cigarette smoke in your hand.

  VALERIE: Oh . . .

  ULTRA VIOLET: What do you have to say about Andy Warhol?

  VALERIE: Not much . . . Pop artist . . . The Factory . . . Prints . . . I don’t want to talk about him . . . I’ve nothing to say . . .

  ULTRA VIOLET: He died during a routine operation. The Warhol family intend to sue the hospital.

  VALERIE: I have nothing to add.

  ULTRA VIOLET: What do you think of our president?

  VALERIE: Nothing. He doesn’t make much of an impression here. A ridiculous old B-list actor. A john like all the other presidents.

  ULTRA VIOLET: What about you?

  VALERIE: A lot of surfing and a lot of sun. Disco balls versus death. The ocean is cold, still cold, shark attacks are still being hushed up by the government. It’s alright, but it’s all wrong.

  ULTRA VIOLET: And what’s your opinion of the current women’s movement? Where does the American woman stand today?

  VALERIE: In the shit, I suspect.

  ULTRA VIOLET: And where do you stand?

  VALERIE: In the shit.

  (Silence.)

  (Shouts from the street, traffic, hum of porn music.)

  ULTRA VIOLET: What else is happening?

  VALERIE: Not much. Work. Money. Sun. I’ve got a visitor coming now . . . More work. I have to hang up.

  ULTRA VIOLET (quick-tongued): Are you a prostitute? Do you still hate men? Do you ever think about Andy Warhol?

  *

  The window pane is streaked with dirt and exhaust fumes, the room is boiling and freezing, ice-blue and alien. Do you still hate men? Are you still a prostitute? Do you ever think about Andy Warhol? Is the President still an ass? Does the President still have hair in his ass?

  VALERIE: I need to ring off now. I have nothing to say . . . I’m an author. You can write that. I’m writing a book . . . Put that . . . Sex is a hang-up . . . You can write that too.

  *

  You throw the receiver down and drag on your raincoat, no, your silver coat (the raincoat was so long ago, it was New York, the Factory, Manhattan, black raincoat, dark glasses, waiting for rain that never came) and put your scarf into your bag with an old plastic-wrapped sandwich, your hat and your sunglasses. The sun rides the waves in the sky out there and you paint your lips deep pink and look at yourself in the cracked mirror. The prettiest nine-year-old in America. The fastest surfer in Alligator Reef. Star student from the University of Maryland. The woman who failed to kill Andy Warhol. In the distance the sound of sirens and unknown women screaming, blue lights flashing and camera bulbs, a still hand on your arm. The small, gloved hand of Officer William Schmalix, and a movement, light as a bird, shielding your head as you climb into the police car.

  University of Maryland, 1963

  Betty Friedan Publishes The Feminine Mystique

  It is warm and dark in the lab; the animals are sleeping or moving about slowly in their cages. You have been testing electricity on male mice since morning; everything ceases to exist around you when you are working – Cosmo, the department, hunger for money – but now your concentration is on its way out and Cosmo is on her way in. The windows are open to the night, teeming with insects and flowers that only open in the dark. Cosmo sweeps in on a scooter, her hair sparkling, with a box of sweets and a surprise packet, small and white, which you snort together. She hangs a garland round your neck, kissing you hard and, as ever, too long.

  VALERIE: Your hair looks like a bird’s been in it. As though you’ve been struck by lightning.

  COSMO: You’re here, that’s why.

  VALERIE: You’ve got cocaine in your hair. Where did you sleep last night? With the Lab Rat?

  COSMO: Tell me about the experiment.

  VALERIE: A little rich girl dreamed of killing her younger brother. The dreams kept coming back. The younger brother sat on the beach building sandcastles that were always smashed by the waves. She had a recurring dream that he would be snatched by the waves and dragged out to sea. His subsequent drowning made her go insane. Illness as escape. Depressive obedience. Psychotic submission. Psychoanalysis, a correction facility for women. A penal colony.

  COSMO: Was it your little brother?

  VALERIE: When I was small I fixed a pipe in the river in Ventor, and into it I told all my secrets. The words flowed away, out into the Atlantic. I said I wanted a typewriter, that I wanted to write, I said Dorothy needed a new dress and a bit of survival instinct, I called out for someone like you.

  COSMO: The problem that has no name. The histories without history.

  VALERIE: At the mental hospital they permitted her family to bring a sandpit into the hospital grounds, so she could build sandcastles that would not be swallowed up by the sea. The other patients never went near the sand; they all knew the story about her younger brother. But every time there was a storm over the hospital park, she went crazy with fear and smashed all the sandcastles before the storm could swallow them up.

  COSMO: I dream about you at night, Valerie.

  VALERIE: The function of dreams. To fend off external or internal stimuli during sleep. To reinterpret an external threat. I daydream about our work all day long, Cosmo. I dream that we’re America’s first official intellectual whores.

  COSMO: I make myself ill thinking about you.

  VALERIE: Primary gain. Escape into illness. The sickness of pain. It’s not worth swannin
g around in the sciences. The death of psychoanalysis.

  COSMO: I’m talking about you and me, not about psychoanalysis.

  VALERIE: I’m in love. I’m not planning to fall out of love. I’m talking about torture and sadism and being in prison with no prison walls, imprisoned in psychoANALysis. I’m talking about being free from all that. Asylum. Artificial historiography. Anarchic kisses outside history. You and me, Cosmo. We are not part of history, not part of any story. No history, no destiny. World history is merely a criminal gang consisting of ape-men pretending to be police, brain police and body police.

  *

  And she lets go of your hand, takes her scooter and leaves. She lights a cigarette, waves at you and disappears into the darkness. You call after her.

  VALERIE: Where are you going now?

  COSMO: To get more cake and those infernal application forms.

  VALERIE: Are we going to apply for money, after all?

  COSMO: It’s not state money, so it’s O.K. Goodnight.

  Elmhurst Psychiatric Hospital, April 1969

  All spring Dr Ruth Cooper sits behind her white curtains, trying to concentrate on making diagnoses. Occasionally she loses her train of thought during your sessions and her cool hand touches you, and sometimes she takes off her doctor’s coat and sits in her blouse and trousers. The air conditioning has been turned off indefinitely and she always returns to your childhood in the desert. You prefer to discuss America’s place in history, B-52s, napalm, Agent Orange, and to dwell a while longer on the subject of Men’s Flagrant Inferiority.

  *

  Clouds contracting in a spasm of cramp outside the window, hospital noises, the sweet smell of shop-bought flowers obtrusive and nauseating, while you make a note of everything she says, working on your own diagnosis of Dr Cooper, an account of her childhood, a health bulletin; things do not look very good at all for Dr Cooper. Diagnosis as follows: Depressive obedience. Diminished desire impulse, diminished aggression impulse. Pathologically well-developed impulse control. Abnormally high predisposition toward playing Daddy’s Girl. Awareness of illness entirely lacking. The sufferer’s behavior tends to scare the shit out of other patients who feel ready to rule the universe.