by Tom Stoppard
ELEANOR I don’t mean about the social order.
MAX To be human is to be joined together. Society! When the revolution was young and I was young, we were all made from a single piece of timber. The struggle was for socialism through organised labour, and that was that. What remains of those bright days of certainty? Where do I belong? The Party is losing confidence in its creed. If capitalism can be destroyed by anti-racism, feminism, gay rights, ecological good practice and every special interest already covered by the Social Democrats, is there a lot of point in being a Communist?—to spend one’s life explaining: no, Stalin wasn’t it, either? Why do people go on as if there’s a danger we might forget Communism’s crimes, when the danger is we’ll forget its achievements? I’ve stayed in because they meant so much to me. Now that they seem to mean so little to anyone else, I sometimes think … Nell, what do you think? Do you think I …?
ELEANOR (breaks) I don’t care! I don’t care about it! Stay in—get out—I don’t care, Max!
MAX What is it? What’s happened?
ELEANOR It’s you. My body is telling me I’m nothing without it, and you’re telling me the same.
MAX No … No.
ELEANOR You are, Max! It’s as if you’re in cahoots, you and my cancer.
MAX Oh, God—Nell.
He tries to hold her. Weeping, she won’t be held.
ELEANOR They’ve cut, cauterized and zapped away my breasts, my ovaries, my womb, half my bowel, and a nutmeg out of my brain, and I am undiminished, I’m exactly who I’ve always been. I am not my body. My body is nothing without me, that’s the truth of it.
She tears open her dress.
ELEANOR (cont.) Look at it, what’s left of it. It does classics. It does half-arsed feminism, it does love, desire, jealousy and fear—Christ, does it do fear!—so who’s the me who’s still in one piece?
MAX I know that—I know your mind is everything.
ELEANOR (furious) Don’t you dare, Max—don’t you dare reclaim that word now. I don’t want your ‘mind’ which you can make out of beer cans. Don’t bring it to my funeral. I want your grieving soul or nothing. I do not want your amazing biological machine—I want what you love me with.
She hits bottom and stays there. Max waits, not comforting her. Then he crouches close to her.
MAX But that’s what I love you with. That’s it. There’s nothing else.
Her drowned face comes up.
ELEANOR Oh, Max. Oh, Max. Now that did take some guts.
Max gathers her in and rocks her.
Blackout and ‘Welcome to the Machine’ by Pink Floyd, three minutes and fifty seconds in.
Smash cut to:
November 1976. Jan’s room.
Summer 1977. Prague exterior.
Jan’s records have been smashed and scattered among torn-up album covers. Jan enters, wearing cold-weather clothes. He stands looking at the debris. He takes his top clothes off. He picks up a broken record and looks at the label.
Ferdinand walks in, wearing cold-weather clothes. He has a plastic bag with an album in it. He stands stunned among the vinyl shards.
FERDINAND Shit.
Jan nods.
FERDINAND (cont.) Bastards.
Jan nods.
FERDINAND (cont.) Shit.
Jan nods.
FERDINAND (cont.) Sorry.
Jan goes abruptly into the bathroom. Ferdinand waits.
Milan enters the exterior, in summer clothes and dark glasses. He sprawls on a bench.
The lavatory flushes. Jan comes in, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrists.
Ferdinand holds up the plastic bag, embarrassed.
FERDINAND (cont.) I borrowed it when you were inside.
Jan grunts a laugh.
FERDINAND (cont.) And then what with everything …
JAN Yeah. Amazing time. There wasn’t one policeman at Jirous’s wedding. The concert was a joy. I thought—okay, so eight years of the Plastics living underwater did the trick. Then they arrested everybody.
He looks at the record in the bag.
JAN (cont.) Beach Boys … You’re so sweet, Ferdinand—
FERDINAND I knew you wouldn’t mind.
JAN I owe you. That was a good letter, that first one.
FERDINAND I didn’t write it.
JAN Well, I didn’t think you’d write it, the guy had the Nobel Prize for Literature. But you were great, you and the other tossers—you got us out, nearly all of us. I heard we were on radio and TV in America!
FERDINAND (excited) I’m telling you, the trial stripped the system naked, Jan, and held it up so plain you felt almost sorry for the prosecutor. The absurdity rose and rose till it covered his head and the judge’s head … but they were trapped in the ritual. Going away from the court afterwards Havel said to me, ‘Ferda, from now on being careful seems so … petty.’
Ferdinand takes a typed document from his pocket.
FERDINAND (cont.) So I’m collecting signatures.
Ferdinand gives the document to Jan. ‘Charter 77’ is a substantial document, about 1,500 words.
FERDINAND (cont.) It’s not a dissident thing, it’s a charter—there’s Party members who’ve signed it …
Jan gives him a look and sits down to read it to himself.
Exterior—a balloon floats across. There is a leaflet dangling from it.
Milan, suffering in the heat, is waiting for Max.
The exterior scene has its own music, which is cheerful but not loud, like a hurdy-gurdy being played in the street.
A second balloon floats in. Milan grabs hold of the second balloon without difficulty. He detaches the leaflet and glances at it. He casually crumples it.
Max shows up, in summer clothes.
MILAN Ahoj, Max.
MAX Ahoj, ahoj. It always gets me … As if everyone here’s in the navy.
MILAN The Czech navy? (pause) You’re not at the … thing?
MAX I get invited to speak, not to listen to brain science. And you. Big fish now.
MILAN No, no. Medium size. With a desk.
MAX What’s the balloon?
MILAN Ha! Ask your friends.
MAX What friends?
MILAN Last night—the friends you skipped the dinner for. (reproachful) That was ungrateful, Max. The Philosophy Faculty was under pressure to withdraw your invitation to the conference.
MAX Pressure from you?
MILAN Tsk, tsk, Max. You don’t know who your friends are.
He uncrumples the leaflet.
MILAN (cont.) ‘Release the prisoners of Charter 77.’ (in jest) I hope you didn’t spend your evening blowing up balloons.
He takes his Party pin from his lapel.
MILAN (cont.) Party pin. Balloon.
He pops the balloon.
MILAN (cont.) Symbolism!
He laughs and replaces the pin.
MAX When I left the Party, I didn’t go public, you know.
MILAN Max, Max …
MAX There were people in ’56 who burned their Party cards in Trafalgar Square. I only told my family. It turned out my son-in-law was sleeping with a woman on his paper, so … Whooh! I’m glad Eleanor missed it. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be this week’s carcass for the British press. Esme and her husband are trying to patch things up for the sake of the child, but I entertain some hope that nothing will come of that.
MILAN I am so sorry about your wife.
MAX Thank you.
MILAN So … what did you want?
MAX You remember Jan. Anyone who gives him a job gets a visit next day and he loses the job. I’m told he’s sleeping on friends’ floors, living as a beggar. I thought I’d try to do him a good turn.
MILAN Max, this is beneath you. Ask me for something worthwhile. Your friend is so unimportant, I’d be ashamed to notice his existence.
MAX I have nothing to offer.
MILAN Well … let me know when you have.
MAX Do you know you turned Jan into a Chartist?
MAX (more in anger than in sorrow) But it was you who called the Charter up from the deep! Is this what I was keeping the faith for? For some stupid policemen to make a pig’s arse out of a pig’s ear? Czechoslovakia was forgotten. You had it all to yourselves. And simply out of annoyance, for the sake of venting your spite on a few drop-outs who were of no danger to you—no danger at all—you made a festival for the Western press to shit all over the idea that a better way is still possible and looks—despite everything—looks east to the source.
MILAN Max. You know something? You fascinate me.
Max and Milan split and leave.
Jan finishes reading.
FERDINAND We’ve got over two hundred signatures.
JAN So. What are you going to do with it?
FERDINAND Post it to Husák.
JAN Post it.
FERDINAND With copies to the foreign press.
JAN Though it’s not a dissident thing. You’re an imbecile.
FERDINAND Okay.
JAN Everything’s dissident except shutting up and eating shit. I wish to Christ I’d learned to play the guitar, but it’s too late now. Have you got a pen?
Ferdinand gives him a pen. Jan signs, gives the Charter and the pen back to Ferdinand. He tries the turntable. He puts the Beach Boys on it, choosing the track. Ferdinand watches him uncomfortably.
FERDINAND I’ll do tapes for you. I know it’s not the same. I’m really sorry, Jan.
JAN Hey, Ferdo, it’s only Rock ‘n’ Roll.
The Beach Boys start singing ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice’. Jan starts picking up broken records, dumping them in a bin.
Fade to black.
End of Act One.
ACT TWO
Blackout and ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ by U2.
Smash cut to Cambridge. Summer 1987. Garden and interior as before. Night, the interior in near-darkness.
Esme is in the garden, little more than a shadow and a glowing cigarette.
Alice enters the dining area from inside. She is sixteen, and like Esme when young, wearing Esme’s old once-red-leather bomber jacket. She turns on a lamp.
ESME Alice?
Alice comes outside.
ALICE What are you doing, Mum?
ESME Thinking about something.
ALICE No, you’re not, you’re smoking.
ESME I’m smoking about something.
ALICE (scolds) Mum.
ESME It’s not a hobby, you know. I realised who that man was and my body went, ‘Give me a cigarette.’
ALICE What man?
ESME That man at the supermarket who said hello.
ALICE Who was he, then?
ESME He was the Piper, a beautiful boy as old as music, half-goat and half-god.
ALICE Mum, what are you smoking? He was an old baldy on a bike.
ESME When I was your age, I mean. Is this where it’s all going if we’re lucky? A windy corner by a supermarket, with a plastic bag on the handlebars full of, I don’t know, ready-meals and loo paper … lumpy faces and thickening bodies in forgettable clothes, going home with the shopping? But we were all beautiful then, blazing with beauty. He played on his pipe and sang to me, and it was like suddenly time didn’t leave things behind but kept them together, and everything there ever was was still there, even the dead, coming up as grass or down as rain on the crematorium gardens, so I wasn’t really surprised by the Great God Pan getting it together again in my, you know, spaced-out brain.
She steps on her cigarette.
ESME (cont.) Ashes to ashes anyway.
She picks up the stub and throws it into hiding.
ESME (cont.) There, look, I’ve given up, so don’t nag me. What did you see? Are you hungry?
ALICE The Great God Pan? No, I had a burger before the cinema, except I didn’t go in the end, I just walked around looking to see what I could remember. It’s a dump, isn’t it, Cambridge?
ESME Some people speak kindly of the college buildings, I believe.
ALICE I mean the bus station and Jigsaw and Monsoon an’ that.
ESME ‘An’ that, an’ that.’
ALICE Virgin was closed … When can we go home?
ESME (irritated) He’s only just got out of hospital! (pause) Look … Grandpa’s on crutches, he can’t cook, he won’t take the rooms the college offered him, he won’t have a housekeeper, he’s starting to forget things, and altogether he can’t be left like this, so how would you feel if I moved back here?
ALICE When?
ESME Now. I think I’ve had Hammersmith, now you’ve done with Godolfyn.
ALICE (pleased) Oh. You mean I’d have the flat?
ESME No, you’d be here, with me, of course.
ALICE What, I’d have my gap year hanging about Cambridge before starting Cambridge?
ESME You haven’t had your results yet.
ALICE (whines in horror) Mum …! What about my friends?
ESME Well, you’d make new friends.
ALICE I don’t want new friends!
ESME Not so loud. Well, you could live with your dad, I suppose.
ALICE There’s only one bathroom, and it’s in Tottenham! Anyway, with Dad three’s a crowd, especially with Busty Babs from the massage parlour.
ESME That’s quite enough of that. She’s an aroma therapist and I would kill for her tits.
ALICE Why can’t I have the flat? I’d be all right.
ESME Possibly, but I wouldn’t. As it happens, Dad thinks we should sell the flat and divvy it up.
ALICE (cross) Oh, so you’ve got it all worked out, the two of you!
ESME Now the paper’s upped sticks to Wapping he wants to put his half into one of those dockland conversions … and I’d have some spare cash, which would be a novelty.
ALICE Oh, right. Good. So Grandpa gets a free housekeeper, Dad gets trendy brick walls with river view, you get a nest egg, and I get stuffed.
ESME (exasperated, wailing) Well, what else can I do? I’ve racked my brains …
ALICE (flaming) Tell Grandpa it’s a housekeeper or college or take a chance on being found dead when his phone doesn’t answer—because there are no other options.
ESME I never thought of that.
ALICE Sorted, then.
Alice goes indoors, changes her mind and comes back and hugs Esme. They stay hugging for a while.
ALICE (cont.) Mum.
ESME ‘Only one bathroom.’
ALICE Well.
ESME If only you’d leave school when people are supposed to, you’d be old enough to be left, or go backpacking somewhere …
ALICE No, Mum, take it slowly, I’d still be sixteen—waiting for my ‘O’ level results.
ESME You know what I mean, stop showing me up. (a dismissive kiss) Look in on Grandpa, and don’t say anything, leave it to me.
Alice goes back into the interior as Max enters with some difficulty, using crutches. Apart from the leg—he has broken the neck of the femur—he is in good shape for his age.
ALICE I was coming to see you. If you’re looking for Mum, she’s outside.
MAX What’s forty-three per cent of seventy-five?
ALICE Same as seventy-five per cent of forty-three. Thirty-two and a quarter.
MAX Thirty-two and a quarter!
ALICE Would you like a cup of tea or anything?
MAX I would. A small whisky. I can see this is going to work very well, you and Esme moving in.
Alice freezes, then goes out. Esme realises Max has come in. She reacts to go indoors but Max, nimble on his crutches, reaches the frontier.
ESME Pa … I said shout.
MAX What are you doing in the dark?
Max collapses, groaning, into a garden chair.
ESME I came out to have a …
MAX That bloody woman’s mandate is thirty-two and a quarter per cent!
ESME We can go in.
MAX I’ve just sat down, I’m not moving. Five more years of the haves having it over the have-nots, on a mandate of less than a third of the electorate.
ESME Isn’t that good? You wouldn’t want more people on her side, would you?
MAX I’d put you up against Socrates. Your lack of education has made you impregnable.
ESME (furious) Go to hell, then, both of you!
MAX What’s up?
ESME If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you. (She averts a small weep.) I’m sick of trying to please everyone and getting patronised for my pains.
MAX Never.
ESME Yes, you do. In fact I know about as many things as you do—more, probably—just not career things. I must have been tripping in the water meadows the day they did Socrates. The acid queen of Cambridge High, yeah, that was a joke … And now look.
MAX Esme …
She fails to avert the weep for a moment only.
ESME It’s Alice leaving school before I was ready. I’m running out of uses.
MAX Alice is a great achievement.
ESME You’re doing it. Mum had me on the sidel
MAX Come and sit where I can reach.
Esme scrapes her chair nearer. Max takes her hand.
MAX (cont.) You’re not apologising for not being Eleanor, are you?
ESME (fiercely) No!—I do three people’s work for charlady pay in a charity shop, even if I still get my sums wrong. But I’m not Eleanor and I’m not Nico either. Nico was with the Velvet Underground. The Velvet Underground was a rock band.
MAX I recognised the semiotics.
ESME She had long blonde hair. I had the hair without the band, and two ‘O’ levels to fall back on. I was grateful to get out of Clarendon Street into a grotty flat in the Milton Road Estate cooking Nigel’s dinner with Alice at my breast. The commune got a bit hierarchical.
MAX (interested) Really? Tell me about that.
ESME (cross) No. Stop making everything about your thing. I’m talking about, I don’t know, being the dog’s bollocks at Latin when I was thirteen—which I was. Well, I’ve done that now, so you can.
MAX No, I’m justly rebuked. Yesterday, standing in the polling station … There was no one to vote for. No one. It’s not just you.